Chapter Text
When Martin Blackwood is fifteen, he trips over a stray rock and drops his phone. At that precise moment, two things do and do not happen.
In one universe, Martin is quick enough to snatch it out of the air, bruising his knees in the process. He walks slower and misses his train. He also, because of both these things, calls his mother on his brand new cell phone to inform her he will be home late. His mother will smile faintly at his voice (and not his visage) and stay home to wait for him.
She will welcome him home with a strained voice and die a decade later, a footnote in history as The Archivist lies unconscious in a lone hospital bed.
In another universe, Martin hesitates. The phone breaks. His knees do not hurt. He will fret terribly and still miss his train; he does not call his mother. His mother will go out for a walk into the cold winter air.
Three weeks later, Karen Blackwood dies of pneumonia.
Martin Blackwood never knows his mother (did not) catch(es) pneumonia because of his (un)broken phone. Nor could he. This is for the best, as this knowledge would burden him terribly. Martin simply lives his life – whatever life it turns out to be.
(A butterfly flaps its wings.)
The orphanage is a strange place.
Martin barely remembers anything of these past few weeks. His mother is dead. She left a will. There was a funeral. There were few people and even fewer who would talk to him.
New clothes, black and drab. Rain on his cheeks. A shiver in his bones.
Other things must have happened as well, but Martin doesn’t know what they are. He’s only aware of the dull ache behind his ribs. The numbness of his fingers. The way colour seeps out from the world, little by little.
Martin gets placed in a group home. He is bullied from the get go; too fat, too clumsy, too kind, too everything. He manages. It is not as if he is used to having friends.
Time passes – days, maybe weeks. He spends his time on the upper bunk bed of the room that he shares with three others, hiding in the corner, closing his eyes until the day is over. Take a breath and count to ten. One, three, ten. Take a breath. Count again. One, three, ten. And again, and again, and again.
He will wither here, Martin knows. Now that his mother is gone there is no one in this world who knows him. No one that will miss him. No one that cares what he does or who he is.
He wonders if someone will remember his name if he dies.
Maybe it would be better if–
“Martin?”
He looks up, startled. A little bit of colour seeps back into the world.
It’s the matron of the place – Jawaya, Jawari, something like that. The woman looks surprisingly chipper for this Monday– Wednesday– for this morning. Her hijab is a cheerful blue.
“Yes?” His voice is rough from disuse.
“There are two gentlemen here to see you,” the woman continues, frank in a way Martin vaguely appreciates. “They’d like to get to know you. They might be able to give you a new home, if you would like that.”
Martin frowns. That sounds like – adoption? But who would want him? He’s fifteen years old. He does not have any illusions about the rate of teenage adoption. Still, Martin nods and obediently follows the woman.
Downstairs, in the special Guest Room, a man sits properly behind the matrons desk. Jawaria, the nameplate says. The man looks rich. A bureaucrat. Boring, if not for the way Marin shivers when the man’s eyes find his, piercing.
The man smiles. It is not unkind. “Lovely,” he says, and Martin feels a little flattered. His accent is very posh.
“Mr. Bouchard,” Jawaria greets him, then adds with a little confusion, “Mr. Lukas. This is Martin Blackwood. Martin, say hello.”
“Good ev– afternoon, I mean, good afternoon,” Martin squeaks, wringing his fingers. God, he fucked up already, and the other man hasn’t even introduced himself yet.
“Please, call me Elias,” the posh man says kindly, rising from his seat and offering his hand.
Martin steps forward on shaky legs and wipes his hand on his trousers before putting it into Elias’. The handshake is firm. Martin tries and succeeds in meeting Elias’ eyes. It feels like an accomplishment.
The older man’s gaze is so intense it almost fills the hollowness behind his ribs.
“Peter,” a new voice calls out cheerily. Martin startles, dropping his hand as Elias shakes his head fondly. There is another man in the room, leaning casually against the wall that Martin swears had been empty a minute ago.
If you ask Martin what kind of person Elias Bouchard would be married to, his first instinct would be to describe a picture perfect society wife. Jawaria had said gentlemen, though, so he had adjusted that image to a picture perfect society husband. Fair-haired, fair-skinned, a decade younger and dressed in a shiny suit with a sugar-sweet smile.
Not a broad, old, gruff-looking sailor who looks as uncomfortable to be here as Martin.
Peter does not offer his hand. Martin does not step forward. Instead, he studies the man, from his pale skin to the somewhat familiar bleakness of his jacket to the way the hollowness in his chest swells as they lock eyes.
Martin offers Peter a small smile. Peter studies him for a moment longer before he returns it with one of his own.
“He’s the most lonely child currently available,” Elias tells his – husband? – proudly. It’s said in an undertone Martin isn’t sure he is meant to overhear.
It’s such an unexpected remark that Martin feels himself frown. “Why do you say that?” he blurts out curiously, clamping his mouth shut immediately afterwards.
Elias turns to him and smiles widely. “Oh,” he remarks, and sounds almost gleeful, “you’ll do perfectly.”
Within the hour, Martin is seated in the backseat of a sleek back car, a single suitcase with whatever is left of his belongings tucked into the back.
He’s not sure this is the way things are supposed to go. Aren’t there forms he should sign? Checks his new guardians should go through? Shouldn’t someone be informed of this change of custody? The whole conversation had gone nothing like Martin had imagined an adoption process to go.
After Martin’s rude question Peter had stepped forward, nodded, and told Jawaria “We’ll take him.” Like a business proposal.
Jawaria had sputtered. “That’s not really how–”
“Martin is okay with it,” Elias had interrupted the woman politely, gaze lingering on Peter before shifting to Martin. “Aren’t you?”
Martin remembers the way the three adults turned to look at him. He’d bitten his lip, looking down, thoughts racing. I feel more alive than I’ve felt in weeks. I can feel my fingers again. Here are two people, two strange people, who look at me. Who see me. They even decided they like me as their son. There could be someone else besides me who knows my name. Isn’t that all that matters?
So, in the end, Martin didn’t have to think long. “Yeah,” he’d said, clearing his throat. “Yes. Please.”
Elias had drawn a strange little book and written a number down. He’d signed the paper, tore it off, then handed it to Jawaria with a polite smile.
And so it was done.
The car ride is silent. Martin feels this morning’s solitary feeling slowly seep back into his bones. It’s exhausting. Every time it starts to overwhelm him, Elias glances at him through the rearview mirror. And every time, unfailingly, Martin feels the numbness retreat.
On the contrary, Peter might have not been in the car at all for all the difference it makes.
The car pulls up into the sideway of the biggest houses Martin has ever seen. The garden is perfectly kept, so neat it is almost eerie. The windows gleam in the afternoon sun.
The house is silent as they enter. Martin’s hand on the suitcase trembles slightly. The door closes behind them with a dull thud.
Elias claps his hands, a smile on his face. “Martin,” he says and he seems genuine. “Welcome to your new home. I’m aware this experience might be overwhelming.”
A chilled hand touches his arm, and Martin shivers. When he looks at Peter, the man smiles vapidly.
“I would like to explain a few things before you get the chance to unpack,” Elias continues as Peter pulls his hand back. “First of all, you will have your own room in this house. Neither myself or Peter will enter it without your explicit permission – which does mean you’ll have to clean it yourself,” he adds light-heartedly.
Martin can’t help but return Elias’ smile with a wobbly one of his own.
“Secondly, as you might have deduced, Peter and I posses some material wealth,” to which Peter adds in a murmur, “you mean I do,” without any bite. Elias continues as if uninterrupted. “This means you’ll be financially well-taken care of. We expect you to finish your schooling in return.”
Martin nods.
“Lastly, as of this moment, you are still in possession of your own name. If at any point in our… relationship,” an undecipherable expression flickers over both men’s faces for a moment, “you wish to change that, you need only inform us.”
Martin freezes. It has not even occurred to him that he might be expected to change his name. To lose the last thing that connects him to his mother.
Elias is still talking. Peter is silent but for the occasional eye-roll. “Any other rules or expectations will be discussed later. We would like your input in those decisions and set clear, consistent boundaries while allowing independence.”
It sounds like he’s reading from a brochure, Martin thinks fleetingly, vaguely amused. These men – his new parents – do not seem like they know what they are doing.
But they seem determined to try.
The feeling of appreciation chokes him for a moment. They think he’s worth the effort. Think he’s worth something.
Martin shuts his eyes and tries not to cry.
The door closes behind him. Martin holds his breath and listens.
“You certainly seem to know a lot about adopting a teenager,” Peter says cheerfully, voice dull through the wood.
“When I set my mind to something, I don’t just succeed at it, Peter. I excel.”
“You might know the theory, but that’s not the same as practice, darling.”
A pause. Footsteps, slowly moving away.
“I’ll be his favourite soon enough,” Elias replies, voice fading.
Peter’s reply warps strangely through the corridor. Martin is used to listening to voices in the distance, deciphering whether or not it is safe to come out. Maybe that is why he’s able to catch the next words.
“You’ll not win your prize that easily.”
Martin turns and starts to unpack his things.
Living with Elias and Peter is… strange.
The two are different as night and day. For the first week the three of them stay home together, to acclimate and reaffirm his place in the family as Elias reprimands Peter when the man complains about clinginess two days in.
Peter turns out to be the fun dad.
He has the worst sense of risk-assessment that Martin has ever seen. The gruff sailor is up for anything as long as it does not involve too many people. Peter is the one who Martin can sit in comfortable silence with for hours when the world becomes too much. Once, when Martin feels so numb he can’t feel his toes, Peter even pulls him into his side. The embrace is inherently contradictory, numbness and comfort radiating from it at the same time.
It’s nice. It’s – effort.
His dad is also, unsurprisingly, the one who makes him laugh. Either through his sense of humour – mostly based around making fun of Elias – or through the fact that he doesn’t mind Martin’s increasingly weird suggestions of things to watch or do as Elias talks sternly on the phone two rooms over.
Martin learns a lot about sloths. There are still splatters of clay on the expensive rug in the living room. Peter and Martin decide it should stay that way.
Elias, on the other hand, is the serious father.
He’s all about open communication and healthy lifestyle choices – although his definition of ‘healthy’ makes no sense. Elias manages to get Martin to open up after he refuses the offer of a therapist. When his father sits down and asks something in that voice it difficult for Martin to not answer. Elias is the one Martin talks to about his mother, his childhood. His father says right words at the right moments, even though he often misses the emotion that should fill those words. Martin wonders if he’s studied psychology. He also wonders if Elias failed.
Still, the man tries.
Martin never fails to appreciate that both of them try.
Elias is also the practical one. He’s the one to take him shopping for clothes and furniture and books – lots and lots of books. Money is so far from an issue it might as well not even exist.
Sometimes, Martin thinks this is all a joke. That he’s just an experiment for these men, a thing to be played with until they get bored, then discarded without a fuss. You’ll not win your prize that easily resonates in his head when he’s alone at night, crying and sobbing and gasping, grief a monster in his chest that is far from defeated.
But the weeks go on, and the axe doesn’t fall.
Things change. Elias works even more than nine to five, though he makes an effort to be home for dinner at least three times during the workweek. Head of The Institute, whatever that may be.
Peter, on the other hand, disappears for weeks on a ship. Apparently he’s the captain.
Martin doesn’t mind being alone sometimes. His adoptive parents can be quite overbearing, and it’s not like his biological mother ever spend that much attention on him. In fact, the amount of privacy he gets is strangely calming.
His new school is pretty okay. Expensive, with excellent teachers and facilities and pupils who are too busy studying to think of bullying. Martin takes up boxing and revels in the outlet.
Elias seems satisfied. Peter is indifferent.
A few months pass.
The gaping hole his mother left behind is still there, but it is not quite as painful. The edges are dulled with Peter’s numbing comfort and familiar chill. It fills slowly with Elias’ eyes and words, gaining warmth as the days progress.
It is less weird than Martin expected, the two men both filling the role of parent in his life. He wonders if it has to do with the fact that they’re both male, that neither of them come anywhere near the mental slot of mother in his mind that is still pulsing with pain and loss. Martin never really had a father figure in his life; now, he has two.
He's not sure what exactly a father figure is supposed to do. His two new parents certainly have different takes on it.
Peter takes him on trips ranging from busy cities to nature’s solitary wonders. He explains, all the while, the beauty of solitude, to which he is really attached for some reason. Alone in a crowd, alone in the woods, alone alone alone.
Martin never really feels alone, not matter how unnaturally the fog follows them. He doesn’t mind the creeping isolation. It’s sort of comforting. Familiar.
His dad is there with him, after all, and he never disappears.
(Not really.)
Elias teaches him things. So many things. Psychology and body language and management styles for some reason – he is very opiniated about those. The most Martin understands about it is that it has something to do with colours. It’s nice to see his father being passionate. Elias takes a certain delight in teaching him, emphasising the importance of curiosity, knowledge, in observing others as if they are objects to be dissected.
Martin finds it rather charming. He likes learning new things. He likes listening to his father talk even more. He likes the pleased tilt to Elias’ voice whenever Martin asks a well-thought out question the most.
His parents are not quite normal. But that’s okay. They care for him, make time for him, and do the best they can.
Time flies by. Life settles into a routine. Martin slowly feels like himself again. The morning of his sixteenth birthday dawns brightly.
For dinner, as desert, he’s promised cake.
Before they even start the main course, his parents announce their divorce.
Even years later, the reason why is not quite clear. Martin’s best guess would be that the domesticity, the sense of normality, had become too much for them.
“I get the house, so Martin stays with me. Simple as that.” Elias sounds like he’s proposing a business deal as Martin’s world shatters.
“Alone in this awful place with only you and your books as company? He might get lonely.” Peter’s usually cheery voice is dark and low. “Or worse, bored. Martin can stay at the Tundra with me.”
“Please,” Elias’ voice is full of disdain, piercing eyes flaring, “don’t come to me with that horrible ship of yours. A boy his age needs to develop, socially and intellectually. The only thing he can learn on that wreckage of yours is seasickness,” the last word is drawn out into a sneer.
Martin’s knuckles are white from where he’s clutching the silverware. “You’re… getting divorced?” His voice sounds small, though not as small as Martin feels, all the broken pieces of his soul shining through.
He should’ve known. It was finally going well, both his dad and father treating him with actual affection. He had even started to make some friendly overtures at school. His room felt like his own safe place. And now…
Tears well up in his eyes.
“Oh.” Peter says, perfunctory.
“Oh.” Elias repeats blankly.
Martin turns around and flees. He slams the door of his room before either of his parents can catch up.
“Martin,” Elias says, knocking on the door and by God he actually sounds worried. Good acting, Martin thinks spitefully. “Can I come in?”
Martin does not answer. He’s not sure he can, silent sobs wrecking his body. It’s falling apart. It’s all falling apart.
“Martin,” Peter adds helplessly. There is real emotion in his voice even though he does not say anything else.
Something about it makes Martin nod in permission. The door opens the next moment, before Martin even remembers to verbalize it.
For all their insistence, the way his parents enter his room is strangely hesitant.
Martin forces himself to stop crying. Usually, that’s easy to do. He’s remarkably good at it, replacing sadness with numbness. To detach himself from whatever is happening like he’s merely an observer to his own life, distant and all-knowing.
Today, however, it won’t quite work.
“Martin.” Elias’ voice is soft, softer than Martin has ever heard him be. It only makes the urge to cry well up once more. It’s getting harder to keep still. Why would they do this, be like this, if they–
His bed dips. Two arms press around him, drawing him close. Martin moves with them easily, too easily, weakweakweak before he realize the arms lack their usual chill. Furthermore, unlike the usual half-hug, these arms encircle him completely.
Martin vaguely protests as he’s drawn into Elias’ lap like a fucking child even as he burrows his head into his father’s shoulder. A familiar chilled hand settles in the small of his back the next moment, another body pressing into his side as Peter moves closer.
Outside, a flock of birds passes their window, cawing loudly. The evening sun reaches in through his bedroom window and bathes the room in gentle light.
Martin doesn’t notice. The only things he’s aware of are the silent tears steaming down his cheeks; the hand stroking through his hair, softly; the chill from a calloused hand rubbing the small of his back.
Martin’s not sure when the last time was that he was touched like this. With care.
“Your father and I have been divorced six times,” Peter breaks the silence.
“Peter,” Elias snarls angrily as Martin stiffens.
“And,” his dad continues sternly, “we have also gotten remarried six times.”
Martin doesn’t know what to think. Was that meant to be comforting?
“What your dad means to say, Martin,” Elias picks up the conversation, the reproaching glare audible in his words, “is that…” He pauses for a moment, searching. It is weird, hearing his parents hesitate like this.
Like they’re human.
The hand in his hair is still moving. His back is still cold.
“Your dad and I have an unique relationship. We are both, ah, unique people with unique tastes and interests. This has resulted in,” Elias hesitates, “in a unusual relationship. With an unusual sense of what is normal and what is not.” Unseen to Martin, who has pressed his face tightly into Elias’ shoulders, the two adults are frantically exchanging increasingly panicked looks.
Martin stays silent. His toes are numb.
“It’s like a game,” Peter tells him, sounding like the words are being pulled out of his throat by force. “Part of a… thing. It’s…” He falls silent. His dad never uses a lot of words.
“No matter whether Peter and I are married or divorced, you are still our son, Martin,” Elias says resolutely. “You will always hold that place in our,” he clears his throat, “our family.”
Next to Martin, Peter shudders. The room feels colder.
“And we,” now even Elias sounds hesitant, “we care about you.”
A rustle of cloth. Martin feels the weight of Elias’ gaze leave him for just a moment.
“Peter,” Elias says dangerously, “place in the family. Reaffirming.”
For a moment it seems like the weight on the bed lessens, though the cold next to him does not. His dad shifts, releasing Martin, before Elias’ words make him lay an arm on Martin’s other shoulder again.
“We care about you, son,” Peter manages. He sounds strangled. Pained.
His fathers both act like they are held under gunpoint, simply because of Martin’s tears.
The absurdity of the situation is what finally stops the waterworks. “You both suck at emotions,” Martin mumbles, and sniffles. Hopes they hear the forgiveness in his words. Though he still doesn’t know what the fuck is actually going on.
(Martin can’t remember the last time he cried in an adult’s presence like this.)
His parents both exhale softly. Elias presses him a little closer. Peter rubs his arm.
“I’ll be gone for a good long while after this, darling,” Peter whispers.
“Shut up, Peter/dad,” Elias and Martin answer in tandem.
Martin lifts his head with a watery smile. Elias’ face is close. His gaze does not burn as it usually does and his eyes are wrinkled. Turning his head to look at his dad, Martin’s surprised to see that Peter’s lip is bleeding slightly.
Martin exhales slowly, shakily. “You’re both idiots,” he adds and pretends he’s not still on the verge of breaking down.
Both men stay with him until the now sixteen year old boy falls asleep.
It’s not a bad thing.
In the first two years of Martin living with his new parents, they divorce each other two more times. They remarry once. Apparently, the second divorce didn’t even go through before they’d made up.
Martin may have had a hand in that.
Eventually, the constant dread of being abandoned fades. It helps that both of his parents make sure to spend exactly as much time with him when they’re married as when they’re not. The only difference is the amount of venomous looks and passive-aggressiveness.
In the end, Martin just accepts it.
(Also, Elias finally convinces him to go see a therapist. The more Martin goes, the more thankful he is for that.)
After his junior year teacher asks Martin what he wants to be when he’s older, Martin lies awake in his bed. He wonders if he should study law. Maybe he could help his parents with their divorces. Delay them, maybe, so they’ll have made up before the papers even come through. Or he could study psychology. He’d write his master thesis on his parents’ marriage.
Suddenly, Martin realizes what exactly he’s thinking and discards those ideas immediately. He’ll stay the hell away from that rabbit hole, thank you very much.
Anyway.
As long as they care for him, they can be married or divorced all they like.
Martin’s usual I’m home is barely audible as he nibbles on the remains on his (whole-grain, yes, father) sandwich. His boxing teacher is sick, so he’s home early and looking forward to seeing his dad again. Peter has been at sea for the past six weeks.
Throwing his bag in the hallway, Martin opens the door to the living room with a smile.
And freezes.
He only sees flashes. Elias is wearing five inch heels. Martin would be impressed if he wasn’t too busy being mortified. His father’s pants are far too tight. Peter’s chest is bare, something he did not need to see. And is that– is that rope?
“Elias! You would keep an Eye out!”
“Don’t look at me! Your damn fog blinded me!”
Martin turns around and walks right back out.
Seventeen is surely old enough to drink he tells himself and heads straight to the liquor cabinet.
School becomes better.
His classmates are pretty okay. The teachers are helpful. Martin still deals with performance anxiety – and anxiety in general – but the school has a program to help with that. Therapy is… good. Not nice, but good.
He even makes friends. Eve and Huan are two classmates who also prefer to sit unobtrusively in the middle rows. They’re quiet, but kind. They’ve known each other since last year and when Eve smiles at Martin during lunchtime he finally dares to go sit with them.
His new friends show him memes. They like poetry as well. Eve is a gamer and far too obsessed with Dungeons & Dragons. Huan reads a lot of books and is really into chess. They both think it’s cool Martin boxes. They don’t mind that he fades into the background, sometimes.
Martin gets bullied exactly once.
The guy is, ironically, named Chad. Martin knows he’s insecure because of his father’s lack of affection and approval, though he’s not sure how exactly he knows that. It must be all the psychology books Elias makes him read.
Still, Chad’s daddy issues do not excuse the way he presses Martin up against the lockers one afternoon.
Chad spits in his face, snarling. “Heard your fathers were faggots, fatty. Is that why you’re in the special class?”
Martin thinks it’s quite appropriate to punch him in the face in response.
What is less appropriate is the way his father storms into the school thirty minutes later. He might seem calm, but his eyes are blazing and his mouth is a thin line, and Martin knows he is seething.
Elias disappears into the principal’s office. Fifteen minutes later, he reappears with a haughty look and escorts a baffled Martin out of the school for ice cream.
Martin receives an officially apology from the school the very next day. He’s not sure what they’re apologizing for, seeing that Martin is the only one who actually threw a punch.
Chad is never heard from again. The way dad smiles that night at dinner makes Martin wonder. The way Elias is looking at Peter in that moment makes Martin decide to leave well enough alone and go for a long, long walk.
The air is fresh in his face. It’s foggy that night, but it does not feel uncomfortable.
His fathers might not be entirely human.
It’s not a bad thing.
Huan is friends with Arthur. Arthur is really cute.
“Dad. Father.” He stumbles over the words, though not because of unfamiliarity. Both of his parents look at him inquisitively, even Peter.
Martin fidgets. Takes a breath. They accept you as you are, he reminds himself, the echo of his therapist’s words calming him down just enough. “I think I might be,” his voice raises an octave, “gay?” It comes out more of a question than a statement.
Elias opens his mouth, no doubt to go through some correct and well-worded response, but Peter beats him to it.
“Nice,” his dad compliments like he’s won a competition, and takes another bite.
Elias stares at Peter, then turns back to Martin. Something softens in his face. His lips twitch. “They say imitation is the highest form of flattery,” he deadpans.
Marin buries his face in his hands. “Father,” he groans, “that’s not what this is about!”
Peter just laughs.
His eighteenth birthday is nerve-wrecking.
He actually has a party. Of sorts. It’s Eva, Huan and him going to the local poetry slam. They make jokes, talk about words, and Huan even dares to get up on stage while Eva and Martin cheer him on.
They meet nice people. They don’t dance, but they do drink wine.
It’s like he’s just a normal guy. It feels amazing.
The morning after – a Saturday, God bless – Martin wakes with only the barest headache. Two glasses of water and a shower later he feels fine. The now eighteen year old hesitates on top of the stairs, the sounds of brunch being made coming from downstairs. It re-awakens the nerves he managed to bury the night before.
Martin knows that he’s now legally an adult.
This means his parents are not actually obliged to… have him in their home anymore.
Confront it, he thinks in his therapist’s voice, even though he finished therapy months ago.
Martin walks downstairs, trying to look as casual as possible. His parents sit at the kitchen table with an elaborate serving of breakfast before them. “Happy birthday!” they chorus, Elias cheerfully and Peter trailing off halfway through. It’s the first time Martin lays eyes on the captain for weeks.
“I’m glad you had such a good time yesterday,” Elias chats as Martin smiles – still a little hungover – and takes a seat at the table. He’s actually not that hungry. “Huan’s poetry is very good. And did you know those nights are a regular thing? Every last Friday of the month, if you really liked it.”
“Thanks, father,” Martin says, both used to Elias being overbearing and knowing things he really shouldn’t.
“We have presents,” Peter adds casually.
Elias presents his before Peter’s finished talking with a smirk thrown towards his husband.
They got re-married two months ago. Martin was the only witness and thoroughly unimpressed with the whole ordeal. He suspects it was purely for his birthday, as Peter disappeared two weeks afterwards and hadn’t returned until today.
Shaking his head as he accepts his father’s present, Martin smiles slightly. He carefully tears away the paper to reveal a beautiful notebook. It’s clearly expensive. It’s also custom made – on the left bottom corner are the letters “EB. PL. MB.” in cursive. It comes with a matching pen and a lock.
“For your poetry,” his father adds, and Matin cannot help the swell of affection in his chest. Fuck it, he decides, and raises from his chair to give Elias a hug.
Elias pats him gracefully on the back, seemingly at ease with the contact, but he doesn’t fool Martin. “Thank you.”
Martin releases his father. When Peter stays silent, Martin turns towards him with a raised eyebrow, expectant.
“Oh, ho, demanding!” Peter jokes. “Just like your father. Elias, how could you corrupt our darling son so?”
Elias raises an matching eyebrow. The two expressions look uncannily alike. Peter can’t help but snort.
“Okay, okay. Well, Martin, my gift is not physical, but it is a miracle. You see, I finally convinced Elias to let you visit the Tundra. And, if you like it – and nothing goes wrong,” Peter adds under his breath like a complaint before brightening once more, “you can even sail with us for a week. If you’d like!”
Martin’s face breaks out into an enormous grin. Not just because of the present – although he’s been dying with curiosity about both his parents’ work by this point – but mostly because of the fact this implies they’ll keep him.
He makes sure to focus on the ever-present crack of loneliness his mother left in him before engulfing his dad in a hug. Peter’s eyes widen in surprise. He accepts it with only a token protest.
The rest of breakfast is nice, though there is still an undercurrent of something.
As dinner goes on, Martin’s earlier thoughts return.
Maybe they’re kicking him out after all. After all, a week on the Tundra is something he doesn’t need to stay in this home for. They’ll probably help him with finding a new place as well. They’re nice like that. They’ll visit. Weekly, at first. Then monthly. Then it will be busy at work, or at sea, or the next divorce would actually have them fighting. And then they’ll forget to visit, but promise to come by next week, but only without the other, and then it’ll be next month, next year…
The last bite of pancake is like swallowing lead.
“So, Martin,” Elias asks intently. “Before we start the rest of the day, Peter and I have something to ask you.”
Peter leans forward, eyes trained on Martin, present in a way he rarely is.
The world around them seems to fall silent.
Martin swallows. Here it goes. He’s thought about it. They have enough money, and if the pattern continues, they won’t mind spending it on him. He can handle it. It’ll be okay.
(He can’t. It’s not.)
Where would you like your new apartment to be, they will ask. Or maybe more generic, where do you want to live now. Or maybe it’s even a simple it’s time for you to leave this house.
But no. Elias said it was a question, and Elias never lied. Not like that. Martin takes a breath. Gathers all his courage.
The air is thick with anticipation. Elias and Peter have both stopped eating, leaning towards Martin, all their attention on him. It presses on his shoulders, unnaturally heavy.
“Martin,” Elias begins carefully and Martin opens his mouth at the same time.
“Who is your favourite parent?”
“I’d like to stay somewhere in London, please.”
The two sentences overlap. The room is silent for a moment.
Martin slaps his hands in front of his mouth. His dads stare at him, uncomprehending.
“Huh?” Peter eventually manages.
Martin buries his face in his hands.
“You thought…” Elias begins slowly, understanding drawing in his eyes. “You thought we were going to kick you out. Because you’re eighteen, now.”
Martin presses his face further into his hands.
Peter frowns. “Is that even allowed?”
Elias nods absently, answering Peter out of reflex. “Legally, yes. But that’s not important. The important thing now is to–”
“Reaffirm his place in the family,” Peter mimics Elias’ familiar phrase, “yeah, yeah.” The long-suffering yet fond expression on Peter’s face makes Martin smile through the confusion and anxiety constricting his throat.
“I mean, we’ve spend years together, we won’t suddenly drop you.” Peter sounds bored. “You’re a part of this now,” he continues almost impatiently, then freezes at his own words. “You’re a part of us now,” he repeats blankly, staring at Elias.
Elias, for his part, shakes his head in disbelief. “We never actually discussed what would happen after the be– after Martin turned eighteen. We haven’t even stopped to think about the risks or the potential attachments. Even as time progressed and we clearly got more involved than we planned to. We’ve just not,” his voice raises just a little bit, “not thought about it. Beholding bless us.”
“Fucking idiots we are,” Peter agrees, placing himself between Elias and Martin and drawing them both close.
Martin is still not entirely sure what was happening. Decides, as he has so often done, that as long as his parents care for him, it doesn’t matter. He swallows, feeling a little nervous. In for a penny, in for a pound. One of them has to be the emotionally capable person in the family.
“For the record,” he starts, and feels both men turn their attention to him. “I love you both equally.” His throat is just a little dry. “Not gonna choose.”
There is a moment of silence before both of his parents hug him closely. They do not reply to his declaration.
They do not have to.
“Figures,” Peter mutters sullenly. Elias swats him on the head.
Martin decides that it is not a bad thing.
(His eighteenth birthday is amazing.)