#ananeiah

“D’you know,” Martin hums, holding his hand in front of his face, watching it fade in and out, “I don’t think I ever enjoyed what I could do. I mean-- erm, it was the whole point, I suppose. The Lonely isn’t really for enjoying yourself. But Peter did, somewhat. So I guess-- I can too?”

Jon is trying to stuff down the desperate urge to clasp Martin’s hands between his own, warm them, make sure they don’t fade out of sight again. At least it’s a welcome distraction from the thousand other worries slamming at his door.

“I suppose,” he concedes. “It’s,” he tries smiling. Martin’s always smiling, despite the situation. “It’s probably for the best, if you can appreciate the little things.” Jon doesn’t. But Martin is stronger than Jon, a lot of the time.

“Yeah,” Martin murmurs, then firmer, “yeah.” He stands. Jon stands, too, without really thinking about it. “I met a lady while shopping yesterday.”

Jon knows. Or, more accurately, Knows. He hadn’t wanted to watch Martin, when he went into town, but it was the first time. Martin’s safety was paramount. Martin, wandering on foot down the road, enjoying his aloneness for the first time in a long time. Breathing in the fresh air. Listening to old music saved on his phone, ages ago, humming to himself. (It’d been important for Jon to Know that. Both to ensure Martin was safe, and to revel in him.)

“You can Know almost anything, right?” Martin continues. “And it doesn’t, erm, hurt you?”

Jon blinks. “...yes.”

“Do you know what she-- wants? Most in the world?”

Jon knows what she’s scared of. This is always the first thing the Eye focuses on. She’s never been Marked, but she’d had a family member die young, so The End had the strongest claim. Yet behind all that-- the deliciousness of that-- Emily Abernathy is an ordinary woman with ordinary desires.

“Um,” Jon says. “A blueberry scone.” They stare at each other. Then Martin’s beaming, laughing. 

“Nothing else?” He says, half breathless, and Jon loves him. His cheeks are pink and his eyes are shining behind his glasses. “That’s it? A blueberry-- scone?”

“She’s in love with the woman who lives down the lane from her,” Jon adds. This is the Eye’s afterthought. It’s sad, is what it is. There’s so much good in the world it could do. If only that was what it cared for. “Oh! Oh. She’s the one who makes excellent blueberry scones.”

“That,” Martin says, “we can work with.” 

They get their chance the next afternoon. Jon’s not great at walking long distances, these days, but there’s a well-worn red bicycle that Martin brushes wildflowers off of, out back. He pops on, waits for Jon to loop arms around him and perch behind.

“Ready?” Martin asks. Jon buries his face between warm shoulderblades and nods. Then they’re off. They pull off at the beginning of a charming little road, and Martin squeezes Jon’s shoulder and says, “wait here.” 

Then he’s gone. Even the Eye can’t see The Lonely when it wants, apparently. But Jon can see the checkered basket that Martin brought along, a few freshly baked scones wrapped into it, once it’s deposited on Emily’s doorstep. Martin’s gone and stolen scones. Jon wants to laugh.

“She’ll think it’s the girl she likes,” Martin explains, breathlessly, when he returns. “Maybe it’ll make her, you know, do something?” He doesn’t sound sure. Martin almost never sounds sure, but that’s alright. Because Martin is a lot more devious than anyone would guess, he’s filched a scone for them too. He breaks it in half, letting out a soft ah when it crumbles onto his jumper. When he hands Jon half, Jon eats it for the sheer novelty, even though food is practically a foreign concept. The situation makes it taste good-- them, on this bike, matchmaking. Of all things.

Emily blushes, when she pulls back the checkered cloth and sees what’s within. She stares down the lane. Twists the fabric between her fingers. From afar, they watch, Jon’s arms wrapped around Martin’s middle, even though the bike isn’t moving. A breeze ruffles Martin’s hair, just as she takes her first bite, and Jon sighs. He shifts up to kiss the back of Martin’s neck, which is now pink. That’s good too.

They’re monsters, yes, but they’re also just men.

“I like this,” Martin says. Before them, Emily is now in her front garden, plucking cherry tomatoes off the vine. Jon doesn’t have to be an eldritch, all-knowing creature to figure out she’s going to “return” the favor. It’s going to be the start of something lovely.

“Me too,” Jon acknowledges. “We should-- we should do it again.”