Chapter Text
The birthday party seems to be a success. Martin's surrounded by people, flushed and smiling widely, animated. For that, Jon can hang on for a few more hours.
He's startled when Helen comes up to him, accompanied by one of the strangers they invited. "Do you have anywhere quiet for Mike to sit? He's a bit overloaded."
"There's the bedroom," Jon says. He doesn't much like the idea of some stranger in there, but Mike is so tense that even Jon can tell.
Anyway, Jon can relate. He can feel himself relaxing when the bedroom door closes behind them, the cut-off noise like a removal of physical pressure.
"Thanks," Mike says, a bit hoarse.
Jon shrugs. "Mind if I stay? I'll be quiet." He eyes the door with some guilt. But apart from this, nobody has needed him for the last two hours. Martin knows the flat like it's his own, by now, anyway.
Mike shrugs right back at him. He sits down on the floor and rummages in his bag, pulling out colorful squares of patterned paper. He puts one in front of himself and begins to fold. Jon finds himself staring as Mike works, the motions quick and practiced, hypnotizing.
Out of the paper, a shape emerges: Jon blinks and realizes it's some kind of winged animal - not a bird, it has four legs. It's purple. Mike sets the completed beast aside and picks up a green, diamond-patterned paper.
Mike makes four more winged animals before noticing Jon is looking at him. He tilts his head and offers him a piece of paper.
"I don't know how," Jon mumbles.
"I'll show you."
That sounds rather agreeable. Jon slides down to the floor and accepts a pink polka-dotted paper. He watches Mike's movements more closely, and Mike waits to see that he's following along before continuing. Five minutes later, Mike has another animal, and Jon has something decidedly wonky.
"What is it?" Jon asks. Then he cringes slightly. That was rude, wasn't it?
Mike doesn't seem to mind. "Pegasus."
Ah, that rather makes sense. Mike offers him another piece of paper, a navy one, and Jon takes it.
About two horses later, Mike asks, "Do you want to see how to make a triceratops?"
Jon nods. "Did you know there is a theory that triceratops skulls were the source of the gryphons myth?" Even as he says the words, he feels embarrassed with himself. Nobody cares about stupid trivia he's picked up on the internet.
To his surprise, Mike says, "Huh, I didn't know that. Why?" At which point, Jon has no choice but to whip out his phone and search out pictures of dinosaur skeletons, with a small foray into elephant skulls and cyclopes.
Mike is telling Jon about paper making when suddenly he stiffens and pulls out his phone. "Ah, crap," Mike says. "I have to go home. Early night."
Jon nods, and hopes he hadn't bored Mike too much. "Have a safe trip home."
Mike nods. "Really wish I could have stayed longer, but I have an appointment tomorrow, to get my diagnosis. WIsh me luck!" He drums on his thighs.
"Which diagnosis?" Jon says slowly.
"Autism," Mike says, casually, like it's nothing. "I mean, I've known I'm autistic for ages, but it's not like the NHS will just take my word for it."
Jon is glad he's sitting down. He feels dizzy. "How did you know?" The question is out of his mouth before he quite registers his intention to ask it.
"You know, the usual." At Jon's blank look, Mike elaborates: "Sensory processing issues, that feeling like everyone got handed a guide to humanity when they were teenagers except me, executive dysfunction. All that fun stuff."
Jon gives a wooden nod. He doesn't say anything else as he watches Mike make his farewells to the party guests, getting a solid hug from Martin on his way out.
While Jon is waiting for the database software to load, he looks into the diagnosis process for autistic people. Just out of idle curiosity.
As soon as the tab's loaded, he closes it, obscurely guilty. He doesn't need this. It's voyeuristic at best. What does it matter what the criteria for adult diagnosis are? He is clearly not autistic, and people can convince themselves they have anything after an hour on Google. He'd best get back to work.
After a solid minute of watching the progress bar be stuck on 99%, Jon re-opens the tab. He notices the software loaded ten minutes later, halfway through a questionnaire. He closes it, resolute that this will be the last time.
Later, he loses half an hour to reading about executive dysfunction, which he recognizes is somewhat ironic.
"I may need you to take my phone," Jon says as Martin enters his flat.
Martin is immediately alert. "What is it? Are you looking at comment sections again?"
Jon swallows. "Something like that."
Martin nods, sharp and decisive. "Alright. If you want to give me your phone, I'll keep it safe for you."
As he does, Jon has to swallow around a lump in his throat. What did he ever do to deserve Martin?
With his phone safely away, it's easy to feel free in his body, to let himself sprawl over the couch. Martin sits next to him, looking him over; looking, Jon realizes a second later, for signs of self harm. "It's not like that," he tells Martin.
"Okay," Martin says, sounding sceptic. He has his hands in his lap, palms up.
On a whim, Jon goes and swipes his cheek over those hands that have tended him again and again.
Martin blinks. "I love you." His voice only trembles a little. "Do you want... do you want your blanket?"
Deep pressure can trigger relaxation by activating the parasympathetic nervous system. The line springs to Jon's mind uncalled for, alongside a vivid memory of chewing on his pen as he read the article. He flinches.
Martin goes very still. "Jon? What's wrong?"
Jon freezes when he realizes he's rubbing aggressively at his temples, leaving scratches. He looks up at Martin and, heart pounding, says, "Would you hold me down?"
Martin looks at him with intense concentration. "Is that what you want?" Jon nods. "How do you want it?"
Jon deeply resents having to think right now, but at least if he's thinking about logistics he's not thinking about symptoms. "Just take my wrists. So I don't hurt myself without meaning to." The second sentence comes out as more of a mumble.
Martin seems to understand anyway. He grabs Jon's hands and holds them, tight and secure. Comforting.
Treatment by deep pressure is very popular among people on the autistic spectrum.
This time, Jon is ready for the flinch, and he controls it. Martin notices something's wrong anyway. "Jon, do you need me to let go?"
Jon shakes his head. "Keep holding me unless I ask to be let go. Or, uh, tap your foot with mine." Martin is fairly insistent about nonverbal signals, which makes sense, since Jon can't always use words.
Autism may be comorbid with selective mutism, a condition where the person cannot speak in certain situations.
Jon groans and shakes his head. "Can't my brain just stop already?"
Martin gives him a considering look. "I'm going to find something in my bag." He resituates them so he's holding both of Jon's wrists in one hand. With his newly freed hand, Martin rummages through his backpack, finally brandishing a tube of--
"Is that lotion?" Jon says.
"Yeah. Thought I'd put some on your hands."
Mystified, Jon says, "Be my guest."
"I can only hold one of your hands at a time like this. Do you want me to tie up the other one?"
Jon shakes his head. He's still not sure what Martin is trying to accomplish, but it seems harmless enough to try.
Martin starts by smoothing the lotion into the back of Jon's palm, moving in calming circles. He rubs each finger individually, the gentle friction making Jon shiver. Martin moves to rub his wrist, rotating Jon's palm carefully as he goes.
"Other hand?" Martin says, and that's when Jon realizes he can't move.
It's a familiar feeling. He closes his eyes to keep out the baffling array of shapes that were his flat just a moment ago. To move his hand into Martin's he needs to have a solid comprehension of hand, move and into, which at the moment he doesn't possess.
He does comprehend Martin, to his vast relief. He manages to nod when Martin asks if he can take Jon's hand. Martin's hand closing around his wrist feels like locking the door to his flat, like being able to breathe freely, watched only by friendly eyes. Jon allows himself to go liquid as Martin keeps hold of him.
For the next glorious, timeless eon, there are only Martin's hands on his, only Martin's voice murmuring reassurances which Jon doesn't quite parse.
He sinks halfway back to full consciousness when Martin says, "Let me know if you want to lie down."
Jon nods. He manages to raise the hand Martin isn't holding, and flap it a bit in the air. There's something itching in the back of his mind, like a mosquito he can almost hear buzzing, but it's far enough away that he can ignore it.
Martin understands him. "Shall I pick you up?" Jon nods. Martin scoops him up like he weighs nothing and holds Jon close all the way to the bed.
They're still on the bed, Jon insistently pushing his head into Martin's generous scritches, when Martin's phone rings. Martin stiffens and mutters, "Sorry, I'll turn it off."
"You can answer," Jon says. "I'm okay." He's more than okay, fitting correctly inside his own skin once more, drunk on touch and affection.
Martin gives him a doubting look. The phone rings again, and Martin grabs for it. "Hello?" His expression turns stony. "I don't go by that name anymore. My name is Martin Blackwood." He listens some more and tenses. "You're correct that that's my father's name." He closes his eyes, making agreeing noises, and finally says, "Alright. I'll be there." He hangs up and groans. "Fuck."
Jon, who gave him a little space during the call, scoots closer to indicate his availability for hugs. For clarity's sake, he also says, "I'm available for hugs," out loud.
For once, Martin takes him up on it without triple checking that it's okay. "That was my father's lawyer. My father's dead. They're reading out his will on Tuesday, and I should come."
Jon wraps his arms around Martin. "I'm sorry," he says, feeling small and inadequate.
Martin snorts. "I'm not. The bastard was dead to me since he left us."
That doesn't stop Martin from crying a few silent tears into Jon's shoulder, but neither of them mention it.
"Thank you so much for coming with me," Martin says for the fourth time since they set out. "I know you don't like to take time off."
Jon shrugs. "Maybe it'll get HR off my back about unused vacation days."
Martin gives him a worried look, which morphs into deviousness. "You know, in a month I should have some days off school and work. Maybe we could go somewhere."
"Oh?" Jon is both wary and intrigued. "What did you have in mind?"
"Dunno. Scotland? There's some lovely villages. Rustic."
Before Jon can speak his opinion on this, or even form it, the train reaches their station, and they hurry to the exit.
They make it to the lawyer's office with five minutes to spare. Martin walks briskly up the stairs, Jon following, and then down a nondescript carpeted hallway. The lawyer's office is easily distinguishable, with its bronze plaque on the door, and a receptionist motions them to the room where the meeting is to be held.
There's already someone in the room: a man, white, dark-haired and youngish, and a woman in a smart pinstripe skirt next to him. They turn to them, and with some confusion, the man says, "Are you the lawyer?"
"No," Martin says slowly. "I'm Martin Blackwood. I'm here for the reading of Roger Livingstone's will."
The man and the woman exchange a look. "What's your relationship to Mr. Livingstone?" she says.
Martin shrugs awkwardly. "He was my dad."
Silence falls on the room like a heavy blanket, except much less soothing and comfortable.
Then the man smiles. He has the same smile as Martin, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "Hi," he says. "I'm Toby. Livingstone. I guess... I'm your brother? Half brother?" The woman gives him an alarmed look. Toby doesn't seem to notice.
Martin smiles back, cautious but genuine. "Half brother, yeah. Lovely to meet you." It doesn't feel like a platitude.
Toby glances at the woman. "This is Angelica, my fiance."
"Right! Right. Pleased to meet you, as well. That's Jon, my boyfriend."
Angelica's smile seems a little strained, but she shakes both their hands.
The lawyers arrive. There's a bit of a ruckus as they set about ascertaining that Martin is the same person addressed in Livingstone's will; Martin, prepared for this eventuality, came armed with copies of his birth certificate and records of legal name change. Finally, everything is settled and the will can be read.
It's not a terribly long affair. Livingstone left half of his property to Martin, and the other half to Toby. It's a fair sum, and Martin's eyes widen as it's read out loud.
When they leave the office, Toby and Angelica accompany them. "I'd love to get to know you," Toby says. "I've always wanted a brother."
"Me too," Martin says, in a rush of breath; but his hand, clasped in Jon's, tightens hard for a minute.
On the train back, Martin sits across from Jon, rather than next to him. Jon tries to protest, but he can't hide that he's grateful to be given space. Today was a lot.
It was more for Martin, though. Martin needs him. Jon closes his eyes and furiously wishes he could, for once, act like an adult rather than a selfish child.
Martin's voice pierces through his thoughts, soft as it is. "Thanks again for coming with me. Um. Sorry, I can't seem to stop saying that."
Jon opens his eyes. "Of course. You don't need to be sorry. I wanted to be with you."
Martin gives him a tremulous smile. "Still. I don't want you to overextend yourself. I know my party took a lot out of you. You've been a bit withdrawn since. And I'm grateful, more than grateful, but you don't need to push yourself into bad places."
The decision comes to Jon already made: he will not tell Martin about this newfound issue. Martin has enough to be contending with, and given the least hint that something is bothering Jon, Martin will completely ignore his own issues to help. "I want to help, and I haven't offered anything beyond my abilities," Jon says. "You have other concerns. Let me sort out my own limits."
"Of course." Martin sags back into his seat. "Oh my God. He was so nice to me! I thought they'd yell at me just for showing up! Can you believe it?"
"I believe you deserve much more than basic manners," Jon says quietly, and listens as Martin lets out the assorted emotions the day brought with it.