eliotwaugh | To Pass The Time Between The Wars (for Martin)

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martin blackwood

To Pass The Time Between The Wars (for Martin)

There's been altogether too much serious shit going on in Eliot's social circle; it's the latest in the series of surprises Darrow has presented, and he's tired of reacting to each subsequent piece of news with bafflement and blithe acceptance in the absence of any other alternatives. It's annoying, is what it is: a perpetual low-level irritation that he works with two of the most infuriatingly English people he's ever met. People who are oathbound to cosmic horrors, who get into terrible danger from sources supernatural and mundane, who apparently manage to scrape through by the skin of their teeth, if at all, and through it all refuse to ask for real assistance or keep their friends properly informed, even.

Two deaths now, in Eliot's periphery, and even if one of them didn't exactly stick, he's goddamn sick of pretending like everyone can just keep calm and carry on through it.

He doesn't say this, of course. What good would it do? It's far easier and more effective to offer what help he can, and throw himself into that to stave off the fear of what might have happened if things had been different.

So he walks Martin home from work, and spends the week filling the distance with anecdotes to keep him from getting too anxious from the ambient noise. It's nice, certainly, even moreso when he can nudge Martin out his thoughts to tell stories of his own. And maybe it would be enough, to know that he's helped someone a little who's going through some trauma, to grow closer as friends as a result. But Eliot still feels itchy with energy, and it's not as if this is a quest but in the core of his being he knows that it's not enough, not when he could do more.

Friday evening, the simmering frustration of inaction wins out over patience and propriety, and Eliot holds the door for Martin and prepares to make a mistake. He looks at Martin, whose ears and cheeks are red from the cold, who laughs when his glasses fog up immediately upon entering the building, who is sweet and kind and deserves so much better than what the world has dealt him.

Eliot clears his throat. "So," he says, as they head to the elevator, "I don't want to presume, but I have some experience with...coping, and I know that after something really horrible happens it can be hard to stop being reminded of it, and it's good to have...more positive input." He can't quite look Martin in the eyes, not because he's embarrassed but it's still crossing a kind of a line. He smiles, earnest. "You deserve to feel good, Martin, after everything that's been going on. And if you're amenable, I wonder if you'd like to come up to my place."

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It's been nice, this extra time spent with Eliot. Nice of him to make himself available; nice of him to, when he'd overheard John ask near the end of Tuesday last if Martin should again like company walking home, offer himself as a potential substitute. It made sense, of course; they're neighbors, while John lives all the way on the other side of town, and even if a daily cab ride is technically affordable for John, it's nice that it isn't a requirement.

It's nice that he and John both hesitated for the same fraction of a second before answering yes, of course, that would be better and easier and simpler and nice.

Martin does not resent Eliot in the slightest for his help; he is grateful for it, and he is genuinely glad John doesn't have to go out of his way every single day. It is comforting that his friends still want to associate with him (of course they do) after he (accidentally, necessarily) killed a man. Only a few of them know the full scope of what happened, Eliot being one, and while Martin never expected Eliot to judge him for it, it had been difficult to shake the feeling that maybe he should. But Eliot has been kind, and they have grown closer this past week. And that is... well, it is nice.

So it's with a warm chuckle that he slips his fogged-up glasses off, tucking them away into his pocket, preparing for the final goodbyes to be made in the elevator, as always. And then Eliot goes off script.

Martin blinks up at him, staring openly, as he tries to parse what, exactly, has just been suggested. The first time they met Eliot misinterpreted his own offer of kindness as a proposition of some sort, and Martin thinks surely, surely this must simply be the tables turning in an odd, amusing way. But Eliot is clear; even if he speaks subtly and with practiced discretion, the meaning is clear.

"I—" he blurts, his already flushed face reddening quite a bit. "I—wh—"

He can't just stand here stammering like a goddamn idiot, though it is quite tempting. It doesn't make sense. Eliot is... Eliot is tall and handsome, his smile gentle and a little crooked from the odd shape to his jaw, his expression quite earnest, his bearing regal and perfect as ever. Martin thinks he is attractive because he has eyes; he has never been attracted to him. It was almost frustrating to him that he wasn't. He told himself it was because he knew Eliot was far, far out of his league and there was simply no point, steadfastly denying the more prickly certainty that it is in fact because his pitiable heart really only has room for one unattainable person, and it has been that way for a long, long time. But Eliot isn't like him, he doesn't think; Eliot enjoys himself, has room for plenty of people, and he has never once struck Martin as the sort to make a disingenuous offer. And he is offering.

Martin thinks for a few frantic seconds that he should certainly turn it down, because it's ridiculous, because he doesn't think he wants it, because, because, because. All of it leads to one place, which is a night spent alone, again, thinking about John, wanting and fucking aching for something he just knows he cannot have, and he is tired of it.

Eliot is offering and he would be bloody stupid to turn it down when the last time he kissed someone was a moment he can't even remember and yet can't stop thinking about, and the last time before that was a bad decision made when he was at the lowest point he'd ever been, nearly a year ago. He barely remembers that, too, for worse reasons; he feels like he doesn't even know who he was back then. He's no stranger to making poor choices in the heat of the moment, but this doesn't feel like that, because Eliot isn't like that. Eliot thinks he deserves to feel good, and Christ, he wants to feel good.

So.

"Okay," he says, a bit breathless. "I-if you're sure."

He waits for Martin to process or respond with something other than stammering, and keeps his expression friendly, prepared to tamp down any disappointment should Martin, as is likely, refuse. He shouldn't feel disappointed, even if he's told himself he needs to do this or it's all he can offer at this point. It's not about him.

But then, once again, he's surprised. "Of course I'm sure," Eliot replies, glad at least that Martin hasn't told him off for the suggestion. They take the elevator up to the ninth floor and Eliot maintains a respectful distance, because this isn't like one of his hookups with the locals. "I want to help, and you could certainly do with something to take the edge off, and...well, not to put too fine a point on it, Martin, but you seem like a person who hasn't had their needs met in a while."

He doesn't want to sound either pushy or judgmental but it's true. Once the doors open Eliot inclines his head in the direction of his apartment and they make their way down the hall. "Obviously you're still recovering from your ordeal," he says, his tone conversational as he unlocks the door, "I wouldn't suggest anything too strenuous of course, but," Eliot shrugs affably. "Whatever you'd like. And we could order food after or something?" He steps aside to let Martin in and holds his arm out to take his coat, determined to not make this weird for him.

Martin wanders into the elevator in a bit of a daze, though Eliot's assessment about his personal life does get a bit of a snort out of him. It's good he can laugh about it; it's something he could easily be embarrassed about, but Eliot is just... he's too kind for that. This isn't going to be anything like the few hookups Martin's had in the past; there is nothing transactional or anonymous about this, and Eliot goes so far as to offer food after, a clear sign of what Martin already knew: that Eliot has no interest in using him, that this is just... friendly.

Still, it's been a long time since Martin did this sort of thing, and as he hands his coat over and looks about Eliot's richly decorated flat, he finds himself feeling a bit lost. Should he say something? He almost wants to assure Eliot he doesn't have to do this, and bites down on that impulse quick, as if Eliot doesn't have complete control over where and when and to whom he offers this.

In general, the instinct to talk this out and get himself internally sorted beforehand is one he wants to avoid. Eliot made a clear offer and Martin accepted it. If he tries to babble around in circles, he'll manage to talk himself out of it somehow, or cause Eliot undue concern, or cause any number of unnecessary hitches. Eliot is offering a hand out of the dark and he needs to just take it. It just feels so much harder than it once was.

"S-sorry," he says. "It's, erm... you're right, it's been a while. I'm a little..." He makes a vague sort of wiggly gesture with his hand, not sure of the word he's looking for, and sighs.

"I—I may need to just... follow your lead here," he says, finally looking up at Eliot directly, hoping he's as good at talking around the subject as Eliot is. "If that's all right."

"No need to apologize." He notes Martin's hand motion and understands the sentiment at least, sighing as he hangs up their coats.

Eliot listens to his eventual clarification and nods, and gets a couple glasses of water from the kitchen. "That's fine of course," he says as he sets them on the coffee table and sits on the sofa. It's almost a sprawl, but he tucks one leg under himself and braces an arm across the back of it so the effect is more casual and inviting than hedonistic.

"I think I understand you," Eliot says gently, beckoning him over. He absolutely understands, and has long since clocked Martin as such but he would never say so out loud. "Come sit, and...just let me know how you're doing, all right? I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

Martin stays where he is for the moment, watching Eliot sweep calmly about the flat, fetching water for them both and settling onto the sofa with a comfortably inviting air. He still can't quite believe this is happening, to him. Initially he'd though Eliot was interested in John, then in that pirate of his, and he knows this invitation doesn't negate any of that, but... but he still can't see him fitting into any of that. If Eliot has a type, he never expected to come close to it.

He suspects he's not being fair. Just because Eliot is a sort of paragon in his own right doesn't mean he has narrow taste. And he's made it fairly clear this isn't really about him or his own interests, anyway; he wants to help Martin, wants to do something for Martin.

That's... it's kind, a sort of kindness he's not sure he's ever personally encountered. That emboldens him as much as anything, and it's with a cautious spread of warmth in his chest that he approaches the sofa and sits carefully beside Eliot, close but not quite touching.

"Okay," he says, appreciating how straightforward the request is. He leans forward to take a sip of water before setting it back down and sitting up straight. He looks at his hands for a moment, then at Eliot, at his eyes, then his lips, trying to imagine this, not sure if he can. "Okay," he says again, quietly.

It’s something of an exercise in patience, which Eliot expected to some extent. He can’t begrudge Martin his hesitation, not when it’s also outside the familiar script for Eliot, too. He doesn’t sleep with his friends, as a rule, but this is nothing like the incestuous social tangle back home. Even with all the drama he’s been peripherally involved in here in Darrow, it’s not like how things used to be. There’s no risk of ruining his friendship with Martin here.

He smiles when Martin sits next to him, the assent charming but vague. But he has no use for vague, not when his goal is to be as good to Martin as possible.

“Well,” Eliot says softly, and reaches out the short distance to take Martin’s hand. “Just for the sake of clarity, may I kiss you?”

The question is a bit of a surprise. He didn't think that was necessary, or that Eliot would ask quite so gently. Under different circumstances, it would actually be quite romantic, but here it's just... careful and kind. Martin smiles faintly and nods, accepting the hand around his and angling himself just a bit more toward Eliot.

"Y-yeah," he says. "Yeah, I'd like that."

He is still suffused with nervous energy, uncertain about whether or not he can see this through, and haunted by altogether too many thoughts about what he'd rather and cannot have, but it has been a very long time since he has been kissed, and he would like that very much.

"All right," Eliot answers with a smile, feeling a swell of affection for Martin. He looks so sweet and deserves only good things, after what he's been through. He deserves more than what Eliot can offer of course, but here and now at least, this is good enough.

It's easy, then, to lean in a close the gap, still smiling against Martin's mouth. He keeps his head tilted at a practiced angle to spare Martin the uneven jut of his jaw; it's brief but but Eliot doesn't pull away, instead brings his free hand up to cup Martin's cheek and feel how warm he is, how soft.

"How's that?" he asks, the question murmured onto his lips.

Martin's breath shudders as Eliot leans in, and his eyes belatedly slip shut at the soft press of lips to his own. Eliot is exceedingly gentle, practiced and confident, his hand drawing up to Martin's cheek and a question breathed against him.

It's good, there is nothing not good about it, and Martin answers with a desperate little nod and a muted whimper, some of the tension leaving him as he relaxes back into it, letting himself kiss back. It has been such an incredibly long time, discounting the incident in Kagura as he is very fixedly trying to do, and Eliot is good at it, kind and without ulterior motive, and Christ, what if he just... let himself do this, let himself enjoy it.

His fingers twitch with an urge to act. He can't just sit here and take it, he needs to reciprocate, so he does, letting his hands reach up, his fingers curling, trembling and tentative, into Eliot's shirt.

Martin’s reaction is extremely gratifying, clinging to him like that. The small soft noise that escapes him makes Eliot flush, a response stuck in his throat that would be a growl if he gave voice to it. Of course Martin’s shy, of course he makes sweet little sounds just from being kissed. If the situation were different, if Eliot weren’t approaching this from an almost therapeutic standpoint, he’d want to explore that, to push and examine and see what else he could draw out of him, but this isn’t the time.

So he’s cautious, kisses Martin slow and threads his fingers into his hair but doesn’t hold on like he might otherwise want. When he pulls away he gives Martin a brief, reassuring smile before dipping his head lower to plant a kiss just below the line of Martin’s jaw and feel the pulse jump under his tongue.

The moment Eliot touches his hair he tips his head back as if in answer to a firmer grip, a tug that doesn't come. Eliot remains gentle, and his eyes flicker open for a brief, breathless instant, just barely enough to catch sight of Eliot's smile before he leans back in, tucking in to get at Martin's throat.

He gasps and clutches reflexively tighter at Eliot's shirt as a sudden spike of arousal shivers through him, a shrill whine escaping on a shaky exhalation. Sensation and thought grapple for a moment, the knowledge and awareness of what's happening clashing with emotion and foundational want, and there is a moment, quick and incoherent, where ones gives way to the other and he allows himself to imagine that these are John's hands on him, John's mouth pressing beneath his jaw, that his long, delicate fingers will reach back into his hair and—

His gut lurches and he pushes back, his hands still gripping as if to hold Eliot at bay as he breathes heavily, staring at him, wide-eyed.

"I—I'm sorry," he blurts out, struggling to keep himself steady. "I'm sorry. I can't."

He lets go and pulls his hands back, covering his face and curling inward. Christ, the sense of it is still there, the arousal and the desire for more, and how easy it would be to close his eyes and pretend that this is a different tall, thin, beautiful man.

It isn't fair to Eliot, and it feels like an outright violation where John is concerned, and it was so, so stupid of him to think he could ever strip that away from himself, even for an hour, even for a bit of casual fun.

"I can't," he whispers, soft and desolate.

For a moment it’s wonderful, and he wants more than anything to tell Martin how good he is. And then something changes, Eliot has no way of knowing what, but the effect is clear enough. Martin pushes him and he goes, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth, his hands hovering in the space between them.

“Hey,” he murmurs, seeing Martin’s panic and the way he seems to collapse inward on himself. The apology damn near breaks his heart. “Hey, hey, Martin it’s—it’s okay, you don’t...you don’t have to do anything, I’m sorry, I-“

Eliot takes another breath, shaky. “It’s okay.” His voice comes steadier, and he wants to reach out to Martin and offer some physical assurance but touch could easily be unwelcome. “Don’t worry, please, it’s...it’s fine. You’re okay.” It’s becoming rapidly clear that the distraction Eliot offered was not what he needed at all; whatever triggered this response, though, he cannot simply sit by and let Martin be miserable. And Eliot’s feelings are unchanged, he wants to help his friend. It will just have to be by different means.

He frowns a little, looking at Martin covering his face. Eliot has questions, but it might be too soon for that. “I’m going to hand you your water,” he says quietly, and picks up Martin’s glass to hold it out in front of him.

At first Eliot's reassurances break against the promontory of Martin's own bitter shame, not quite reaching him, not in any way he feels he can trust. He sucks in a sharp, shaky breath, trying to trust it's fine and you're okay. They seem so far away; inaccessible.

Then Eliot is quiet for a moment, and tells him he's going to hand over the water. Martin draws another breath and holds it for a moment, counting to three before letting it out, and then he uncurls himself a little, lifting his head enough to peek over his fingers and see the water glass extended toward him.

He reaches out, his fingers trembling slightly, and he takes it in both hands, taking a long, slow drink.

"Thank you," he says quietly when he's finished, lowering the glass and just holding onto it for now. "I—Y-you don't have to be sorry, it... it was nice. I just... I thought I could—"

He breaks off with a frustrated sigh and turns away, looking numbly at the floor.

"I'm all right," he says eventually. He closes his eyes, wondering how much of an explanation he should give. Eliot deserves one. And he thinks, terrifying as it seems, Eliot might possibly understand.

"I wanted to believe I could just... switch off for a while," he says, "and just... enjoy it. But I, I couldn't. I couldn't stop thinking about him." Another slow, shaky intake of breath. "About John. And that... that isn't fair. To you or to him."

He's blushing, he can feel it, the heat spreading over his neck, his cheeks, his ears, and it's not just the remnants of arousal. Christ, he feels so bloody pathetic. He knows this probably isn't any surprise to Eliot. He knows he's obvious. But it's not something he likes to discuss for myriad reasons, and he lowers his head back down, wanting to hide from it.

It takes Eliot considerable effort to just sit still and wait for Martin to speak; when he does, at first at least, it’s more or less what Eliot expected. He shrugs, wanting to dispute and say that actually yes, he does need to apologize, but Martin’s looking at the floor and to argue at this point would serve no purpose.

When Martin continues, explaining his reaction, there is a horrible moment when Eliot goes absolutely cold. Him, Martin says, and he didn’t get too specific about what happened during his ordeal with the murderer but the thought that it might be anything close to what they’ve just done makes bile rise up in Eliot’s throat.

But then after a beat Martin says John, and Eliot lets out a shaky breath and unclenches his fists.

“Oh,” he says, his voice high with relief, “oh okay, yes I...I can understand that.” More on an academic level than anything else, really, but that’s not relevant right now. Eliot thinks a moment, wondering about the best way to approach this. “Well I am sorry for my part in your discomfort, anyway, but thank you for letting me know. Um.” He looks Martin over, finding him red and tense still.

“It seems like,” he begins very carefully, “this is something you haven’t talked about very much. And I would like to help you in any way I can, Martin, so...we could do that? Just so you’re not carrying it all and feeling miserable about it all alone? And we can still order food, of course.”

Martin blinks up at Eliot, surprised by his apparent surprise, but it's only a flicker of confusion before Eliot is pressing on ahead. He is diplomatic and kind as ever, which is to be expected; Martin is not expecting him to offer to order food and talk.

This should have been an obvious turn, probably; just as Eliot was never intended to use him, he isn't going to just turn him out now. But this is not a situation Martin's ever found himself in before, and for a moment he doesn't know what to do.

"I..." Christ, should he refuse? Slink back downstairs to have an embarrassed cry in the safe, dismal solitude of his flat? Much as he doesn't exactly relish the idea of talking in circles about his wayward feelings, that sounds much worse. And Eliot is right; he hasn't talked about it much. Bits and pieces, here and there, most recently in this very flat, with Michael. Michael had been so encouraging, so eager to push him toward hope and conversations, and at the time he'd mostly wanted to put it all to rest. Now, though... it feels more necessary than it did then.

"A-all right," he says softly, tipping his gaze downward again. He hesitates, finally relaxing a little, and murmurs, "Thank you."

He waits, half expecting Martin to refuse and leave, but to Eliot’s relief he stays.

“Of course,” he answers, and pulls out his phone to look out delivery options. What goes well with heartache? “I’m not sure what you might be in the mood for, but anything’s probably going to take a bit, Friday night and all.” After a moment’s hesitation he pats Martin on the knee and stands. “Would you like anything stronger than water while we wait, now that this is strictly platonic?”

Eliot could certainly use a drink himself, but he doesn’t want to come off as pushy. He bites his lip. “Or I don’t know, tea? What would help?”

Martin's not sure what he's in the mood for either, and he shrugs, which he knows isn't exactly encouraging, but he's not sure what else to offer. "Whatever you like," he says, endeavoring to sound genuinely open to 'whatever,' rather than indifferent or deferential. "I—I wouldn't say no to tea, but I don't want to put you out if you'd rather have something stronger."

He fidgets a bit, wanting to get past all this, to just talk, only he has no idea how to begin. It feels cowardly and a bit pathetic, but he thinks he needs to be asked questions, given direction.

Still, though, it isn't fair to put it all on Eliot. He takes another drink of water and clears his throat.

"I imagine this was sort of obvious," he says guardedly. "My feelings for John, I mean."

Eliot's already up and looking around the kitchen, and he frowns at Martin's lukewarm response. Of course he'd act like this is some great hardship, when it's not. It's just the decent thing to do.

"We can split the difference," he says, putting the kettle on. "I'll make hot toddies."

It only takes a moment to set things out on the counter, and when Eliot comes back to the couch he takes a sip of his own water and nods, looking at Martin thoughtfully.

“I mean I knew there was something between you,” he says, sitting at the end of the couch. “But I don’t know, you’re from the same world, you have history but you’re not together...it didn’t seem like any of my business, to be honest. Aside from you’re both cute, of course, but I hope you know the flirting was just all in good fun?”

Eliot winces a little at that. There’s a difference between a bit of playful needling and actually causing real tension in his friend group, and he hopes he hasn’t crossed that line. “I didn’t know it was that serious,” he adds. “Is it...just that John isn’t so inclined?”

Martin manages a little smile at the suggestion of hot toddies—that does sound perfect, actually. He continues sipping his water while Eliot sets everything up, and by the time he's sat back down, he's just put back together enough that he manages to meet Eliot's gaze.

"Oh," he says, a bit surprised at the acknowledgment of all the flirting. "I mean—yeah, it's all right. I figured you was just having a laugh. With me, anyway." He lifts a shoulder, trying to laugh off the self-deprecation, though it doesn't have much energy behind it. "And John's... I mean, he has been in a relationship before, though I don't know much about... her." His eyes pull away from Eliot, looking down at his hands, still clutched around his water glass. "He's not—he doesn't—he doesn't have sex," he manages finally, "which isn't a problem for me. But I don't know if he's interested in... anything else, either. With me."

Well, that's putting it rather optimistically, isn't it? He frowns to himself and amends, "Actually, I have pretty good reason to assume he's not."

As Martin starts to explain the situation more, Eliot frowns. He nods along, and it's not that he doesn't follow Martin's take on it or even feels particularly surprised, but he can't get past the irritation of the first bit, like something stuck in his teeth.

"Okay, okay, so it's complicated," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We can circle back to that, but did you honestly think I was flirting as a joke?" Eliot can't help sounding a little angry, either that his actions were misunderstood or that Martin apparently thinks so little of himself, or both. "I mean yes, I assumed it wasn't going anywhere but for--you're really cute and nice, Martin, I wasn't fucking doing it to make fun of you."

Martin isn't expecting Eliot's tone to grow so sharp, and he looks up, startled and quickly alarmed by the nerve he's clearly struck. It isn't hard to understand why, either. Assurances about him being cute and nice aside, he just painted Eliot with a rather unflattering brush, as though he believes there is anything shallow about Eliot.

"I—no!" he blurts in open mortification. "No, I didn't mean—I know you're not, you wouldn't—"

He can't quite find the words, because he knows that even if he's always understood Eliot to have depth and integrity, there is no getting past that yes, he did sort of think Eliot was making fun of him. Not in any unkind way, but a friendly, lighthearted playfulness he's grown used to. Same as he got from Tim or anyone else. So however little he meant it to be a slight, it was still a false judgment.

"I'm sorry," he says, settling down a bit. "That... that's unfair of me. I—I never thought you were being cruel, I know that's not you, just... I guess I couldn't believe you'd ever really be interested in me."

He can't keep looking at Eliot, feeling himself flush a bit as he looks away.

Eliot sighs, feeling rather tired and very sad. For all that Martin is shy and he isn’t, he still recognizes something familiar in the disbelief, the way Martin turns away. It’s a protective impulse, Eliot thinks, and he sees a way forward but it would require more introspection than he usually entertains. But it needs saying, so he takes a deep breath and levels his gaze somewhere in the vicinity of Martin’s left knee.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way, Martin, but you seem perhaps like you had a rough time of it growing up.” That’s about as gently Eliot can put it, and it still feels too harsh, so as much as this is awkward to talk about, he presses on. “I don’t know if you were ever bullied, but I...” he chews at his upper lip and laces his fingers together and leans just slightly closer to Martin, keeping his voice low like it’s a secret. It shouldn’t be a secret. “...I understand what it’s like when someone pretends at kindness just so they can hurt you. It’s an awful feeling, and I understand the impulse to treat anyone’s interest as disingenuous, because that feels safer. For some people that’s the best way they can cope. Sometimes for other people it’s easier to...to project a sense of confidence they don’t really have, so they don’t make themselves a target for that. And—”

The kettle starts to shriek, and Eliot cuts himself off with a sharp inhale. He hadn’t even heard it start simmering. “Shit, I’m sorry, just—hold on a second—” He clambers off the couch and hurries to the kitchen to turn the burner off and start brewing the tea. That done, he comes back to Martin and gives him a rueful smile. “...Anyway, sometimes people can take that mindset and turn it into a drive to be better and classier and more successful than every closed-minded rat of a person in their shitty small town, out of spite.”

He sits, and looks Martin in the eye. “What I’m trying to get at is...despite how easy it is to convince yourself that you’re not worth anyone’s attention, please believe me that that’s not true. Because you are, Martin, you absolutely are.”

It feels like both too much and not enough; Eliot reaches out and offers his hand and hopes that Martin can believe him.

Martin isn't sure how to take that initial observation. It's a fair assessment; an accurate assessment. It is given gently, straightforward, no intention to hurt or dig for details. But it isn't nice to hear, worse to think about. Martin doesn't move, gazing intently at the floor, feeling a prickle of discomfort crawl up his spine.

But Eliot keeps talking, and then he keeps talking, and slowly Martin finds his way back, finds himself watching Eliot in growing astonishment as he lays out what is clearly his own experience. Martin is so caught up that he barely flinches when the kettle sounds, continues watching mutely as Eliot goes to prepare the tea, only averting his eyes in a last minute panic when he returns and sits back down. But his gaze can't remain elsewhere, and soon enough he meets Eliot's eyes, catches the edge of his little smile, the unabashed earnestness in his expression.

What is really astonishing is not the honesty or the generosity Eliot is showing him. It is how thoroughly, how unfairly Martin underestimated him. He'd put Eliot on a pedestal without even thinking about it, imagining him to be a perfect ideal, imagining all that confidence to be real and earned. He is a king, after all.

But he is also just another young man who had a difficult time of it growing up, and when he tells Martin that he is not what he thinks he is, that he is worth attention, it is staggeringly difficult to dismiss.

Martin blinks at him for a few moments, not sure what to say or how to even go about saying anything, and slowly he looks down at the offered hand. He hesitates, not for reluctance or uncertainty, but because he feels a bit like he's in shock. He can't see himself through Eliot's eyes; he can't see himself as worth so much, as comparable to someone so beautiful and so practiced at, at least, appearing put together. But he cannot deny the heartfelt conviction of it, either.

So he takes Eliot's hand and gives it a gentle squeeze, needing something to ground him. "I..." he says, quiet and embarrassed. This isn't where he expected to wind up, his agonies about John playing second fiddle to a, a whole speech about worth and all-too-familiar ideas about coping. How can he possibly respond to this?

He sniffs, and hastily reaches up with his free hand, scrubbing at his eyes before offering Eliot a shy, watery smile. "Th-thank you," he murmurs. "I don't... I don't know if I can..." He doesn't quite finish the thought, the idea of saying Eliot hasn't fully convinced him feeling somehow ungrateful, and he just shrugs. "But thank you for saying it."

He wasn't expecting to have to get so personal, and for all that he's put his youth behind him, Eliot still feels a sting thinking about it in this context. He could have approached the problem so many other ways, but looking back it's hard not to imagine that he'd have succumbed to despair or violence if he hadn't gotten away when he did.

It seems he's startled Martin with the admission, but at this point they're friends. Martin's not just a placeholder until he gets back home. He deserves to know, rough as it might be for both of them.

When Martin stammers out a response Eliot nods, feeling his own eyes start to well up in sympathetic response. "I get it," he says, "it's not easy to hear." He lets go Martin's hand and looks about the room, trying to think of a way to steer the conversation away from being so very dire. "Sorry, I know this isn't the most exciting way to spend a Friday night...what do you think about just pizza? Should be fairly quick and we can get into the specifics of this whole...interpersonal issue you're having. If you want. The least I can do after dredging this all up, really."

He offers Martin a smile, projecting confidence. It's easier with a specific goal in mind, to feel like they can really figure this out.

By the time the food has arrived and the drinks are made, Martin is feeling a bit better and a bit more balanced. He's still a little too unsettled to eat much, which is all right; pizza and hot toddies are an odd combination, and he wasn't that hungry to begin with. He has a single slice and then sips his drink slowly, letting the warmth soothe him as he contemplates how to go into this, what all to say.

It feels strange to just go into it after so much time and so much effort to keep it all on lockdown. But Eliot deserves to know, after all this. And though he has discussed pieces of it with many people, both here and home, he's never gone through it all top to bottom.

There was a time, quite a while ago now, that he might have had this conversation with Tim. Tim had sort of offered, in typical Tim fashion, which is to say with considerably less grace than Eliot's approach. But there are pieces that feel astoundingly familiar, as well. Tim had even offered up a similarly difficult but genuinely kind assessment of Martin's character, something Martin had found helpful, a little easier to take back then, when his optimism had withered less.

Sometimes it is awful to realize how very similar Eliot is to Tim. How similar he presumes Kat is to Sasha, the half-remembered idea of Sasha. Awful, and yet he's not sure he'd be able to do this otherwise. It almost feels like this has been owed for far longer than just tonight.

"I've... had feelings for John for a long time," he says quietly. "He was quite different when we first met. Sort of... well. He wasn't always kind." Which is a very gracious way of putting it, but he's not keen to get into that. "It was just... one day something changed, I mean, I saw a part of him that I hadn't even known was there. This kindness. And, well..." He shrugs, a bit embarrassed. "Things got complicated with work, with him, just... we were in a bad situation that kept getting worse, and there was no time and no way to really talk about anything. I was just so afraid of losing him, and the worse things got for him the more he pulled away, like he wanted to protect us."

Which didn't work, but that also doesn't entirely bear mentioning right now. He looks away, his thumb running slowly up and down his cup. "W-while he was off... y'know, being mysterious, I started picking up some of the slack at work, so I was reading and recording Statements and... sometimes I started babbling on the tapes, just going on about..." He can feel his cheeks heating and he grips the cup a little tighter. "I—I said a few things that I think made it pretty obvious that I felt something for him. And then later, I... well. I basically just admitted it outright. To someone else."

Christ, the last thing he needs is to get mired in memories of Elias taunting him about that, staring him down, filling him with knowledge he didn't want and shouldn't have. He takes a moment to pull himself together.

"The point is," he says hastily, "John listened to those tapes. He listens to all of them. It's his job, it's... well, you know. He needs to. So he heard everything I said, all of it. And he's not stupid. So he knows, Eliot, he's known for a long time, and I... I just think that if he had any interest in me that way, it would have come up. I mean, I sort of made myself difficult to reach for a while, but now, here... I mean, things are different now. W-we're friends."

It shouldn't hurt to say that. He wants to be friends with John; he likes being friends with John. It just... isn't enough, no matter how much he wants it to be.

"I don't know why he and Georgie aren't together anymore, I—I don't know who broke it off. It might be he just... doesn't want a relationship at all. Or maybe he only fancies women. I don't know. And I can't just ask, not after all we've been through, Christ. He trusts me, I'm not... I can't do that to him."

He runs out of steam and slumps a bit, staring miserably at his drink before taking a slightly heftier swig of it.

Eliot sits and listens, he hopes patiently, while Martin talks through his and John's history. There are certainly points where he wants to interject, where something sticks out as possibly significant, but the way Martin's barely eating, nursing his drink and all...he might not be able to start again if he's interrupted. That, and Eliot doesn't have that much experience being the supportive listening type of friend, and he'd really prefer not to ruin this opportunity to try to help. so he waits until Martin seems to reach the end of it, and sits forward.

"Well that's certainly...I mean you've known each other a long time, of course it's going to be complicated." He thinks about Janet, and how awkward things were between them for the longest time, how they made a droll sort of game out of ignoring it instead of actually talking like adults until it was almost too late. Eliot frowns. "So you've got some drama, and you've said things you didn't want him to hear but he did, and...and now you're both here." There's a lot to unpack there, of course, and it's difficult not to feel like it's not his place. But for Martin, he'll try.

"John's not an asshole," he says definitively. "However he might have been toward you before...I mean I can only go from what I've seen, Martin, but he certainly cares about you. You've saved each other's lives, for fuck's sake, and you're friends, and I just think...like even just as a friend he cares enough about you to not want you to be distressed. So there's a point in favor of...of talking to him about this, if you can, even if nothing comes of it, because John deserves to know and I think he wants you to be happy."

Martin is quiet for a while, just listening to Eliot, his gaze still affixed on his drink. There are instincts, deeply rooted and reflexive, to brush this all aside. To deny, to make excuses, to reject the advice he's being given as he's done so many times before. John might care about him, may even want him to be happy, but Martin doesn't want that at the cost of undue pressure on John to be responsible for more than he signed up for. He does not want to ask for something John cannot give, and he is terrified of driving a goddamn barge through the peaceful waters of their friendship, not when it took so long to get there.

But he is tired. Tired of sadness, of feeling incomplete, of wanting; and if he really lets himself think about it, if he really listens to Eliot and accepts his insight, then it's all too easy to see that those waters are not peaceful at all. And they never will be, not while this is just there, lurking beneath the surface at all times. Maybe it is worse to keep this from John. Maybe John fears it too, that it might crop up, that it's still there. Maybe it would be best to just let John reject him, outright and to his face, and rebuild from that.

Martin sets his drink aside and hunches over, his head in his hands.

"Maybe he does," he says. John has certainly proven over and over how much he cares, how far he'll go for Martin's sake. But Christ, it doesn't feel safe to assume anything. It doesn't feel fair. "I just..."

He sighs heavily, releasing a muffled groan into his hands. "If I can't just get over him on my own, not even enough to take you up on this, then..." He sits up abruptly, looking at Eliot, feeling desperate and more than a little pathetic. "I'm scared, Eliot. I'm scared he'll break my heart. And h-he—he doesn't want to hurt me, so I don't want to put him in that position, and I don't want to live with it."

His eyes are starting to sting with the threat of tears, and he scrubs his sleeve across them impatiently, wishing he could just hold himself together for once. "I'm such a coward," he whispers, "and even if things were different, if he was... I don't know why he'd want me."

It's hard to just sit by while Martin crumples under the clear emotional weight he's being forced to deal with. Impossible, actually, once Eliot sees how close to tears he is, and he scoots closer to Martin to briefly rub his shoulder. He clears his throat, getting a little choked up in sympathy.

"Well," Eliot says, once the silence has become uncomfortable, "it is quite the corner you've painted yourself into, and I don't want to downplay that." But, he doesn't say, because it's obvious. "You're hurting already, whether or not you talk to John about this, and it's up to you to decide how much hurt you can live with. If you ask me it seems like you've both had more than enough for a lifetime."

He's only barely touched his drink, now gone cold, and he turns the mug in his hands and warms it just a little. The whole illusion of sage advice-giving would be ruined if he burned his mouth due to bungled magic. Eliot takes a sip as he considers how to frame the question that's popped up. It's not an easy thing to ask, especially when he already has his suspicions as to the answer.

"And so why do you think," he sighs, "all things being equal, that he wouldn't want you?"

Martin can't quite keep a sullen little frown from flickering across his lips as Eliot replies, gentle but honest, that yes, this really is quite the predicament, isn't it? But it's a brief sort of resentment; it's true, and Eliot isn't saying it to rub anything in. The comfort he's offering, sitting closer and rubbing his shoulder, is considerably more meaningful.

He isn't quite expecting the pointed direction this takes, and he falters for a moment, not sure how to answer. He's not even sure what he meant when he said it, if he meant anything specific at all. He feels like Eliot is getting around to something, and he's not sure he wants him to get there.

"I... I don't know," he says, stalling. "I mean..." He looks down at his hands as the answer starts to settle in, so obvious he doesn't normally have to think about it, so obvious it feels cruel that Eliot, so confident and fit, should ask him to spell it out.

"I'm just not the kind of person people want," he says quietly.

It's clear enough that Martin's hurt, however much Eliot tried to soften the question. Well that won't do at all. He frowns, hoping he can offer a refutation without making it worse.

"I don't think that's true," he begins, offering Martin a gentle smile. "Can I submit myself as evidence to the contrary? I find you incredibly cute, and very charming, on top of being, you know, an all-around good person, and if...I were the relationship type, and you weren't in love with someone else, we might be having a very different conversation right now." Eliot pauses, considering. Martin's the shy type and probably wouldn't appreciate an extensive list of his finer qualities. Not from him, anyway.

He sighs. "That being said, if someone's decided to dismiss you as attractive just because of your weight? That's not a person who's worth your time in the fucking first place. And John's a good person, much as he seems to think otherwise, so surely he doesn't feel that way. Anyway if it's as you say, and he's not into the physical aspect of a relationship, then...doesn't it stand to reason that that wouldn't be a factor keeping him from being interested?"

Christ, this is appalling. Martin flushes hot and looks away as Eliot starts offering his counterpoint. This isn't evidence, he wants to argue. Eliot isn't attracted to him; he wanted to—to show him a good time or something, it has nothing to do with looks. Stunningly handsome men have told him he's cute before, a word that means a lot of things, a word that suits him, that doesn't actually help. He isn't vain; he can't afford to be vain. This sort of thing never helps like people imagine it will.

But then, Eliot isn't 'people.' He's not like any of those other men; Eliot isn't like anyone he's ever tried to date, and there's a bitter irony there that Martin could really sink his teeth into if he weren't already full up on feeling sorry for himself. Instead, Eliot catches him off guard by the suggestion that were things different, this might, in fact, be a different conversation. That's unexpected enough that it actually draws Martin to look at him, his expression rather startled. That is different from his aesthetic appeal or his so-called charm. And it's not the sort of thing Eliot would just say for the sake of it.

So he's caught up staring when Eliot cuts right to the center of it and offers that John isn't one of those people. Martin's astonishment dulls some and he lets out a soft sigh.

"It's not just... that," he says. "I mean it's not that. I don't—" He breaks off, a bit frustrated, feeling as though they've wandered a bit off topic. "I know John is a good person. I know he doesn't care about that sort of thing, I know he—that he cares about me. But I—" His breath hitches and his shoulders draw back up into a hunch as he curls over a few degrees, clutching his drink. "None of that means he can actually reciprocate, and if he can't, if I, if I put that to him and he has to turn it down, then... then what happens?"

He looks at Eliot, feeling desperately pathetic as he realizes the question is genuine, that he needs an answer. "I can't do that to him, and I'm scared that it'll—it'll hurt too much."

Eliot can't help being a little miffed that his compliments haven't had much effect, but then he supposes there's not a lot he can do against a lifetime of Martin undervaluing himself. And in any case, it quickly becomes clear that he has more important things to worry about. Martin's crumpling again, and though Eliot has no advice on how to handle the kind of big dramatic confession Martin's worrying about, he can't just do nothing.

"Oh-" He can't bear to see Martin getting so bleak. "Right, come here," he says, and bundles him into a hug. It's nice, it's so nice, and he hopes Martin is helped more by this tangible assistance than any inept attempt at planning a conversation.

"Obviously no one wants to hurt anyone," Eliot's voice is muffled from the way his cheek is pressed against the top of Martin's head. "But I think it's unfair to John to write this endeavor off as a failure before he even knows about it. And he'd probably...I assume do his best to keep it from being too painful, if that's even how it goes, and..." He sighs. "--and if it's really as bad as you think it'll be, then. I don't know. You can have a good cry, eat a lot of ice cream, and we can revisit this little situation, I suppose." Eliot untangles one arm to gesture in a vague jumble about their tryst-that-wasn't. "I don't have romantic feelings for you but at the very least I wouldn't want you to be completely bereft."

Eliot pulls away a little, able to look at Martin now that he's made the awkward offer. "Would that...does that help?"

Martin accepts the hug with a quiet sigh, relaxing gently as Eliot offers his advice. It's... it's good advice, he thinks, much as this entire prospect terrifies him. Eliot's right: it isn't fair to John to just assume these things, to keep this from him. And John wouldn't be cruel about it. It may hurt, but... sometimes things just hurt.

And Eliot's offer of a follow-up, much as Martin isn't keen to prepare himself a bloody consolation prize, is enough to make him chuckle softly. He pulls back and offers a nod. Eliot's really gone above and beyond for him, and he deserves to know he's helped.

"It does," he says for good measure. "Th-thank you. You're right."

He rubs at the back of his neck, a little nervous and a little uncertain where to proceed from here. He still has his drink to finish, at least, so he reaches for that and gives it a ponderous sip.

"I... suppose I'll try to talk to him tomorrow?" The thought rather inevitably turns his stomach, but if he doesn't just do this as Eliot has suggested, he knows he'll lose his nerve. "D'you think you could..." He turns away in embarrassment. "I know it's your off day, but maybe you could... go in with me? Just in case it... you know." He manages another weak laugh. "And to make sure I actually do it."

Eliot is quick to agree, and Martin spends the rest of his drink settling down gently, warming to the idea of being brave about this, letting Eliot offer what distraction he can, before he finally opts to call it a night. He thanks Eliot again, bids him an awkward farewell, and makes his slow, puttering way downstairs to his flat.

The Bishop is quite demanding on his return, and Martin murmurs several soft apologies as he belatedly fills his food dish. With the cat so occupied, he spends a few moments turning on some lights, getting into his pajamas, and wondering what the hell to do with himself before bed. He needs to do something, or he'll just lie awake all bloody night trying to talk himself out of this.

In the end, he makes the somewhat questionable choice of fishing out the tape recorder he'd hidden in his sock drawer quite some time ago, like it was some secret, shameful thing, and maybe it is. It was the spare that had created itself the day John came across town with the semi-conscious notion that Martin needed help, only to find him run down from bloody Statement withdrawal, in the midst of being harassed by his landlord. John had frightened Peter off and then taken his Statement about the Spiral, and there had been two tape recorders, and Martin still doesn't know why the Eye saw fit to make two, or why, for that matter, he didn't draw attention to it. John's tape has only his Statement; Martin's has all of it.

This probably won't help. But it's late, he's a little drunk, and his nerves are still all over the place from what almost happened and what he's planning to do, so he isn't in much position to deny himself his own whims. He wants to hear John's voice; he wants something, anything to grip onto, any sign he can find that his plans tomorrow aren't in vain. This will have to do.

He brushes his teeth quite thoroughly and then gets into bed, holding the tape recorder like it's a book he intends to read to wind down. He rewinds all the way to the beginning and presses play.

This first part, he has listened to several times: John's icy cold insistence that he is Martin's friend, a pronouncement no longer as staggering as it was then but still rather arresting to listen to, and the low, almost growling quality to his voice as he all but threatened Peter, spoke his name with a venom not meant for him. At the time Martin had been a little shocked, but he more he listened to it, the more he appreciated it, the more he found a certain... enjoyment in listening to John defend him like that.

He'd always felt ashamed doing this, and never had the desire to listen to his own miserable Statement or the terrible awkwardness that followed. But he hasn't done this in a while now, not since John had come upon Jacob Riggs and snarled Get your fucking hands off him; after that, this paled in comparison, and there was little perverse pleasure to be derived in it when he'd experienced such real danger, and dragged John into it with him.

Now, it feels new, and there are parts of it that stand out differently than they ever have before: John's quick onset of sheepishness after Peter leaves, the unwarranted chill of Martin's own question, What are you doing here, the admission that he Knew something was wrong and came running. That had been shocking at the time, but it feels... pointed. It feels like something he missed, even while it was staring him in the face.

It is a combination of curiosity over this vaguely new input and quiet self-loathing that he is indulging himself like this that moves him to just keep listening for once. He listens numbly to his own Statement, taking all of it in, from the horrendously shrill sound of his recorded voice to the gut-wrenching embarrassment of hearing himself break down. It isn't pleasant, but he doesn't think he deserves something pleasant.

It winds down, and he's feeling so sick over it that he reaches out to stop the tape, when John speaks, and his hand stills. "I... can I get you—" John's voice starts, quiet and unusually unsure. Martin braces for the offer of a hug and his own idiotic rejection, but that isn't what happens.

"...anything," John finishes, the word so quiet that Martin wonders if he'd even heard it at the time. It stops him cold. John fumbles onward with the offer, a gentle extension of a hand Martin had ungratefully slapped away, but he's not listening to that anymore. He fumbles with the recorder for a moment before pressing the rewind button, stopping and starting quickly.

He listens to it again, and then again, and again, like some sort of bloody cliche. It's there, so plain as day he's almost angry that he never noticed it before, that he was apparently too far up his own arse to hear it at the time.

It isn't Can I get you anything, which is a complete thought, a casual offer, a natural thing to say. The way he utters that word, it sounds like he didn't mean to, like it was something that slipped out when he wasn't expecting it. A private little utterance on an exhale. It was more than something conversational. Martin knows John well enough now to know the various tones of his voice, what it means when he goes so very soft and breathy.

Anything, he offered, like he would really give Martin, literally, truly, anything.

Martin stops the tape and just stares at it for a while, his head buzzing with static.

Maybe he's making it up. Hearing what he wants to hear. Probably. Probably.

He rewinds again and listens again, starts to rewind and then stops the tape and shoves the recorder aside as though it's bitten him. Christ, no more. He needs to stop drowning in this. He needs to sleep.

Hope is dangerous. It hurts. It leaves him open to pain he is too weak to weather. He needs to put this from his mind and just... go in tomorrow without expectation. To let John be who he is, without wishing anything more.

He sets the tape recorder on his bedside table, knowing he'll regret leaving it there to find in the morning but too agitated to bother about it now, and turns his back on it, pulling the covers up over his head.

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To Pass The Time Between The Wars (for Martin)

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