Work Text:
Knock, knock, knock.
Martin had read during one of his Wikipedia deep dives that repetitive sounds are often used as a way to relax – to center one's self, a grounding agent in an otherwise vast and empty world.
*Knock, knock, knock.*
He'd also read that it could drive people insane. To his great misfortune, the latter seemed to be happening to him.
There were only so many laps around the coffeetable a man could pace, so many canned vegetables and old teabags a man could consume, before he questioned what brought him to this point in life.
He'd ask what brought him so low, but he'd never been high to begin with. Not on any ladder that mattered – social, corporate, academic.
He had gotten comfortable there at the bottom rung; taking care of his mother who wouldn't even look him in the eye, taking on odd jobs that would find any reason to pay just a few pounds less than promised, and of course having a nonexistant love life.
Even with his shiny new job, with its shiny new paycheck and shiny new benefits (that being, *any* benefits), he was still at the bottom.
Always too slow, too clumsy, too...Martin.
If he wasn't used to it, he'd go mad.
Knock, knock, knock.
Or maybe that ship had already sailed.
Why else would he have done what he did? Why else would he have gone back to that building, a place he *already* followed up on, and crawled into that basement?
Who was he kidding. He knew why.
All he could think of throughout his entire trip to Vittery's apartment was Jon's piercing gaze.
And the tiniest upturn of his lips. A smile, though anyone who didn't spend time with him would never know.
It was never directed at him, of course. That expression was always reserved for Sasha, or Tim, or the mug of earl grey Martin brought Jon every morning – but never him.
He so badly wanted it directed at him. He wanted it more than anything.
Knock, knock, knock.
He wondered if he'd ever see those lips again. He'd do anything to see them now, even if they were throwing daggers at him.
As Martin dozed off, he wondered what they tasted like. If they were sweet, or smokey. If they were soft or chapped.
He just hopes they don't taste like peaches.