The Weekend Arrangement

A Balm for All Your Hurts

The world is dim and calm- it's unbelievably quiet as Martin drifts up into consciousness. He's used to the noise of neighbours in his block of flats around him. The quotidien sounds of other people waking up and cooking, talking, fighting, fucking; all that humanity leaking through the thin walls. Sometimes it was the last tether he thought he had to other people before he drifted off into nothing. He's not sure if he could even name any of his neighbours; it's not like he would ever reach out to them, but knowing they were there was usually enough.

Today though, there are none of the impersonal and distant sounds of others; today there was only quiet, the warm press of a slender body moulded to him, and the gentle whisper of breath that was not his.

He wakes with an arm wrapped around Jon, and Martin spends a long time just looking at him. Jon is an incredibly handsome man; lanky and graceful even if sometimes nervous and fidgeting. The way his glossy, silver threaded hair falls across his face always makes Martin's fingers itch to brush it back so he can look into Jon's eyes- it's Jon's eyes that pull you in; deep brown with a ring of shocking green circling the pupils. When they fixed on him, he felt like the only thing in existence; held in place by their intensity. It sometimes felt to Martin like Jon could see all the way through him and could pull anything he wanted out of his head just by looking.

He doesn't think he's ever seen Jon this peaceful; his brow free of the deep lines of worry that seem to plague him constantly, his anxious energy stilled. It takes years off his face, rendering him even more beautiful, almost ethereal. Jon's head has come to rest in the hollow of Martin's shoulder and he looks so at ease, Martin tries not to shift while he admires him.

Even now, waking in this quiet bedroom with Jon's breath lightly skimming across his bare skin Martin still cannot truly believe this is happening. He cannot understand how someone like Jon could want him; and a part of him is already mourning the inevitable let down he's sure is lurking somewhere on the horizon.

For right now though, he has his arms full of the willowy archivist he has for so long yearned for, and he wants nothing more than to stay here in this fragile, perfect bubble forever. It dawns on him slowly that today is Sunday, and he'll have to go home tonight.

Tomorrow he'll have to school his features and stay his hands and pretend he and Jon are no more than colleagues. He'll have to pretend he doesn't know what Jon feels like twisting underneath him, pretend he doesn't know how Jon's voice begs for him in the dark. Martin swallows the lump in his throat, he can't bear to think about these things and how tenuous this whole situation is.

When in doubt; when the questions are too hard- make a cup of tea.

Jon is still deeply asleep, so Martin can slide his arm free without waking him, easing his head gently to the pillow. As much as he would like to see Jon's eyes flutter open and fix on him, as much as he wants to trace the sculptured contour of his cheek and kiss the mouth that is pliant and soft and slightly parted in slumber, he keeps rein on himself and leaves the bed. Everyone knows Jon doesn't sleep well. Martin will not be the one that denies him even a minute of additional rest. Jon's house is warm- incredibly so, a marked difference to his own draughty flat so he just grabs his flannels and heads to the kitchen.

As he pokes into cabinets to find the tea and mugs, he sees an array of completely unopened ingredients. Martin is a bit surprised; it looks as if Jon had stocked a bare pantry exclusively for his staying over, and he's elated to think about the plans Jon had made in expectation of their morning together. He's taken with the sudden wild notion of cooking breakfast. Something nice, simple but hearty- if nothing else, having breakfast prepared may stave off any lingering awkwardness.