Chapter Text
Martin doesn’t mind sorting through the written statements. There’s a formula to it, one that doesn’t take up too much brain power on a Monday morning, and it’s certainly better than fieldwork (less chance of being held hostage by an evil worm lady). Still, after several hours of reading, he can feel a nasty headache forming between his eyebrows. He needs new glasses, some with a stronger prescription, but that won’t come cheap. Between the central London rent and the care home fees, money is tight so unimportant things like clear vision will just have to wait. Unfolding himself from his chair, legs cramping from where they’ve been screwed up under the desk, he decides it’s time to take a break.
Just about to ask the others if they want tea, Tim bursts through the archives’ double doors. That man loves a dramatic entrance.
‘Marto!’, he speedwalks over, waving around a rolled-up magazine. His unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt billows behind him. ‘You have to see this’.
‘What’s that?'
‘I was at the dentist,’ Tim says ‘and I found this in the waiting room’. He gestures with the magazine, ‘Jon is in Vogue!’.
‘Oh, very funny,’ Martin rolls his eyes, ‘Are you about to show me that meme again? The one with the disgruntled owl in a trenchcoat?’
‘I’m not kidding,’ Tim slaps the glossy Vogue onto the desk. ‘It’s him right?’.
Martin picks up the issue with a sigh. Alongside the words Androgynous Beauty: A 0’s Retrospective in a stylish typeface, the front cover depicts a lone model posing on an empty beach. It appears cold and bleak, the sea as grey and flat as the sky. The model gazes out from the page wistfully, their dark eyes smudged with kohl and framed by thick lashes. Sat with their knees vulnerably tucked into their chest, they wear a long and floaty white poet shirt, the deep neckline exposing a glimpse of warm brown skin. Silky black hair falls over their shoulder in delicate waves, softening the harshness of their features - the sculptural carved lines of their jaw and cheekbones, the curving hook of their nose.
They are heartbreakingly pretty, and somehow they are also undoubtedly Jon. Or at least, some alternate-universe, younger version of him.
‘What the…’ Martin trails off, wondering if his glasses prescription is even worse than he’d imagined. Scanning the photograph for some sign of a hoax and finding none, he flips forward to the several-page spread talking about the most influential models of the early oughts to see a dozen more pictures of this strange not-Jon.
‘Weird, right?’ Tim chuckles. ‘Who would’ve thought Jon was kind of hot once?’, his face scrunches up like the very thought is disgusting.
‘Yeah, who would’ve thought…’ Martin repeats distantly, hoping the blush creeping up his neck isn’t as obvious as it feels.
‘I can’t wait to see his reaction when we show him,’ he snatches up the magazine and starts marching towards Jon’s office.
‘Wait, Tim!’, Martin scrambles after him. ‘Do you really think this is a good idea -’
His protests are cut off by the office door swinging open. Jon emerges, scowling,
‘For heaven’s sake can you both keep your voices,’ his gaze lands on the Vogue clenched in Tim’s fist. ‘Ah’. Some emotion Martin can’t quite place flickers across Jon’s features before he quickly schools his expression back to disdain. ‘I should’ve known,’ he says flatly, ‘come in’.
Martin shuffles inside Jon’s office, feeling oddly guilty. It isn’t like he’d been snooping about in his boss’ past on purpose and yet a part of him is worried they’ve invaded his privacy. He tells himself that he’s being ridiculous, that Vogue is one of the largest publications in the world and Jon should’ve expected them to notice if his face was plastered all over the latest issue. The room is silent save for the whirring of a tape recorder - Jon must’ve been about to record a statement.
‘Is this actually you?’ Tim says.
‘Yes’, Jon shrugs, like him being an ex-supermodel isn’t anything out of the ordinary. ‘The head editor contacted me a couple of months ago about an article and I told her if she wanted to dig up some photos from over a decade ago she could be my guest.’
‘Why did you end up working here though? You were walking for Chanel and Dior at seventeen!’ Martin points at a picture of Jon on a runway.
‘I got bored. I prefer academia.’
‘Yeah right,’ Tim scoffs. ‘No offence boss, but what happened to you?’
Martin tries not to wince at the insensitive question but Jon doesn’t look offended. He just raises an arched eyebrow.
‘I’ve had more important matters to attend to than my looks. I may have gone grey and I’m considerably more covered in worm scars now but that’s hardly a tragedy.’
It’s strange to look at Jon now and see echoes of that model on the beach. He rakes a hand through his silver-streaked hair, fingers tangling in the curls, and Martin’s eyes follow the movement. He’d never noticed before how soft Jon’s hair looks. Tim is also staring, realising somewhat begrudgingly that the mess of a man before him is probably still quite handsome underneath all the stress. Now that he thinks of it, Jon hadn’t looked so worn down when they’d first met back in the research department. But at some point since becoming Head Archivist he’d crossed the line from being slender to gaunt, the dark shadows under his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks becoming a permanent fixture. He wonders when he last ate a proper meal or slept for more than a couple of hours at his desk.
‘Well,’ Jon utters sharply, ‘if you don’t have any more questions about my personal life, I’ll have to ask you to leave.’
‘Do you ever miss it?’ Martin hears himself say, not quite sure why he’s asking. Jon falls quiet, a rueful smile curling at the corner of his mouth.
‘Ah, yes. I guess I do sometimes. Funnily enough, I was invited to the upcoming Paris Fashion Week and I almost said yes. Terrible idea but nostalgia is a powerful thing’.
Tim tilts his head, ‘You said no?’
‘Of course I did,’ Jon snaps. ‘As you already so kindly pointed out I’d hardly fit in among models these days’. Martin watches as his boss fumbles with a drawer to grab a pack of cigarettes and slip it into his pocket. He frowns, certain Jon had decided to quit ages ago. ‘Now, I suggest you both get back to work’. He strides out of the room towards the propped-open fire exit.
Tim slouches back to his desk, leaving Martin standing in the doorway. Martin knows he should just leave it. That’s always been his problem, he can never just leave things alone - not intervene. He’s sure Jon is fine and that even if he wasn’t, it’s highly unlikely he would want Martin of all people to check up on him. He can imagine it now, Jon blowing smoke in his face and telling him to ‘Piss off’. And yet, he can’t quite shake the fact that this situation seems to have gotten under Jon’s skin enough to make him fall back into an old bad habit. Sighing, Martin gives into the part of him that can’t help but care for people who don’t deserve it and heads towards the fire exit.
It’s cold outside, the ground coated with frost. Jon leans up against the dark brick wall of the institute, a cig dangling limply from his long, slim fingers. Touching it back to his mouth, he breathes deeply, eyes closing. His lips curve in a gentle bow and Martin finds himself remembering from the magazine how they looked when painted with shimmering gloss. They part slightly as he exhales a thin wisp of smoke. Tipping his head upwards to the sky, he scowls at the encroaching rain clouds. Jonathan Sims has the ability to scowl like no one else, the expression always caught somewhere between intimidating and bratty. Martin resists the urge to walk over, smooth out the wrinkle between his furrowed eyebrows and tell him to relax. He coughs instead, awkwardly dragging attention to himself.
Finally noticing his presence, Jon takes one last drag before stamping the cigarette out under the heel of his Oxfords. The sparks extinguish on the damp pavement.
‘What is it Martin?’ he says, voice low.
‘Just wondering if you’re all right’, Martin takes a tentative step towards him, looking anywhere other than the other man’s ridiculously large brown eyes. Jon makes a soft, tired sound.
‘No need to worry about me, I assure you.’
‘It’s just… I mean - Tim and I didn’t mean to pry.’
‘It’s fine. It’s all public information, nothing a simple Google search wouldn’t have told you.’
‘Huh, yeah,’ Martin considers, ‘didn’t think of that’.
‘Sasha’s known since I first requested her as an assistant. She at least does her research properly’. He smirks up at Martin, the tilt of his lips not quite as cruel as usual.
‘Can’t believe she kept it to herself all this time! Tim’s going to feel so betrayed.’
‘Ah, well.’ Jon straightens up from his casual position resting against the wall. ‘I’m sure he’ll get over it’. Martin used to think Jon’s rigidly upright posture was a result of the proverbial stick he has shoved up his arse. It’s strange to realise that the perfectly aligned set of his shoulders might instead be a remnant of some whole other life Jon had modelling.
Seeming that his boss is yet to verbally eviscerate him, Martin decides to test his luck. ‘Why’d it bother you so much when Tim asked about Paris?’.
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about’, Jon blatantly sidesteps the question. ‘Also how are you not freezing?’. Shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his blazer, he looks the taller man up and down. ‘It’s February and I’ve never seen you wear so much as a light jacket’. Martin shrugs, tugging at the hem of his cable-knit sweater. When he’d bought it he’d thought the greyish blue colour would make his eyes pop but he’s ended up not wearing it often, disliking how the chunky wool won’t lay flat over his chest even with a binder on. ‘Never have felt the cold much.’
‘Count yourself blessed -’
‘- and you’re deflecting’.
‘I am,’ Jon sighs. ‘It’s just’, it sounds physically painful for Jon to continue talking, ‘I don’t often think about that time in my life but the recent publicity, and I guess Tim’s reaction, has me feeling rather, ah… self-conscious.’
‘In what way?’
Jon gives him a scathing look, ‘I’m insecure Martin. About letting myself go, if you really want me to spell it out for you. Are you happy now?’.
‘What? I was just trying to be nice but if you’re going to be a prick about it I then -’
‘- I know,’ he breathes another exaggerated sigh. ‘I’m sorry. Thank you for your concern and I’m sorry you had to see me like this. I’ll see you back inside.’ Jon brushes past Martin, heading for the door leading back down into the archives when Martin instinctively reaches out to grab Jon’s wrist.
‘Wait’.
Jon stills at the soft-spoken command, raising that damned eyebrow of his. Martin suddenly realises what he’s just done. He’s still holding the fine bones of Jon’s wrist in between his fingers, the skin cool where it sticks out of his shirt sleeve. He needs to say something. What he lands on is, ‘We’re all insecure Jon. You shouldn’t let it stop you from experiencing something if that’s what you want’. Jon’s other eyebrow raises, and for a moment he just stands there with a cartoonishly stunned look on his face.
‘I have a hard time believing you’re insecure’ he says, sounding slightly pouty. Martin can’t believe what he’s hearing.
‘Are you serious?’ the question forms around a bitter laugh. ‘Maybe you don’t meet model beauty standards anymore but some of us never have. I’m not exactly the smallest guy in the world and a large percentage of the population doesn’t even see me as a guy to begin with! Do you know how excited I was when I started T? I didn’t care if it gave me acne or I went bald or whatever, I just wanted my body to not be something I hated’. Martin notices somewhat belatedly that he’s angry. Angry that the striking man before him could be so self-centred to think he’s the only one with hang-ups about his appearance. He can’t even find it in himself to care that he just came out to his boss in the most dramatic way possible. He hopes Jon isn’t secretly transphobic. Tim is loudly bisexual enough to confirm that Jon doesn’t have a problem with other people’s sexualities but you never know. Martin’s had the unexpected pleasure before of being discriminated against by someone who claimed to be a ‘gay ally’.
Jon looks sufficiently chastened, his lips thinning into a line.
‘I didn’t mean to- well, I’m sorry’. He pauses. ‘Again’.
‘I’m not asking you to be sorry,’ Martin huffs. ‘I just think you should reconsider the offer about Fashion Week. It’s an opportunity not a lot of people have.’ He drops Jon’s wrist, before elbowing him in the ribs gently, ‘You might even have fun’.
‘What if they don’t want me there once I arrive though? What if they laugh at me?’, he says, curling inwards on himself. Martin’s not sure why he and Jon are being so vulnerable with each other but he doesn’t want it to stop. Doesn’t want to say the wrong thing and have to watch Jon’s walls snap back up into place with a sneer.
‘You’re still you Jon. Tim and I recognised you from the photograph almost immediately’.
‘What about all the scars though, he says, voice almost a whisper.
‘Lots of people have scars,’ Martin replies gently. ‘I certainly have my fair share of them. So does Tim’.
‘Yes - you’re right. I would never even notice them on someone else it’s just… the nature of my return to the industry, no matter in what capacity that may be, would mean I’d be under quite a bit of scrutiny. There’s a reason you don’t see ex-models in the spotlight when they stop being pretty. The industry is rather ruthless about that sort of thing’.
‘I understand it’ll be difficult, but you also said earlier that you missed parts of it.’ Jon groans, pressing the palms of his hands into his eye sockets.
‘I did, didn’t I? Must be mad’.
‘If you wanted, we could always come along for moral support?’. Martin watches as a small smile creeps from one side of Jon’s mouth to the other.
‘I can imagine Tim and Sasha would have a blast getting blackout at all the designer after-parties. Plus, I’m sure Paris appeals to your poetic sensibilities’, he teases.
Martin nods, ‘I’ve never been, but I do love a good croissant’.
Jon’s smile saddens momentarily, ‘My old agency would never let me have a pastry before a show. Too fatty’.
‘Good job we wouldn’t be going with your old agency then’, Martin frowns, wanting to interrogate Jon about the other harmful things his agency had told him but knowing now isn’t the time.
Jon looks down at the floor, his fingers twitching towards the pack of cigarettes sticking out of his pocket like he wants another.
‘Thank you for the advice,’ he says. ‘I’ll consider it’. With a curt nod, he slips back through the fire exit. Martin waits for a moment in the weak winter sun, running through the interaction in his mind with disbelief. He’d thought Jon would rather choke than talk to him about feelings and yet this morning he’d learnt more about his mystery of a boss than he’d ever thought he would. After a minute or two, Martin descends the steps to the archives, wondering how he’s going to concentrate on filing paperwork with all the conflicting emotions clogging up his brain.
. . . . . .
Somehow, he makes it to the end of the day.
‘Well, I’m outa here. See you chumps bright and early tomorrow.’ Tim gives a weary salute and starts packing up his things, sweeping some of the clutter on his desk into a duffle bag.
‘Hold up,’ Sasha calls from across the room. ‘You taking the tube?’
‘Unfortunately, yes. My situationship with a car stopped returning my texts’.
‘Maybe he got sick of being your personal chauffeur,’ she laughs. ‘What about you Martin? Which line do you take to your new flat?’
‘The Central,’ he says and everybody groans in unison.
‘Bad luck mate,’ Tim claps him on the back sympathetically, ‘Just you wait until summer, that’s when it gets really sweaty down there’.
The three of them are almost through the door when Jon appears from his office.
‘Before you leave, I have something quick to talk to you all about if you don’t mind’.
‘I very much do mind,’ Tim mutters into his scarf. Jon pretends not to hear him.
‘As I mentioned earlier, the opportunity has arisen for me to take some time abroad. Elias never bothers checking our expenditures so I’m sure we could write off the travel as a company expense and I wanted to ask whether you would care to join me, in a personal capacity’ he rambles, staringly intently at a crack in the ceiling and not at his coworkers.
‘In plain English please,’ Tim drawls.
‘I want to take the designer up on their invite and go to Paris Fashion Week. Would you all maybe like to come with me?’. Jon seems to realise how furiously he’s been wringing his hands and forces himself to still.
‘Sounds great,’ Sasha beams at him. ‘When would this be?’
‘Next week,’ Jon mumbles.
‘A bit last minute, but I’m sure we’ll manage,’ Sasha pats Jon on the shoulder. ‘Just send us the details’.
‘Yeah, count me down for any holiday coming out of Bouchard’s paycheck,’ Tim adds.
‘I’d love to come,’ Martin says, immediately regretting his use of the word ‘love’. He convinces himself that the strange pressure building in his chest has absolutely nothing to do with how Jon’s looking at him, his eyes strangely soft.
‘I do have one condition though,’ Tim says.
‘Oh, yes of course’
‘Boss, please let me go full 90s rom-com makeover on you,’ he bats his eyelashes prettily.
‘No, thank you. I refuse to be the subject of your The Princess Diaries fantasies’.
‘Oh come on, it’d be fun,’ Tim glances over his shoulder, ‘Won’t it Sash?’
‘I mean,’ Sasha worries her lip between her teeth, ‘no offence but you do dress a little like you raided some elderly professor’s work wardrobe.’
‘Well,’ Jon pouts, ‘I do happen to be at a place of work. Professional attire is only appropriate'.
‘Oh, and what do you dress like outside of work?’ Tim asks slyly.
Jon sighs, defeated. ‘I see your point’.
‘Maybe this could be a chance to step outside of your comfort zone?’
‘I’m already going to be outside of my comfort zone just by attending!’
‘Well then, you might as well be uncomfortable in style’ Tim waggles his eyebrows. ‘Besides, we’ve seen your portfolio - you used to turn out some avant-garde looks!’
‘Used to being the operative phrase there I’m afraid’.
‘We could all give it a go,’ Martin offers with a nervous laugh. ‘I’m not exactly fashionable myself. Maybe I’ll discover a whole world outside of knit jumpers’.
Jon appears somewhat placated by the idea that the attention of these ‘makeovers’ would not be entirely focused on him.
‘I happen to think your jumpers look nice as they are Martin, but fine. I’ll play along.’ He turns to Tim, ‘For the record I hate the message those makeover movies perpetuate and if you’re expecting to just take my glasses off to reveal I’ve been gorgeous all along then you’re going to be sorely disappointed’.
‘We’ll see about that,’ Tim grins, gesturing for Jon to remove his spectacles. Jon does so reluctantly and folds the wiry frames neatly into his blazer pocket. Though the whole thing had been intended as a joke, Martin feels his breath catch as the full force of Jon’s leagues-deep gaze falls on him unfiltered by glass. His eyelashes are so long. Martin can’t help noticing the way they brush against his cheek as he blinks. He can’t help but notice a lot of things, like how Jon’s crow’s feet scrunch as he smiles, how his irises seem wholly black when cast in shadow and the thin skin beneath his socket is stained faintly purple from lack of sleep.
‘Huh, my eyesight seems to have improved somehow,’ Jon murmurs. ‘Used to be so bad I might as well have been in the dark without them’. He sounds oddly worried about his clearer vision, which certainly doesn’t sound like a problem to Martin.
‘Must be a sign,’ Tim says flippantly. ‘Now, how about we meet up this weekend to continue the transformation?’
‘I’m free Saturday afternoon,’ Sasha suggests. ‘Could meet at oneish near that giant bird mural on Brick Lane and hit up all the vintage shops?’
‘That works for me,’ Martin says and Tim nods in agreement.
‘Bird mural? What kind of landmark is that?’ Jon asks.
‘I thought you lived nearby’
‘I’ve never seen it’, he says stubbornly.
‘You must not get out much then,’ Sasha says, lips quirking into a teasing smile.
‘I thought we already established that,’ he deadpans. ‘Anyways sure, I’ll meet you at the heron on Saturday.’
‘How did you know the bird was a heron if you’ve never seen it?’ Sasha asks, curious.
‘Oh… I - I don’t know.’ Jon trails off, gazing blankly into the distance.
‘Please don’t go all spooky on us now,’ Tim waves a hand in front of Jon’s face to snap him out of whatever zoned-out state he’s in.
‘I’m not spooky,’ Jon protests.
‘If you say so.’ Tim has the audacity to wink at him.
Chapter 2
Notes:
Short Jon POV chapter!
(This whole fic is largely an excuse for me to play dress up with tma gang)
TWs - negative body image and a brief mention of workplace discrimination
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Hiding around the corner from the place they'd all agreed to meet, Jon regrets his decision to try new things. He should’ve remembered he hates new things.
The nerves have him chain-smoking. He needs to keep his hands busy to resist the temptation of pulling out his phone and sending some apologetic text saying he can’t come due to illness or an urgent plumbing problem. Though the temptation to go home is strong, he realises, much to his annoyance, that he wants to ‘hang out’ with his coworkers. If he’s honest with himself, Jon hasn't had any proper friends since he left university (unless you count Georgie but that's complicated). Sighing wearily, he stubs out what he promises will be his last cigarette. He doesn't want to give Martin another thing to worry about, not that Martin should be worrying about his well-being anyway.
Psyching himself up for the social interactions to come, Jon smoothes down his hair (to no avail) and turns the corner. He immediately spots the others, gathered in a huddle underneath the giant bird mural.
‘What’s up boss!’, Tim hollers, waving at him enthusiastically from across the street.
‘Good afternoon,' Jon nods stiffly, wondering where to put his hands. He settles on stuffing them into the pockets of his blazer.
‘There’s no need to be so formal, we’re not at work,’ Sasha laughs.
‘Quite right’
‘Ready for your makeover?', Tim punctuates the question with jazzhands (an ex-theatre kid if ever he saw one) and Jon can't help but smile at the goofy gesture. He considers that it might not be a bad thing to emulate some of Tim’s boundless confidence. The man seems to think himself a style guru despite mostly wearing novelty shirts (today’s is patterned with dinosaurs wearing sunglasses). Annoyingly, he’s attractive enough to pull it off. The cuffed sleeves cling to his biceps and he wears the tight shirt tucked into an even tighter pair of jeans.
Sasha also seems like an apt person to take advice from when it comes to fashion (or anything really, she’s a very capable person). Her outfit is perfectly coordinated, just like her archiving work. Her dark hair is slicked back at the front, edges carefully laid in swirling designs. Tied with a scrunchie, the rest of her curls form a cloud-like bun at the nape of her neck. Her cardigan is embroidered with tiny flowers and the rich burgundy colour of her lipstick matches her patent Dr. Martens.
And Martin… well, he’s Martin. Jon had meant what he said about the jumpers. They look nice on him. If he’s honest with himself, just how nice they look stretched across his broad shoulders can be a bit distracting sometimes. The one he wears now is a soft heather grey. Jon muses to himself that he prefers it when Martin wears colour. He has such an obnoxiously friendly demeanour that the monochromatic look doesn't feel quite right.
Looking around at their smiling faces, Jon feels panic start to rise in his throat like bile. Since becoming Head Archivist he’s made a conscious effort to keep these people at arm’s length. In his experience, letting others in almost always ends badly. There’s safety in isolation, in the promise that you’ll experience the same bland flavour of misery day after day. He can put up with the loneliness and the microwave dinners for one. He doesn’t know how he’d cope if he were to continue cultivating these friendships only for them to be ripped away, leaving him back where he started only with considerably more heartache.
‘You alright?’, Martin asks, an edge of concern in his voice.
‘Of course’, he says, aggravated that the other man seems to have a sixth sense for emotional vulnerability, ‘Let’s get going, shall we?’
Strolling down Brick Lane, Sasha leads them to a small, vintage boutique. Despite the faded exterior, the shop’s name illegible where the paint has peeled and cracked, Jon sees through the window a vibrant array of clothing. A bell chimes as they push through the door.
‘Can I help you?’ an older woman with green hair appears from behind a rack of feather boas ‘Sasha! It's been a while’.
‘Hi Sandy, been busy with work I'm afraid.’
The shop owner frowns, ‘That boss of yours sounds like a right prat, always making you stay late’. Guilt twisting in his stomach, Jon stares downwards intently at the shag carpet. ‘Oh and who are your friends?’ Sandy continues, her expression brightening.
‘Oh, this is Tim and Martin who I mentioned I work with at the institute.’ Sasha bites her lip, ‘And this is Jon’.
‘Jon, your boss?’. Sandy raises a sharply manicured eyebrow. Jon nods and her smile grows wicked. ‘I see. Well, do let me know if you need anything’ she says, before disappearing again into the sea of clothes.
‘Should we leave?’ Jon asks, eyeing up the door and considering if it’s too late now to play the broken plumbing/sudden onset of illness card.
‘It’s fine, but I do recommend declining any offer for a cup of tea. She’ll probably have spat in it’.
‘Delightful’, he mutters, letting himself be led further into the overflowing aisles.
The dim lighting and the strong smell of incense make him feel like he’s entering a fortune-teller's tent. That is, apart from the headache-inducingly loud Joni Mitchell playing over the speakers. Tim bops along to the music, running his hands along the racks,
‘Who’s up first?’
‘I reserve the right to go last,’ Jon says. ‘Why don’t you start if you’re so keen on all this nonsense?’
‘Sure thing,’ Tim replies easily. ‘Hey Sash, be a dear and help me pick out an outfit’
‘What vibe are you wanting to go for?’ she says, waving about something lacey.
‘Surprise me,’ Tim grins.
‘Pick one out for me as well’, she orders, before striding away.
All of a sudden, the shop is a flurry of activity with Tim and Sasha throwing inside jokes at each other from across aisles. Jon hovers next to a display of odd-shaped hats watching them flirt (there’s definitely something going on between those two, you could cut the sexual tension with a butter knife) and occasionally glancing over at Martin, who's immersed in a game of Tetris on his phone. Face scrunched up in concentration, a single bronze curl longer than the rest keeps falling in his eyes. Jon finds some spiteful part of himself wanting to tug on it. Martin must feel the weight of his gaze and looks up with a sheepish sort of smile.
‘Sorry, I’m being antisocial’
‘Of course not. We’re hardly mandated to make conversation,’ Jon says haughtily. He busies himself looking back at the strange hats to avoid seeing the slightly hurt expression flicker across Martin’s features.
‘No, I… I guess not.’
They lapse into silence, Martin seeming torn between returning to his Tetris and making another stab at awkward small talk.
‘Oh, I like this song,’ he says, apparently deciding on the latter, ‘can’t remember what it’s called though’. It’s another Joni Mitchell one, Sandy must’ve put an album on.
‘ This Place ’, Jon finds himself answering to his own surprise.
‘Oh, you know it?’, Martin turns to face him, smiling softly.
‘Didn’t think I did’
‘What does that mean?’ Martin scoffs, ‘Why do you have to be so cryptic all the time?’
Jon scrambles to find an explanation for all the things he’s been knowing recently that he shouldn’t. He doesn’t want to admit his theory that somehow working at the institute has given him supernatural powers of folk music trivia.
‘Maybe it amuses me?’ he says deadpan.
Martin looks baffled, his mouth slightly slack. Endearingly gormless - the words come unbidden into Jon's mind and he lets out a small chuckle.
‘Something funny is it?’, Martin mutters. ‘You don’t have to be such a snob about everything, you know? Also, Joni Mitchell is hardly super-mainstream. She’s a poet.’
‘You and your poetry,’ Jon rolls his eyes. ‘It’s not snobbery, I just prefer something a little heavier’
‘Heavier? What, like really depressing stuff? ‘Cos if you listen to the lyrics I’m pretty sure she’s talking about climate change.’
‘Sonically, I mean.’ Jon says stiltedly. ‘Metal music’.
‘Really?’ Martin’s annoyance seems to fade, replaced with shy curiosity.
‘It’s a very diverse genre, but yes. I’m particularly fond of prog metal.’
‘Prog?’
‘As in progressive. It’s a genre which fuses the guitar-driven sound of heavy metal and the pseudo-classical compositions of progressive rock. It’s an incredibly hard style of music to write, at least in my experience, as its experimental nature is largely characterised by unorthodox harmonies, frequent meter changes and intense syncopation’.
Jon feels himself slip into the comfort of info-dumping about a favourite subject. He keeps waiting for Martin to tell him to shut up but he never does. Having explained how the continuous move between formalism and eclecticism has manifested in the progressive genre, he glances up to see Martin staring at him with that strangely soft expression again.
‘Ah, sorry. I’ve been rambling’. He folds his hands in his lap to stop himself from gesturing with them while he talks.
‘No, it’s interesting,’ Martin smiles. ‘While you’re still a music snob, it’s nice to know you’re nerdy about it as well’.
‘You don’t have to humour me’, Jon mutters, wishing Martin would stop being kind to him when he’s done nothing to deserve it.
‘I’m not,’ he says lightly. ‘Also I didn’t know you wrote music?’
‘Not so much these days,’ Jon sighs, ‘But I was in a band at university.’
‘Really?!,’ Martin’s mouth is hanging slightly open again. Jon reminds himself to stop looking at Martin’s mouth. ‘When did you have time for that alongside the modelling?’
‘It was after. I didn’t go to uni until I was 22 when I’d quit the industry. I always felt slightly out of place amongst the freshly-turned 18-year-olds but at least I had Georgie. She took several gap years to work so we were the same age.’
‘Georgie?’ Martin asks.
‘A friend,’ he coughs awkwardly, ‘Well, girlfriend at the time but not anymore. Not for a long while.’
Jon braces himself for further questions about his tragic love life (or lack thereof) and is pleasantly surprised when Martin changes the subject.
‘I still can’t believe you used to be cool’
‘I was never cool,’ he scoffs. ‘Just wore a lot of eyeliner.’
‘God, I would pay to see that’ Martin says, his voice oddly high.
‘I probably have a photo,’ Jon mumbles, fishing his phone out of his pocket and scrolling through his messages with Georgie. She’d sent him a photo a little while ago of a Polaroid she’d found. He offers up the screen to Martin, who squints at the faded image.
Looking at the spread in Vogue, Jon had barely been able to recognise the photos as himself. That time in his life feels so distant and all he can really focus on is how miserable he was at all those shoots. Seeing this Polaroid is different, more vulnerable. These were the good years. In the photo he’s sat on Georgie’s shoulders, tilting dangerously and grinning wide at his bandmate behind the camera. In the background, you can just about make out the stage in the pub where they first started playing gigs. Jon’s hair is teased and messy, his nose and ears glint with since-removed piercings and, sure enough, he’s wearing abundant amounts of black eyeliner.
‘Why did you stop?’ Martin says quietly, his eyes staying fixed on this picture of Jon’s past.
‘The band?’ Jon shrugs, ‘Broke up after university when everyone scattered across the country for work’.
‘You look so happy.’ Jon doesn’t know how to respond to that. ‘You could’ve found something else, wrote music. Dress the way you want.’ Martin continues.
Jon looks down at his feet, ‘It’s hard enough getting a job in academia if you’re not a straight, white man. Seeing as I don’t exactly fit that criteria,’ he says bitterly, ‘I had to do everything in my power to look professional.’ He puts finger quotation marks around the word professional, his tone making it clear he doesn’t want to elaborate any further.
Martin looks like he’s about to say something else when Tim and Sasha appear before them, arms laden with garments.
‘Changing rooms everyone!’ Tim announces, grabbing Jon’s hand and leading him to the back of the boutique where there are two tiny cubicles and a sagging sofa. Both are little more than a flimsy curtain partitioning off a small section of space from the rest of the shop. A gilded full-length mirror is propped up outside.
‘Prepare to be amazed’, Sasha promises, before stepping into one of the cubicles and closing the curtain. Tim grins knowingly and steps into the other. After a few minutes of scuffling about as they change, Tim makes a dissatisfied noise.
‘Hmm Sasha, these trousers aren’t working with the outfit. Can we swap?’
‘Sure’ she says, flinging a skirt over the top of the cubicle to Tim.
‘Thanks, mate’, he chucks over the trousers in return.
Watching this exchange, Jon wonders how often his assistants share clothes. ‘Much better!’ Tim declares, ‘You ready, Sash?’
‘Born ready’, she replies, pulling the curtain open with flair.
She wears loose-fitted jeans painted with a celestial pattern. The gold stars and moons shimmer against the dark-wash denim. The burnt orange wrap top Tim picked out has flared sleeves and a plunging neckline which accentuates her matching accessories. The layered golden necklaces and stacked bracelets are adorned with tiny crescent moons, shooting stars and planets. She looks like some sort of seventies space goddess.
‘Looking good’, Tim saunters up beside her to check himself out in the mirror. Somehow, everything looks tailored to fit him.
‘You should buy the jacket’ Sasha remarks, giving him an appreciative once-over.
‘Think I will,’ Tim says, ‘the skirt too.’ You can tell the clothes were chosen by Sasha, the style simple yet elegant. He looks effortlessly cool in a tank top the colour of espresso layered underneath an oversized black leather jacket. The structured material contrasts with a floaty, chiffon skirt. Falling just below his knees, it flows like smoke as he swishes about.
Jon finds himself feeling oddly jealous at the ease with which Tim disregards the ‘rules’ of gendered clothing. It’s been so long since Jon felt he could. Suddenly, the collar of his tightly buttoned-up shirt seems like it's choking him and he aches for the sensation of soft fabrics on his skin. Martin had asked him why he no longer dressed the way he wanted, why the eyeliner and androgyny had had to go. He’d answered truthfully, academia is full of elitist assholes, but he knows there’s more to it. Now, with a steady job at the institute as head of his own department, he’s fairly certain he could wear whatever he liked and Elias wouldn’t bat an eyelid. It’s just… he’s scared. Scared that opening that particular Pandora’s box would mean having to confront all the conflicting emotions about his gender identity scrabbling around in his chest. Usually, he can ignore them like he successfully ignores the majority of his unhelpful, unwanted feelings. Unfortunately, this whole ‘makeover’ business seems to be dredging them up in a way that can’t be fully ignored.
‘Who allowed us to be this hot?’ Tim says, breaking Jon out of his spiralling thoughts. He slings an arm around Sasha’s shoulders, bumping their heads together as he holds up his phone to take a selfie.
‘Oh get a room you too’ Martin groans with a good-natured eye-roll. Sasha sticks out her tongue in reply,
‘Come now Martin, Tim and I are totally platonic-partners-in-crime’. She laces her fingers through Tim’s and squeezes, laughing at whatever he’s leaned in close to whisper.
‘Indeed,’ Tim puts on an exaggeratedly posh voice, ‘your punishment for such lurid accusations is to wear whatever I so choose’.
Martin smiles nervously, ‘I accept your punishment. Though I doubt there’s much choice for stuff in my size anyway’.
‘Leave it to me’, Tim claps him on the shoulder before disappearing back behind the curtain.
Several moments later, Tim emerges and drags Martin off into the shelves. The outfit curation process is quicker this time and Jon and Sasha have barely been waiting five minutes when they return.
‘Ladies and gents may I please have your attention,’ Tim says, making a sweeping gesture towards Martin.
‘Stop making this such a big deal’ he mumbles, before stepping into the cubicle.
‘What have you put our dear Marto in?’ Sasha asks as Tim plops down onto the sofa beside her.
‘You’ll just have to wait and see’ he grins.
‘Ugh Tim,’ Martin’s voice calls from inside the cubicle, ‘did you have to make it so…’. He trails off.
‘Oh come on, I’m sure it looks great!’ Tim encourages.
‘Ugh’ Martin repeats, but begrudgingly pulls the curtain aside. ‘I just don’t tend to wear things without - well, without sleeves’.
Jon, embarrassingly, finds himself transfixed by said lack of sleeves. Or rather, more accurately, Martin’s arms which are strong and soft and obscenely freckled. He’s staring. At the way the layers of muscle and fat shift as Martin stuffs his hands in his pockets, at the silvery stretch marks tracing across a bicep.
‘I look like someone’s grandad’ Martin frowns, crossing his arms across his thick chest in a way that is in no way helping Jon’s current crisis.
‘Hey! Sweater vests are in’ Tim declares. The vest in question is a dark, foresty green with white piping around the collar. He wears it tucked into a pair of fitted corduroy trousers. A delicate string of pearls gleam around his neck.
Jon swallows. Then swallows again, unsure of how to process the fact that his soft-spoken, poetry-loving coworker looks like he could confidently benchpress his own scrawny frame.
Martin catches him looking and wraps his arms around his midsection tighter, self-conscious.
‘I feel like an idiot’.
‘Well, you look hot!’ Tim assures. ‘Tell him he looks hot Jon.’
‘It’s a nice outfit’ Jon says, wincing at his lackluster words. How come the only adjective he can ever seem to offer Martin is ‘nice’ when he’s clearly so much more than that?
‘Thanks,’ Martin’s face falls imperceptibly, ‘can’t really see myself wearing it though’. He closes the curtain.
Jon can’t help but think about their conversation last week. Before that, he’d never noticed Martin might be insecure, had never seen any reason why he would be. He realises that he doesn’t like that Martin doesn’t seem to like his body and that he would go to great lengths to convince him of his objective attractiveness. He makes a mental note to be more open with his compliments, no matter how mortifying the prospect may feel.
His train of thought is interrupted by Tim enthusiastically pulling him to his feet, ‘Alright boss, you’re up next!’.
‘Dear lord, save me’ Jon groans.
Notes:
Here's roughly how I imagine their different outfits -
Sasha - https://pin.it/2EVLsjDSV
Tim - https://pin.it/7GsgokMl7
Martin - https://pin.it/4PHjPM9PI
Chapter 3
Notes:
hi sooo, after being dumped, quitting my job and moving countries, I honestly thought I was never going to finish this fic
But! I cannot stop thinking about these idiots being in love and working through their issues together so I am going to try my best to give this story an ending :)
(even if I can't spend as much time on it as I originally planned)
same tws apply! also there is a part of this chapter heavily inspired by MAG 90: Body Builder
Chapter Text
‘You can't be serious’, Jon arches an eyebrow at the garment Tim is holding up. ‘Where’s the rest of it’
‘It’s a crop top,’ he explains, as if to a petulant toddler.
‘It doesn't matter what you call it, I can't wear half a shirt around in public!’
‘Says who?’
‘Common decency,’ Jon mutters, eyeing up the offending piece of clothing. He glances sideways at Martin, who watches their exchange with poorly concealed amusement.
‘For god's sake why are you acting like this is the 17th century? The good people of London won't go into cardiac arrest from seeing a bit of midriff’, Tim throws his hands up and walks away into the aisles to find another option.
Suddenly concerned that this is veering into peer-pressuring territory, Martin steps in, ‘We don’t want you to wear anything that makes you feel genuinely uncomfortable. I think Tim just assumed you liked more androgynous fashion seeming as you were practically its poster boy back in the day.’
‘Calling it ‘back in the day’ makes me sound prehistoric.’ Jon sighs. ‘And I guess part of the problem is exactly that - I was the poster boy. I could play around with self-expression because underneath it all I thought I was fine with being seen as a man. But then,’ he gestures with his reedy arms as the words pour out of him, before suddenly going limp at his side. ‘I realised I might not be… fine with it that is. I don’t know’. His voice is so quiet. Oh. oh. Martins' heart does something complicated in his chest as he puts together what Jon is implying.
‘It’s ok if you don’t know,’ he says, hoping he hasn’t read the situation wrong, that he isn’t just projecting. Jon stares down at the floor, playing with the hem of his jumper.
Jon groans, ‘I understand there are other people who feel similarly, in-between or outside of gender or whatever, and that there are corresponding labels but finding one that fits is, it’s overwhelming’
‘You don’t need a label if you don’t want’ Martin says softly, fighting the intense urge to hug his boss.
‘Yes but without one it sometimes feels like it’s all in my head, that I’m causing myself all this stress and discomfort over nothing’.
‘Just because some things are hard to explain doesn’t mean they’re not real.’ Martin is glad Jon isn’t making eye contact with him now, afraid the fondness spiking inside him is written all over his face. ‘Is there anything you can think of that would make you more comfortable? Different pronouns?’
Finally, Jon looks up.
‘I started going by they/them in university but dropped it when I began the institute. I didn’t want to have to keep explaining myself. I still don’t. I don’t know why I’m bringing all this stuff up,’ he admits ruefully. ‘It seems that digging up my past is making me entirely too self-reflective for my own good’.
It’s heartbreaking, Martin realises, just how much of themselves Jon gave up just to fit in and survive.
‘Would you want me to use them for you now?’
‘It would be nice,’ he shrugs, ‘but I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. The idea of making some sort of announcement to the others is - well - mortifying’.
Martin chuckles, ‘Knowing those two, if I started using different pronouns they’d pick up on it and not say anything. Tim has had partners everywhere on and outside of the gender spectrum and Sasha always figures stuff out straight away.’
Martin realises he’s been inching closer to Jon this whole time like there’s a string in his gut pulling him in. Forcing himself to put aside his wayward feelings, he picks up the crop top Tim had left discarded on a rack next to them. ‘And clothes-wise? What do you actually want to wear? Not what you think you should be wearing. Jon looks at the item wistfully, then back down at his own drab attire.
‘I’d like to try’, he says. His voice is still quiet, but there’s steel in it now.
. . . . . .
‘Ok. Fine. Ok’. Martin hears Jon muttering to themselves from within the changing cubicle. ‘I’m ready to come out’, they call, ‘just don't say anything’.
‘Aw come on boss, you’ve got to let us hype you up!’ Tim replies. He’s reclined on the squashy couch nearby, his shirt unbuttoned even further than earlier. Sasha leans on the armrest.
‘I didn’t mean that, I just -’ Jon pulls aside the curtain and steps out. ‘Er… well.’
Jon is absolutely covered in tattoos.
‘Tim, not only is this top cropped. It’s mesh. This cannot possibly count as clothing.’ The sheer fabric does nothing to conceal the ink flowing across Jon’s skin. Starting at their collarbone, delicate script wraps around their shoulder and transforms into jagged tree branches. Martin feels as if his brain is breaking as it refuses to produce a single coherent thought besides ‘Fuck they’re so pretty, help, oh no’ over and over like a broken record. He traces the ink’s path down the smooth planes of Jon’s torso, feeling himself go slightly feral at the sight of his boss’ exposed hip bones, at the faint trail of hair disappearing into - he cuts off that train of thought. He snaps his eyes back up to Jon’s face, which doesn’t help matters because Jon is, as always, so, so beautiful. Pulling their bottom lip between their teeth, Jon stands with their arms crossed their chest. ‘Well?’ they snap, all scowls and cheekbones. Martin knows Jon well enough now to realise the prickly attitude is a front to hide their anxiety.
‘You look’, he stammers, ‘I mean, it looks cool. Very cool’. Jon raises an eyebrow scathingly. Martin tries and fails not to be turned on by it.
‘Damn Sims’ Tim whistles.
‘I didn’t know you liked tattoos,’ Sasha says. ‘They’re stunning.’
‘Thank you’. Martin could swear Jon is blushing faintly.
‘When did you get all the ink?’ Tim asks, moving forward to inspect the tattoos in closer detail.
Martin feels jealousy flare through him as Tim strokes a hand down Jon’s arm, admiring the way the artwork contours to the curves and hard lines of their body. Martin muscles through the emotion and clears his throat. The others glance up at him expectantly. Tim’s look of confusion turns worryingly smug when he has nothing to say. Oh god. If Tim were to ever find out - or even suspect - about Martin’s big dumb gay crush he’d never hear the end of it.
‘I -uhm,’ Jon begins. ‘I got them somewhat out of spite but I’ve grown quite fond of how they look. Makes my body feel more mine, being able to decorate it.’
‘You got them out of spite?’ Sasha repeats back.
‘Well, not exactly. At the peak of my modelling career, if you want to call it that, I discovered some rather disturbing things about the agency I was signed to. I wanted to leave,’ Jon explains, ‘but at that point they pretty much owned me. I started getting tattoos, in breach of my contract, to see if they would let me go early. Eventually…’ they trail off, ‘they did’.
‘That’s fucked’ Tim says. Jon chuckles, the sound hollow.
‘Yes. I suppose it is.’
‘There’s no pressure to tell us if you’re uncomfortable but,’ Sasha says, ‘what kind of disturbing things? I wouldn’t have been so encouraging about Paris if I’d known.’
‘I was trying not to think about it if I’m honest,’ Jon grimaces. ‘But you all deserve to know. Just in case.’
‘In case of what?’
‘What happened, back then, I’d never been able to explain it. Not until I started working at the Institute, started reading statements.
‘Please don’t tell me you had an encounter with some sort of terrifying fashion monster’ Tim groans. Jon’s silent response is deafening. ‘Well, that’s just great!’
‘I’m sorry. I should’ve warned you all about what we might find over there.’
‘Yeah, you should’ve,’ Martin says evenly. ‘But that’s in the past now.’
‘Thank you’ Jon says. Martin doesn’t know what he’s being thanked for but doesn’t ask. Maybe it’s for not being as angry as Jon had expected him to be, or maybe it’s just for being there.
‘We should find somewhere more private to talk about this’ Sasha puts forward.
‘What about the pub down the road’
‘I said quiet’
‘Pub would be good,’ Jon says. ‘I might need a drink to get through this’.
‘What if someone hears?’
‘They’ll just assume we’ve had one too many’.
‘It’s barely 3 pm!’ Sasha looks at Martin pleadingly, expecting him to be the sensible one. Unfortunately for her, Martin is not feeling very sensible.
‘When has that ever stopped the British from getting sloshed before?’ he says. Tim claps him on the back, ‘It’s decided then. To the King's Head !’
Sasha and Tim pay for their clothes and say a quick goodbye to Sandy.
‘You should get the vest’ Jon says to Martin, while waiting for the others. ‘It looked good’. It’s a casual compliment, but Martin freezes, unsure how to respond. He has a sneaky look at the price tag but, realising it’s way out of his budget, puts it back on a rack of woollen items.
‘Thanks but, I didn’t really like it on me. Not that that’s surprising’ he says reflexively. Jon frowns,
‘There’s no need to be so self-deprecating all the time’.
‘I’m not , well I was but it was just a joke Jon.’ Maybe it makes him a hypocrite, seeming as he’s always encouraging others to open up, but Martin’s not willing to start a conversation about his issues. ‘Are you getting the top you tried on?’ he says, moving the topic away from himself. Jon, though still frowning slightly, humours him.
‘It’s stylish, certainly, but not particularly practical. I get cold.’ Martin glances down and, sure enough, Jon’s arms are covered in goosebumps.
‘Oh, here. You know I always run hot’, he tugs off his jumper and hands it to Jon. They stare at the grey knit for a moment before putting it on.
‘Thank you’.
‘Don’t mention it’ Martin says, struggling to focus due to the entirely too adorable image of Jon wearing his clothing. While he’d felt a second of self-consciousness, seeing how the jumper swallowed Jon’s much tinier frame, the feeling was swiftly forced out of his mind by just how soft they look. It could almost pass as a dress with how long it is on them, and the sleeves hang down way past their hands. They scrunch up the fabric a little, so their fingers are just able to peek out the bottom.
‘It’s very cosy’ they smile, guarded but genuine.
Martin just nods and tries to hold his heart in place.
. . . . . .
The King’s Head is a traditional British pub like every other - a squat, brick building with sticky carpets. Inside is dimly lit, with a few patrons scattered about nursing their afternoon beers. The archival crew cram themselves into a corner booth, Tim and Sasha on one side of the table, Jon and Martin on the other.
‘I’ll go get us drinks’ Jon offers. ‘What does everyone want?’
‘Gin and lemonade please’ Sasha says at the same time Tim says,
‘Shots!’.
‘Don’t be ridiculous’, Jon chuckles.
‘Fine,’ Tim drawls, pretending to be annoyed, ‘I’ll make do with a JD and coke’.
‘And you, Martin?’
‘Oh… um. Any kind of lager. That’d be great, thanks’.
‘No problem. I’ll be back in a bit’ Jon says, heading over to the bar.
‘I can help you carry them’, Sasha stands up to join.
Tim turns to Martin the moment the others are out of earshot,
‘You both seem to be getting close recently’.
‘Not really’ Martin mumbles.
‘If I didn’t know you, and your atrocious taste in men, I’d say it’s impossible but -’
‘ - Please, Tim,’ Martin begs, burying his face in his hands.
‘You like him,’ he smirks. There’s no point in denying it. It’ll only make Tim try harder to get a confession out of him. Martin lets out a defeated sigh.
‘How obvious am I?’
‘Very,’ Tim says, shaking his head. ‘You were literally stunned speechless by the sight of that man in a crop top and then proceeded to give him the clothes off your back.’
‘Alright, alright.’ Martin hisses, ‘I get it. What about you and Sasha though?’
‘What about us?’ Tim’s grin falters momentarily.
‘You can’t seriously expect me to believe you haven’t - I mean, you’re both obviously into each other’.
Tim’s gaze darts over to the bar. Sasha is laughing at something Jon must’ve said, the sound snorty and endlessly endearing.
‘We have,’ Tim says quietly. ‘That’s what you were asking right? If we’d slept together’. His tone is sharp.
‘No, sorry. I shouldn't have pried -’
‘It’s fine,’ Tim stares down at the table. ‘After our ‘ill-advised hook-up’, he puts the phrase in finger quotes, ‘Sasha assured me it would never happen again. That it was a drunken mistake and we work better as friends. So that’s all we are. Friends.’
‘I’m sorry’ Martin repeats. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the other two returning to their table.
‘From one pathetically pining mess to another,’ Tim says, the charming facade snapping back into place, ‘we’ll get through this’.
‘Get through what?’ Sasha asks, sliding back into her seat and passing Tim his drink.
‘Whatever it is Jon’s so worried about in Paris’, he lies smoothly.
‘Ah, yes’. Jon scoots in close to Martin. ‘I guess we should get down to business’. Before anyone has a chance to respond, Jon downs half their drink. Martin watches their throat bob as they swallow. Taking one last gulp, they set down their glass and grimace at the liquor’s aftertaste. ‘I’ve seen a familiar name popping up in the statements recently. Jared Hopworth’ They wait for the information to sink in.
‘As in, the Boneturner ?’ Sasha says, eyes wide.
‘It seems likely. There’s too much overlap for it to all be coincidence’.
‘When was this?’ Martin asks gently, horror flooding through him at the implications of that name alone.
‘Mid-2008. I was 20 at the time and had just signed with a new agency, Prévoyant. Hopworth was the director. I only met with him a couple times but he assured me that if I put in the effort, he could secure me the kinds of opportunities every model dreams of.’ Jon pauses, taking a shaky breath. ‘He was true to his word. I followed his instructions, most of which pertained to my body and how I could alter it, and the offers poured in. I was miserable, yes, but successful. Then the dreams started. Every night in my sleep I was transported to a grotesque garden full of these people-plant things. I’d wander through the curling, cascading intricacies of collagen and marrow, trying to block out their moans of agony, until I collapsed on the ground in exhaustion. The gore-streaked blooms would tower over me, dripping blood and bitter sweat onto my crawling skin. Then I’d wake up’.
Martin feels like he might be sick, but doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t think he could even if he wanted to. Jon’s storytelling holds him hostage.
‘I didn’t tell anyone, not until Marina confided in me about having the same nightmares. Marina was a fellow model at the agency and the closest thing I had to a friend back then. I wish… I wish I’d been more there for her.’ He rubs a hand across his face, expression heavy with grief.
‘For all the praise Marina got for her looks, it sometimes seemed like she wanted nothing more than to destroy her body. At fittings I’d catch her staring at the mirror, her gaze locked on her shoulders, moving them slowly up and down with a look of disgust on her face. She started staying late at the agency, way past the time the building was supposed to be closed. We lived in the same model apartment but I barely saw her anymore. When I asked what was going on she snapped that it was none of my business, that Jared was helping her with something. Everyone knows the impact being part of the fashion world can have on your self-esteem but still, I was worried for her. It was this worry, and maybe my own godforsaken curiosity that had me hiding in a toilet stall at the agency, waiting for everyone to leave. It was dark outside when I slipped from my hiding spot and began scouring the building for any sign of Marina. Eventually, I heard noise coming from one of the large, dance-studio-like rooms on the first floor. Tall-ceilinged and covered with mirrors, those rooms were where we’d practice our walks or any more elaborate staging before a show. The sounds coming from inside, I couldn’t tell if they were in pleasure or pain. Strange, guttural howls and sighs. Swallowing down my fear I stepped inside.
The thing inside was not Marina. Marina only had two arms. Marina had legs. And Marina had a head. The thing that strutted and posed in front of the mirror was nothing like Marina, though its flesh looked human enough. It did have a smile though, stitched… right in the centre of its torso. It swivelled to face me and I just stood there, frozen, helpless as it approached. Up close, it was more horrific than anything my imagination could conjure, distended and jagged. With one of those many, mangled hands it softly cupped my cheek and I realised my face was wet with tears. It spoke then, told me we could be friends again if only I tried a little harder to achieve the ‘perfect’ body.
The scraping rasp of its voice snapped me out of my stunned state and I lunged for the doors. I sprinted down corridors, that thing never far behind me. I can’t remember what it looked like in detail, just a confusion of limbs and joints and muscles, but the happy, joyful way it called to me stays burned into my memory. It promised me that the pain was worth it. I hate that part of me wanted to listen.
Nevertheless, I kept going. Desperately searching for an exit, every door I tried refused to open. I knew I couldn’t run for much longer, my breath like shards of glass in my lungs. And then there were actual shards of glass everywhere… because I'd jumped through a window.
For a moment, I felt weightless. Then gravity claimed me and I sank like a stone dropped into an icy, black lake. I lay there for what felt like forever, wondering if the monster was going to come and finish me off, but eventually I was lucid enough to remember my phone in my pocket and call an ambulance. The hospital staff didn’t quite believe me when I told them I somehow tripped from the first floor of a building but asserted that I was remarkably fortunate to escape with my spine undamaged. I did however break my leg and two ribs.
My bones healed with time, my mental state, less so. Overnight, I began sabotaging my painstakingly-built career in whatever capacity I could to escape my contract. I was late to each and every shoot, rude to any casting director Jared threw my way and flagrantly ignored the industry-standard rules around tattoos and piercing. In the end, they had no choice but to drop me. I moved back to England, went to university and never looked back. Until now I guess’.
The others continue to stare in silence, as if in a trance. Tim is the first to break out of it, clapping a hand onto Jon’s shoulder.
‘Well. That’s mega-spooky’.
Martin nods, tracing a finger around the rim of his pint glass.
‘Can we all agree,’ Sasha asks, ‘that at first sight of anything , as Tim put so eloquently, mega-spooky, we leave Paris immediately? That is, if you still want to go Jon.’
‘I do’, they say. ‘For so long I’ve tried to pretend none of this stuff even exists, let alone happened to me. I need to finally move on’.
‘ Oui, oui’ Tim says sagely, knocking back a swig of whisky and cola.
‘Then let’s do this’, Martin pushes aside his own worry and squeezes Jon’s hand. Jon squeezes back.
Chapter 4
Notes:
Sorry for any fashion world and Parisian inaccuracies!
This chapter explores Jon's food/weight struggles and internalised acephobia in heavier detail so please be careful. This fic shows Jon starting to heal and being supported by those around them but I would say to err on the side of caution and not read if ED content is a trigger for you.
Also, I use he/they pronouns for Jon’s POV as in my headcanon that’s how they think about themself :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It would be an honest assessment to say that very little work was done in the archives the week before they were set to leave for Paris. With anticipation making time crawl agonisingly slowly, Jon had packed and repacked his suitcase over and over until, finally, it was the morning of travel. It had still been dark out when they all met up at St.Pancras ready to board the Eurostar and, according to Google, the entire train journey would take just over two hours. Then Paris. Jon still can’t quite believe it’s happening.
‘I thought we’d be able to see fish’ Tim pouts, staring out the window at the grey concrete whizzing by. Sasha gives him a concerned look,
‘Please tell me you’re joking’.
‘Afraid not’, he sighs, reclining back in his seat and sticking his long legs out under the table.
‘The education system is failing us’ she shakes her head. ‘How the hell you have a first from Cambridge will forever be a mystery’. In favour of a witty retort, he sticks out his tongue. ‘Ugh, you think you’re so cute’. Sasha swats at him with her book, unable to fully hide the fond smile curving the corners of her mouth.
‘And so do you,’ Tim flutters his eyelashes, ‘though you loathe to admit it’.
‘I swear to god I will find a way to eject you from this train into the icy waters of the Channel’
‘At least then I might see some fish, right?’ he nudges Martin, who shrugs.
‘I’m on Tim’s side. I also thought there’d be fish, like the tunnel in the London Aquarium’.
‘Martin?!’ Sasha says scandalised, clutching her book of useful French phrases to her chest.
Tim smirks and grabs the book, flipping through and dangling it out of reach as she leans across in an attempt to snatch it back.
‘You’re making a scene’ Jon mutters, as the two of them almost tumble into the aisle.
‘But Boss, ‘All the world’s a stage!’, Tim gestures grandly, causing the heads of several other passengers to swivel in their direction at the commotion.
‘Please Tim. Sit down and stop quoting Shakespeare’.
‘Ugh fine,’ he settles with his head resting on Sasha’s shoulder. ‘I’m going to nap. Wake me up when we’re near’.
It’s not long before the concrete outside the window gives way to green and yellow countryside. Jon’s adrenaline climbs higher with every mile closer to the destination and it’s not long before the sinuous, metallic body of the train is pulling into the Gare du Nord . Like so much of Paris, the building is excessively beautiful. The ceiling is high and arched like a cathedral, the impression only furthered by the nine regal statues gracing the stone facade. As a rule, Jon hates transport terminals of any kind - the rushing and noise and bumping shoulders with strangers - but this once, he’s content to take it all in.
‘Uhh… so what’s first on the agenda?’, Martin falls into step beside him, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
‘Well,’ Jon squints at the itinerary sent to his email, ‘the representative from Balenciaga should be meeting us outside. They’ll take us for a brief meeting with the show director but after that we’ll have the rest of the day to ourselves.’
‘Wait, wait, wait - let's go back to the Balenciaga part of that statement’, Sasha says, eyes wide. ‘This is huge’.
‘Ah, yes. I guess so - I worked with them a fair bit towards the end of my career. Whoever’s running things these days must’ve found out about the Vogue retrospective and seen an opportunity for some nostalgia-bait publicity’.
Feeling not quite solid, Jon leads the others through the crowd and outside by the taxi ranks. Gazing around, the city is hazy with weak, winter sunshine and deja vu. Jon pictures himself a decade younger, a slight figure disappearing into the pale creams and golds of the street.
‘ Monsieur Sims ?’
Jon turns at the sound of their last name to be greeted by a tall man in an immaculately tailored woollen peacoat.
‘Er… that’s me I’m afraid’, Jon forces himself to make something approximating eye contact with the stylish stranger.
‘Why there is nothing to be afraid of!’ he replies. ‘For I am here to make sure your entire trip goes super, d’accord?’. He opens up the side door of a sleek black car, ‘Now in. In!’.
Jon bundles inside, ending up squished between a window and Martin, who surely must be overheating in a heavy knit cardigan. Their guide and driver, whose name they learn to be Maël, fiddles with the radio until classical music plays softly in the background. Jon is less surprised than they would’ve been previously to suddenly know the arrangement, Chopin’s Waltz No. 12 in F Minor, and lets the mellow piano wash over them as they look out at the endless elegance and grit that makes up modern Paris: the boulevards and verdant parks, the tourist traps and vibrant graffiti. Alternating between being stuck in traffic and creeping along narrow streets, the journey takes them through a mosaic of densely populated arrondissements, which spiral outwards from the steel-grey waters of the Seine.
At one point, Jon had known each neighbourhood’s distinctive personality - had hiked up Montmartre's steep, ivy-clad streets for the view, or been young and stupid in one of the Latin Quarter’s many raucous jazz bars. It reminds him partly why he’d put up with all the scrutiny and pressure for as long as he did - he’d loved this city, his ‘homebase’ throughout his career, and the person it sometimes allowed him to be.
‘Here we are’, Maël announces, turning the car off onto 16-18 rue Vaneau, ‘head office’. The building in question looms large, its many windows gazing down at the archival team as they are ushered hurriedly into the foyer. Jon admires the abundance of natural lighting and the minimally clean lines of the architecture. Their footsteps echo off the polished floor as Maël leads them through a labyrinth of stairs and corridors, before finally stopping outside an imposing set of double doors.
‘The director’s waiting. Now, I’m going to have to love you and leave you,’ he kisses the air either side of Jon’s face in goodbye. ‘And don’t worry about your luggage; we’ll have that checked into the hotel for you so you can get on with enjoying yourselves!’.
He disappears around a corner, leaving Jon with no choice but to knock on the scary doors.
‘Come in’, a crisp voice calls from inside and, with palms sweaty and mouth dry, they do.
The director is a seemingly ageless woman, with pristine silver hair cut just above her collarbone. At first glance, her outfit appears simple, even casual, but further investigation shows every article of clothing to be of the highest quality. She wears a slash-neck cashmere sweater tucked into structured dark-wash denim jeans. A squarish pair of Balenciaga glasses hang around her neck attached to a delicate silver chain.
She looks, and Jon makes this comparison with the uttermost respect, like if Gertrude Robinson decided to pursue fashion instead of paranormal conspiracy theories
‘Jonathan, good to see you,’ she shakes their hand firmly, ‘I believe you met with my predecessor’
‘Ah…er - yes,’ Jon stammers. ‘My last Balenciaga show was the Spring 2007 Ready-to-Wear’.
‘I’ve seen photos. You were ethereal’.
Jon’s whole face goes hot. ‘Thank you’, he responds with a nervous chuckle.
‘And these must be your compatriots,’ she nods at the others. ‘I’m sorry we don't have time for proper introductions as I have another engagement at 10 but I hope you savour every moment of this experience’.
‘We will’, Jon says, ‘And I’m sorry again for accepting your offer so last minute’.
‘Don’t be’, she says bluntly. She pauses to slightly adjust an artfully placed potted fern on her desk. ‘After a decade in obscurity, we had no reason to expect your return to the industry’.
‘Ah, yes well’, Jon laughs again despite being painfully aware that he’s laughing too much, ‘I’d hardly call it a return - yours is the only show I’m walking and then it’s back to the day job’.
‘Which is?’
‘Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London’.
‘Fascinating’ she says, while sounding wholly disinterested. ‘The rehearsal is 7 am sharp tomorrow so make sure you’re prepared. We’ll also be needing the clothing sizes of everyone in your party so that we can provide attire for the opening gala. Jon, we’ll need to take some more specific measurements for your runway look so if you could step next door quickly that’d be great. Then we can complete a detailed fitting at the rehearsal, ok?’
Glancing at the clock overhead, she plasters on a pristine smile. ‘Well, it was so nice meeting you all, and I hope to catch up again before the show.’ Realising they’re being dismissed, everyone starts uttering their thanks and goodbyes, before escaping out the door. Ploughing on through the ordeal, Jon signals to the others that he should go get measured and gingerly walks into the adjoining room. He’d always hated this part. Being aware of your body is, unfortunately, an inevitable part of modelling. He likes to think that the industry has improved somewhat since the early 2000s and the age of ‘heroin chic’ but is not so naive as to think that means people are no longer hurting themselves in pursuit of a beauty standard. Even before signing with Prévoyant, Jon had struggled with his weight. Since childhood, he’d been what adults called ‘picky’ or ‘fussy’, repulsed by the textures and smells of many foods. Having always been slightly scrawny and undernourished, things only got more complicated when he started travelling for work. Though he never went hungry on purpose, between the stress and undiagnosed ADHD, he was always forgetting to eat.
That’s how it started at least.
His agency, casting directors, magazines - all praised him for his unhealthy habits. And he’d craved that encouragement. On days when he was lightheaded and his stomach aching, it often felt like fuel enough.
Jon greets the tailor waiting inside and, pushing down the dread, steps onto a low stool placed in front of three angled mirrors.
‘Er… could you?’ the tailor mimes for Jon to take off their clothes. Keeping their eyes fixed rigidly on the floor and not on the reflective surfaces surrounding them, they comply. Once Jon is standing in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, the tailor approaches, measuring tape in hand. Jon forces himself to take a deep breath, another, as the stranger loops the tape around his waist, his hips, lies it flat against his breastbone. He used to be desensitized to all the nakedness; now he can't remember the last time he wasn't at least partially clothed. Most days he feels utterly detached from his body, the need to eat and drink and sleep nothing more than minor nuisances.
He’s thankful the tailor doesn’t say the measurements out loud, not wanting to know how the numbers compare to the ‘ideal’ he spent years chasing when he modelled. He can’t help but feel ashamed at his weakness, that after all this time he’s still hung up on something as trivial as his size.
It’s nonsensical, and when it comes to others he couldn’t care less. In fact, historically he has often been attracted to people in larger bodies. His mind flashes with the image of himself seated in Georgie’s lap, hands reverently caressing the rounded curve of her hip as he leaned down to kiss her.
He presses his fingers into his own bony hip and frowns.
If the tailor notices, he doesn’t mention it. The picture of professionalism, having jotted down the needed information, he thanks Jon warmly and shows him out the door. The others are outside, already discussing where to begin their sightseeing. Jon trails after them silently.
‘Right then lads! Who’s down for visiting Mona?’ Tim claps his hands together enthusiastically. Sasha laughs into the crook of his neck, and Jon watches the tips of Tim’s ears go pink.
‘As in Lisa?’
‘The one and only,’ he charms.
‘Sure, yeah. It’s not far right?’
Martin already has maps up on his phone.
Jon is overwhelmed.
‘Sorry to be a … um - buzzkill, I know I promised to be fun for the weekend,’ their words stumble out in an apologetic rush, ‘but I’m really not feeling up to massive crowds right now. You guys go ahead; I might just sit this one out’.
‘You ok?’
‘Yes, yes. Quite’, Jon realises he’s flapping his hands around anxiously so stuffs them in his pockets instead.
Martin looks unconvinced, a crinkle of worry appearing between his furrowed brows. Jon resists the urge to smooth it out with his fingers, wishing he could take the stress away too. He needs Martin to understand that his neurotic boss isn’t worth worrying about.
‘You know what, I wouldn’t mind doing something more chill,’ Martin says. ‘We can split up and meet back at the hotel later’.
‘Honestly,’ Jon tries his best to keep the edge of frustration out of his voice, ‘I don’t want you to waste your time here because of me’.
‘It won’t be a waste,’ he replies simply. The sun is catching in his hair, turning the soft messy curls to bronze. ‘Come on’.
Looking up at him, Jon searches for some ulterior motive written on the other man’s freckled face. Finding none, just Martin once more being inexplicably decent, they nod their agreement.
‘Ok then’.
‘Bakery then a nice park?’ Martin offers, scrolling around the maps app again. Jon smiles tiredly, placing a hand over the phone screen.
‘Sounds good. And don’t worry about that - I know a place’.
Though his infinitely expanding knowledge still horrifies him on an existential level, Jon can’t deny that having a perfectly working GPS in his brain, isn’t coming in useful.
After about twenty minutes of walking, Jon spots the pink and white striped awning of the Maison Mulot. He’d been inside the little upscale bakery once before, on his 19th birthday, with a couple of friends he’d met at castings and shows. They’d all cheered when he took a joyous bite of the Paris-Brest pastry they’d surprised him with, smearing praline-flavoured cream all over his chin.
He tries not to focus on the way the moment had soured when one of the girls had grabbed his hand and brought it to her chest - proclaiming that now he’d had the honour of touching the two best ‘Parisian breasts’ in the whole city. Everyone had laughed at the stupid pun and moved on, leaving Jon feeling freaked out and juvenile.
He had already suspected, at that point, that he did not experience sexual desire like the rest of his peers.
The casual way people discuss their sex lives often made his insides squirm, though he was careful not to show it for fear of being labelled a judgemental prude. He knew he wanted to be loved, to be held and - god, maybe to even touch someone else in that way - but the idea of it happening to himself made him feel nauseous. For a while, he'd tried to ignore it, but that only made dating feel dangerously close to self-harm. Even now that he’s come to terms with being asexual, he hates how his inability to be intimate in the ‘usual’ way can make the people he dates feel not good enough, like something is missing. Broken.
‘Which one do you want?’ Martin's voice jolts Jon out of the past. They’ve arrived at the front of the queue, a spread of exquisite breads and desserts spread out in front of them. ‘Jon?’
‘Errr… um,’ panicked, Jon scans the display case and chooses the first thing their eyes land on. ‘ Je veux prendre un pain aux raisins, s’il vous plaît’. Though they rarely indulge in it, Jon knows themself to have a major sweet tooth and as a kid would get in trouble for popping entire sugar cubes into their mouth whenever left unsupervised in the kitchen.
‘The Jardin du Luxembourg is nearby’, Jon informs Martin as they exit the shop, carrying two miniature cups of espresso and a pastries-filled paper bag. ‘We could find a bench or something and have our breakfast there?’
‘Ooh yeah, I was seeing pictures of the big fountain on Instagram - looks so pretty!’ Martin gushes, speeding up a little. Reflecting the other man’s goofy smile, Jon hurries to catch up. Martin usually seems so reserved within the archives, keeping his opinions hidden behind tepid cups of tea. Or maybe Jon simply wasn’t paying enough attention. He’s paying attention now.
‘I didn’t realise you had social media’ they say, in a weak attempt at small talk. Martin scoffs good-naturedly,
‘Well, yeah Grandad - most of us do’.
‘ Grandad,’ Jon splutters. ‘I’m hardly - I mean, we’re almost the same age!’
‘Exactly! Which is why I find it so hard to believe you’re not also chronically online. What do you do when you get home from work exhausted if not doomscroll?’
Jon feels himself flush, ‘I mean, I do have a Facebook account’. He shrugs and Martin has the audacity to giggle at the revelation.
‘You’re really not beating the geriatric allegations. My mum uses Facebook to harass nursing staff and share minion memes’. Martin sobers at the mention of his mum, a pinched expression crossing his face. He sighs, Anyways -’
‘ - I like to watch cat videos!’ Jon interrupts, not sure why he’s so keen to embarrass himself except that he can’t bear to see Martin’s smile fade to a thin line. ‘While technically my ex and I have joint custody of the Admiral - our cat, that is - I don’t get to visit as often as I’d like and I miss him so I watch clips of cats doing funny things. Or just cute things. Cat’s in general’, he trails off, staring at the floor. The wind kicks crunchy leaves around the pavement.
Martin bumps his shoulder into Jon’s, who looks up to see the other man’s grin back again in full force.
‘That’s adorable’.
Jon tries his best to muster a scowl, ‘I am not, nor have I ever been, ‘ adorable’’.
‘Okay, not true,’ Martin says with no further explanation. ‘Oh look! We’re here’.
The garden sprawls green around them as they stroll aimlessly down tree-lined promenades, with Martin stopping to take photos of just about every prettily geometric lawn and manicured hedge.
‘I know something you’ll like’, Jon says, tugging on Martin’s sleeve to lead him further into the park. ‘Here’, they announce with a flourish ‘ Das Karussell’. The merry-go-round sits at the centre of the shady clearing, a whimsical menagerie whirling beneath a green and golden canopy.
‘Why the German?’ Martin asks.
‘It’s a 1906 poem by Rainer Maria Rilke.
Martin glances at him sidelong, ‘I thought you didn’t like poetry’.
‘I don’t generally’, Jon mutters, ‘But you do’
‘Oh…’, his colleague seems slightly at a loss for words that Jon would think of him at all. ‘Well,’ he gathers himself, ‘I’m afraid my early 20th-century German poet knowledge isn’t up to scratch. I’ve never heard of it’.
‘He was Austrian actually,’ Jon says, the information popping into his head unbidden, ‘but ah - yes a rough translation of the last stanza would be:
And so it goes and hurries up to finish,
and turns and circles only without aim.
A red, a green, a grey sent gliding by,
a little profile, barely seen and gone -.
And every now and then a smile, turned hither,
enchanted, ravishing, and lavishing
upon this blind and breathless game.
It, um, rhymes in the original’.
‘That was… that was lovely Jon’ Martin says, oddly quiet. He swallows. ‘You know, I never really saw the appeal of carousels before’.
‘No? You - gone on any recently?’
‘What? No, I don’t think so. Not since I was a kid’.
They stand in silence for a moment, listening to children’s laughter as they float by on painted horses, elephants and lions.
‘I actually, uh,’ Jon chuckles, ‘there’s one at London Zoo - ugh, was one at London Zoo. Big old thing. Went quite fast, actually. Su-surprisingly thrilling.’
Martin lets out a burst of shocked laughter, ‘Seriously?!’
‘It was years back, before the Institute,’ Jon defends himself weakly. ‘I… I was in a weird place.’ He shrugs, ‘Had a good time, though!’
Martin’s eyes crinkle deeply at the corners with surprised delight, ‘You sure you don’t want to ride this one? I could speak to an attendant -’
‘- Yes, yes. Have your fun’.
‘Oh I will, don’t you worry. Cat videos and carousels - you’re truly quite the thrillseeker Sims’.
With some cajoling, Martin manages to convince Jon to take a selfie with him in front of the merry-go-round ‘for prosperity’. Positioned in front of the colourful blur, Martin bends his knees a little to get them both in frame. Jon, for once, does not bother to angle their face to hide the worst of the worm-scaring, too distracted by the novelty of Martin being so close that they can smell his cologne - sweet but woody.
‘Can I?’ he asks, motioning to sling an arm around Jon’s shoulders. Jon just nods, ignoring the way their heart rate skyrockets at the contact.
The resulting photo is a slightly out-of-focus mess. It’s instantly Jon’s favourite from recent years. He can’t remember the last time he was caught looking this happy, smiling wide enough to show teeth. The sky is a muddle of blue and grey behind them - the same hues as Martin’s eyes he notes -and both their noses are a little red from the cold. The carousel glows against the leafy background, poetry in motion.
Moment successfully captured, Martin suggests they eat breakfast before the coffee cools too much. They find two of the low-slung chairs that dot the park with a table in between.
‘Here’, Martin passes him the paper bag with his pastry inside, their fingers brushing. He mumbles a soft thanks, still feeling the ghost of Martin’s hand, and pulls out the pain aux raisin.
It smells heavenly. He eyes up the whorl of bread, filled with juicy raisins and sugary custard, and feels his stomach growl and sink simultaneously. Jon is a creature of habit, repeating the same meals over and over. He thought he just preferred things that way, but he’s starting to think there might be another element to it as well. He brings the pastry to his lips and takes a small bite; it dissolves, flaky and soft on his tongue.
Some part of his brain - the part he’d thought he’d ‘outgrown’ but maybe just got better at ignoring - starts calculating. With each tiny bite, the calculator in his brain thrashes about harder for control. It tallies up calories, lists the contents of everything he ate yesterday and reminds him of the water fasts he used to do before runways.
Martin notices their hesitation.
‘You ok?’
‘Fine’ Jon replies waspishly. They take another bite just to demonstrate just how fine they are. The food feels stuck in their throat and they hastily wash it down with scalding espresso. Black coffee - a familiar comfort and crutch, a substitute for energy gained through actual nutrition. Martin opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. He eats the rest of his breakfast looking more and more tortured with every minute that goes by with Jon taking bird-like mouthfuls and chewing until the pastry is mush.
‘Is it nerves?’ he asks eventually, trying and failing to appear casual.
Jon sighs, ‘Is what nerves?’
‘The reason you’re not hungry’.
Hot shame floods through him at having been caught struggling.
‘Yes. I - I always used to get like this before a show’. He decides to omit how it worsened as the years went on, the rules in his brain infiltrating every aspect of his life.
‘Would you like some distraction?’ Martin says tentatively, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. The nervous habit draws Jon’s attention to the other man’s mouth and he finds himself go hot for an altogether different reason. To his own mortification, the offer of ‘distraction’ conjures a mental image of his coworker’s lips pressed up against his own, warm and inviting.
Up until this point, the idea of kissing Martin had never crossed his mind. At least, not in any significant way. Sure, he thought him handsome and kind, but those are just objective truths. And he’d maybe, during a slow workday, briefly daydreamed of Martin's strong arms pinning him up against a bookshelf, but never had the urge to close the gap between them been so strong.
Processing this emotional whiplash, Jon realises he's been sat staring in silence for an unnerving amount of time.
‘I just meant that - you know me, can talk for England about everything and nothing if you let me,’ Martin hurries to clarify, probably assuming he’d said something offensive. ‘I was reading some facts about Paris on the way here, you probably know them all already… Stupid idea really. But yeah if you wanted I could -’
‘ - That would be nice Martin’, Jon says softly.
‘Ahh… um. Okay’. His face breaks open into an uncertain yet devastatingly handsome smile. ‘So, the Eiffel Tower was actually very unpopular when it was built and…’ Martin continues to talk as Jon eats. Focusing on the sound of the other man’s voice, and his haphazard biography of the city, Jon manages to push down the panic enough to finish the pastry. Unsurprisingly, it’s delicious.
‘Thank you, Martin’, they say.
‘Any time’, he replies.
Jon finds they almost believe him.
Notes:
Spot the MAG 164 and 165 quotes!
Things mentioned :D
Balenciaga head office - https://dtacc.com/projet/16-vaneau-balenciaga-16-18-rue-vaneau-7507-paris/Spring 2007 Ready-to-Wear - https://www.vogue.com/video/watch/balenciaga-spring-2007-rtw
Poem translation - https://www.andrew.cmu.edu/user/ujf/blog/carousel.html
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