#aspecarchivesweek

This is what Jon keeps telling himself as he miserably pulls on the last clean shirt left in his flat. He should know; he’s checked four times, and if he checks a fifth he’ll be late for work. He gives himself a glance in the small, dirty mirror stuck to the inside of his closet door, and looks away almost immediately, strangely embarrassed.

It’s just a long-sleeved, striped T-shirt, which is maybe a bit unprofessional for the workplace, but it’s not as though anybody minds how the people who work in the basement dress. The problem comes from its colors. Well, one of its colors. Three of them—black, grey, white—are perfectly suitable for Jon. But following those, at the bottom of the shirt, is a glaring, bright violet.

The shirt is a casualty of the aforementioned chaos of life. A friend of an acquaintance had given it to Jon to wear to a pride parade several years back, which he had ended up skipping out on anyway. Since then the shirt had been kept out of sight and mind, packed into the back of Jon’s closet for a rainy day that he’d never really expected to arrive.

There’s a first time for everything, Jon thinks, almost reflexively. The words don’t mean much to him, philosophically speaking, but they are a steadying mantra nonetheless. He goes to pull on his coat; by some measure of luck, it’s a cold day out. He plans not to take it off again until he’s safely back in his flat that night.

The trouble is, of course, that wearing one’s coat while making tea in the break room in an adequately-heated basement looks rather conspicuous to one’s coworkers, and leads to questions.

“You feeling alright, boss?” Tim asks, as he retrieves his bagged lunch from the fridge.

“Yes,” Jon says, stiffly. “Perfectly fine. I’m just cold.”

Sasha, who has followed Tim in, says, “Not sick, I hope.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Jon says again, though he is beginning to feel a bit overheated. “It’s just cold in here. You don’t feel cold?”

Tim and Sasha shake their heads, looking concerned.

“I’m fine,” Jon says for the third time in thirty seconds, and promptly flees the break room.

By late afternoon, Jon is sweltering, and has no choice but to take off the coat. He’s careful to close his office door before he does so, resolving to put it back on if he needs to be seen by anyone for the rest of the day.

Though the garish violet stripe in his periphery is distracting at first, he loses himself in his work soon enough, spending an hour or two tearing through a stack of statements that are, by and large, utter nonsense.

He loses himself in his work so much, in fact, that when there’s a knock at his office door, he says “Come in,” without thinking.

“Hey, Jon,” says Tim as he enters, “d’you have a copy of statement zero-one-three-two . . .”

Tim’s voice drifts off, and Jon looks up, irritated. “Zero-one-three-two-what?”

Tim’s staring at him, an eager expression on his face, and Jon’s stomach goes cold. He looks down at the shirt, remembering, and stops himself from groaning. If he doesn’t react, maybe Tim will leave it alone. “What number were you looking for, Tim?” he says instead, very calmly and professionally.

But of course it doesn’t work. Tim’s face breaks into a smile, and he gives Jon a big, showy once-over. Jon rolls his eyes even before the words are out of Tim’s mouth. “Looking good, boss.”

“Tim, I have even less patience for sarcasm than usual, so if you could please—”

“Who said anything about sarcasm? You look good! Casual, ah, Tuesday suits you, Jon.”

Jon puts his elbows up on his desk and massages his temples. “I ran out of laundry.”

“Ah, been there.” Tim seems to have taken Jon’s resignation as an invitation, because he helps himself to the chair opposite Jon’s desk. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the pride flag type, though. Don’t even think I’ve seen you with laptop stickers.”

“No,” Jon says, “I’m not. Not usually. This is just the only thing I had lying around. It’s from years ago, I never wear it.”

“Aw.” Tim genuinely looks disappointed. Jon wonders if perhaps he’s losing what remains of his tenuous ability to read people. “That’s a shame. You look good in purple.”

Jon has reached a point in his life, he’s fairly certain, where he ought to have heard such a comment before, or at least know the proper response. In actuality, he cannot recall a single instance of someone in his adult life complimenting his choice of fashion. He looks down at the shirt again. It’s the same as it was before: too-bright and obvious. He highly doubts it could look good on him in any shape or form. “Um. Thank you?” he says, sounding more bewildered than grateful.

“Really! It, like, brings out your eyes, or something. I dunno, but I think it’s nice on you. Not sure why you went through all the trouble to hide it all day.”

Jon shifts in his chair. “It’s . . . I mean, it’s very loud, isn’t it. And obvious. It’ll just attract attention.”

Tim looks at him for a moment or two. “Jon,” he says, “is this just about the shirt? Or is it also about the shirt?”

“That makes no sense, Tim.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jon, admittedly, does. One of the things he appreciates most about Tim is that they can be honest with one another, if only after some customary back-and-forth. He sighs deeply. “It’s—it’s just . . . a lot. I know it isn’t, really, in the grand scheme, it’s just you and Sasha, a-and Martin, too, I suppose. And it’s London, no one’s going to—it’s safe. I know that. B-But it’s a lot, being seen with everything—out in the open. By strangers. To know that they know. And even if they don’t know, they’ll . . . they’ll probably be able to guess.” He stares down at the scratched, cheap wood of his desk. Long ago, someone had carved a tiny pentagram on the lip of it. If Jon’s sense of humor weren’t buried under three layers of anxiety at the moment, he’d probably find it funny. “And I know it’s childish, to care what a bunch of strangers would think. But I can’t . . . I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t just let it go.”

There’s a painfully long pause before Tim speaks up again.

“Well, I’ve got good news for you, Jon.”

Jon looks up at him warily, and finds that Tim is smiling at him. “What?”

He points at Jon’s coat where it hangs off the back of his chair. “You can put that back on.”

Jon blinks at him.

“At five,” Tim goes on, “you can put your coat back on, button it up, and walk out of here, and when you get back to your flat, Jon, you can do your bloody laundry. And you never have to wear that shirt ever again. Problem solved.”

“But . . .” Jon’s voice peters out before he can come up with a real protest.

“If wearing pride colors makes you feel like that,” Tim says, his voice gentler, “then don’t wear them. Simple as that. Not everybody’s got to carry a flag twenty-four-seven. Or ever. Doesn’t make you any less queer. Hell, even I take the pins off my bag sometimes.” Tim squints into the middle distance, muttering, “I can never seem to get the laptop stickers off, though.”

“But—what about what you said about me wearing purple?” He’s grasping at straws, he knows, but Tim’s argument is quite good. And the thought of never wearing this particular shirt again does sound rather appealing.

“So wear an aubergine button-down every once in a while!” Tim shrugs. “Or don’t! It’s none of my business.” He tilts his head to the side. “Actually, please do wear an aubergine button-down sometime. You’d turn some heads down here.” He pauses. “Figuratively, I mean. I’m sure everyone would be very respectful.”

Jon lets out a startled laugh. “Alright,” he says, feeling lighter. He runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe, sometime, I’ll . . . I’ll try it.”

“I know you like your blacks and whites, Jon,” Tim says, “and I’m not here to tell you how to dress. But if you ever need advice, or want to borrow a colorful, strictly nondenominational shirt . . .” He points both thumbs at himself. “I’m your guy.”

“Okay,” Jon says, and is surprised to find that, in this one, specific case, he is.

“And,” Tim adds, pointing a professorial finger in the air, “it’s not childish to care about what other people think of you. Pretty sure it’s the most universal thing there is. Welcome to the human race, Jon. You’re among us peons, now.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “How unfortunate,” he says, drily, and Tim cackles.

Jon wears his coat home, keeping it carefully buttoned, and when he gets back to his flat he tosses the shirt into the back of his closet from whence it came. He’s not going to throw it away altogether, of course. It has sentimental value. Someday, maybe, he’ll dig it back up, if only just to look at.

Jon had set the precedent quickly, with Martin, on the first night they had been in Jon’s flat, pressed against a doorframe and exploring each other with gentle urgency. “I-ah, Martin,” he had broken away from Martin’s lips, eyes shining with a mix of adoration and anxiety. “I don’t think I’ve told you before, but I’m asexual. Just-uh, well. Thought you should know.”

Martin had nodded, eyes soft and full of understanding. “Okay. Do we have a boundary I should know?” The answer was yes: anything below the belt was strictly off limits, to give or to receive. And that was that. Martin was the perfect gentleman, checking in constantly whenever they were in the heat of a moment. The rule remained and was never crossed. Rules have labels and that label was: asexual.

 Except, it wasn’t that easy. God forbid anything was easy for Jon. Labels are nice and they’re helpful to the part of Jon that craves structure, order. He’d found his ace identity while dating Georgie, after she gently asked him what was up after his third gentlemanly refusal of her advances. He had stammered out that he liked her, but didn’t want sex, at all, and he didn’t want her to be upset with him. And of course she wasn’t, because she’s Georgie, and she helped him find the word asexual, that glorious, blessed word that made so many frustrations and doubts slot into place.

Their romance didn’t end because of his aceness, far from it in fact. In fact, honestly, they were probably together as long as they were because their friendship was the strongest part of their relationship. But god, they were too similar to be in love. They were both too stubborn, too determined, unable to reach compromise when it came to the silliest things like movie nights (Jon found Georgie’s Lord of the Rings box set far too long and far too pretentious for his taste) or how their cupboards should be arranged. Their relationship was something they could win, and they were both determined to be the victor.

In the end, they both lost.

--

While Jon and Georgie had been a couple first, friends second, he and Martin had a foundation. There was friendship, shared trauma, a love that surpassed romantic and dug into something deeper. When they’re in bed and the dark is warm and heavy, limbs intertwined, Jon is reminded of the Greek myth of soulmates: a four armed, four legged being split in two, deemed to be too powerful by the gods. Sharing an essence, completing each other, making two halves whole. It makes Jon smile and kiss Martin’s forehead affectionately. They had been too powerful for the gods, hadn’t they? Unstoppable, really.

All this to say…what he has with Martin? It’s new. Something he has never experienced before. And it’s leading to a host of new, confusing experiences. He’s been in a relationship with Martin for nearly six months now. Jon really thought that at 32 years old, after battling down fear entity after fear entity in an apocalyptic hellscape, there were no new feelings he could experience. But here he was, lying awake, trying to trace patterns in the ceiling and understand the dream he had woken up from.

Not a nightmare. No, quite the opposite. Nightmares he knows how to deal with: slip out of bed, make a cup of tea or a glass of water, slip on the lamp by the bed, and cuddle into bed, reading quietly until sleep steals him away. But he does not know how to deal with this new dream of Martin, hovering above him, low voice stealing his breath and pressing kisses along his jaw, collarbone, shoulder as delicate, warm, strong hands brushed his body, dipping low with confidence. Jon woke up to a heat pooling in his core, tight and powerful, one he hadn’t experienced in such a way.

Jon has a libido, sure, but it’s always been a bodily desire, not a…what would you call this? Emotional one? He certainly never fantasized about another person, especially not someone he knew, that felt so invasive. He felt a flush heat his cheeks and chest as he pictured that image of Martin his subconscious has supplied him, above and around him with that concentration face he wears whenever he’s starting a puzzle or stuck on a particular difficult crossword, the one that always makes Jon grin and kiss his wrinkled forehead. But this one looked more heated, more filled with lust. And it… it affected him. Jon realized with a dawning that he liked it. A lot.

Jon glanced at the bedside clock and sighed at the blinking green 5:15 on the LED screen. Good a time as any to get a hot shower and let his feelings wash away with the soapy water. He extracted himself carefully from Martin’s warm arms and slipped into the ensuite, stripping to the sounds of water pounding from the showerhead and letting the steam and hot water envelop him. He scrubbed himself down harshly, watching suds rinse down his legs and down the drain, trying desperately to keep his mind off whatever that had been.

Once his skin was blotchy from heat, Jon decided he had enough. He slid into the flannel trousers he’d left abandoned on the floor of the loo and slipped back to bed, trying to do so without disrupting his sleeping boyfriend. Martin looked so lovely like this, auburn curls streaked with white plastered against the pillow and his forehead, mouth hung open and naked torso splayed so openly, so unguarded. He looked so lovely, the freckles smattered on his shoulders and stretch marks carving beautiful lines across his skin; the stars and the rivers below, a whole world in the work of art that is Martin Blackwood. How would he feel if he knew Jon had had that dream about him?

Jon’s staring, the lowercase-b-beholding of the man he loved was broken by Martin sleepily opening his eyes, a moment of confusion followed by focusing on Jon, who was kneeling on the edge of his side of the bed, captivated.

“Mmm. Hi there, love,” Martin mumbled, running a hand through his hair and sleepily glancing over at the clock. “You alright? Bad dream?”

Jon nodded; the spell broken. “Ah, yeah.” He couldn’t tell Martin, it was just a dream; he didn’t want to confuse Martin or worse, convince him he was a liar, that he wasn’t asexual, that it had all been to avoid-

Oh. Martin had spoken. He was staring at him expectantly, waiting for a response. “Sorry, say it again?” Jon asked meekly, sliding back under the covers.

“Do you want to talk about it, Jon?” The voice was patient, so patient. Jon shook his head and tucked himself into Martin’s side, tying up his damp, freshly brushed hair out of the way.

“I don’t really remember it anymore.” Lies. “It mustn’t have been that bad.” Martin’s hands were cool on his skin, still warm from the shower, as they brushed over the planes of his face in a slow way, stroking his nose and cheeks and forehead in the way Martin always did when he wanted Jon to go back to sleep. With some reservation, Jon let himself fall back against the pillows.

--

Jon thought about “The Dream” quite a bit in the week that followed. He wanted to understand it: why it had happened at all, but also, why it was still affecting him. Every so often, between emails sent and papers graded, his mind would drift back to the image of Martin, cheeks ruddy and eyes glassy, gazing down at him with such affection and Jon’s whole body would freeze up. Why was he suddenly attracted to Martin in such a new way? He loved that man with his whole being and yet, there was suddenly a new element, something unexpected, coming over the horizon. It’s been almost six months with Martin; why now?

The implications scared Jon. He had always identified as asexual; it was a core part of who he knew himself to be. Had it all been an unknowing lie? Had he just never been attracted to Georgie properly? Was it like when people get STIs; would he have to ring Georgie up and say, “hey, sorry to bother, I was never asexual, oops!”? He really didn’t want to have to do that. Would Martin be upset, angry that he had missed out on six months of potential sex just because Jon was…what? Prudish? Naïve? Afraid?

The worst part was that this…desire hadn’t come on all at once, he realized. He hadn’t even noticed the way his stomach would flip when Martin’s hands brushed his thighs, blaming his touch-based love language. It was in the way he stared at Martin when he couldn’t see it; eyes tracing his form and wondering what it would be like to feel every inch of him, in a way he had yet to experience. 

God he…had to tell Martin, didn’t he? He didn’t want to feel like a pervert in his own relationship, observing and imagining from afar without Martin’s knowledge. It felt…dirty.

--

Jon made dinner, nine days after the dream. Nothing extreme, tikka masala, rice, and garlic naan. Martin’s favorite. As he cooked, he vacillated between trying to plan out what he wanted to say and very-much-not-thinking about how the evening could end. The worst outcome, he imagined, was Martin storming out, betrayed and heartbroken. That…that probably wouldn’t happen. No, he knew Martin Blackwood. Better than anyone else in the world. That definitely wouldn’t happen. Lo-fi techno crooned through the speakers as Jon cooked and he let his thoughts float away with the music, trying to focus on the spices of dish he was making and not the knowledge that Martin would be home in ten-

Oh. Jon heard the shhlik of the door sliding against the welcome mat and felt his whole body tense up.

“Jon? You making dinner?” Martin’s voice was warm as he called through the entrance, he didn’t know yet what Jon was going to tell him, that it was all a lie-

“Yes!” Jon called back, determined to keep his voice light and casual. “Your favorite. Be ready in five, so get out of your work clothes.”

“Smells delicious,” Martin was behind him now, voice low against the shell of his ear. Jon felt a shiver run down his spine, to where his stomach and pelvis met and a ball of electricity crackled there, unbidden. Martin kissed the crook of his neck chastely and Jon froze, unsure how to reciprocate.

“You okay?” Martin’s chin was on his shoulder now, voice soft.

“Fine, fine. You smell like crayons. The cerulean one.” Jon nudged Martin away casually, trying to pass off a witty remark.

“Hazard of the job, I suppose. You know you love it,” Martin mercifully pulled his hands from Jon’s waist and retreated to the bedroom, and Jon exhaled in relief.

Jon plated the masala. Martin poured the wine. They sat down to dinner. Jon felt it all happen, was there for it all, but it passed in strange jerky stop-motion, and he couldn’t seem to slow it down. He couldn’t see to find the words, so elected for none at all, eating silently. Eye-contact would give away the anxiety brimming inside him, so he kept his eyes on his plate and the wine and the sleeve of Martin’s sweatshirt, anything but Martin’s warm hazel eyes that he knew so well.

“Jon.” He could hear it in Martin’s voice, the gentle prompting. He could hear the worry, the confusion. God, it was going to happen wasn’t it? He was going to tell Martin and what happened happened and he couldn’t do anything to change that. “How was your day?”

“I-ah. Martin.” He said, voice jerky, unable to find a rhythm that felt right. “I have something to tell you.” The words fell from his mouth in a tumble.

“Oh?”

“I. I had a dream?” Martin’s eyes widened and he set his fork down. “N-not one of the Eye’s dreams,” Jon reassures quickly. He really wished dreams weren’t such a theme in his life. “Not a statement dream, but a… different kind of dream.”

“I…I don’t follow.” Martin was confused, eyes searching Jon’s face.

“A dream…about you?” he tried, unable to add the words “sex dream” into his vocabulary quite yet.

“Oh. Oh!” Martin understood at last, eyebrows raised and forehead that adorable, confused wrinkle. “That’s, well, nice, I guess?” Jon’s face must have given way to his thoughts, as Martin tried again. “O-or maybe not?”

“Martin,” Jon steeled himself. “I…I think I’m maybe not asexual.” The words rang sharp in his ears, grating; they didn’t feel right. But it was true, wasn’t it? He didn’t know what sort of explanation there could be.

When Jon dared to look into Martin’s face, he saw an expression he didn’t know how to parse. Furrowed eyebrows, eyes searching Jon’s face, head cocked slightly. “Okay. Because of the dream?”

“Um-kind of? But also…” Jon felt blood rush through his cheeks, was certain the Desolation had picked now to tear its way through him, and was grateful. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About you. In-in ways asexual people shouldn’t. A-and I thought you should know, because I didn’t want you to think I was lying to you and I don’t want to be having those thoughts without you knowing because that feels rude, in a way? Like I set a boundary but have been crossing it in my head this whole time?” Tears stung the corners of his eyes.

Martin’s voice was even, level, hard to parse as he spoke. “Jon, can I ask you a question? Only because you seem upset and I want to try to help you.” Jon was frustrated. Why wouldn’t he have the decency to be upset? At a nod, Martin’s chair scraped backwards, and Jon found Martin kneeling him beside him, hands on his knees as Jon swiveled to face him. Taking his pockmarked hands in his own, Martin rubbed Jon’s knuckles slowly, tenderly.

“Have you ever felt those feelings before?” Jon shook his head meekly, certain the lump in his throat would betray him. “Have you had those feelings the whole time we’ve known each other? Like, since the Institute?”

This time, Jon shook his head. “Not-not until after we were dating. The safehouse, maybe?”

“This one’s gonna sound a little rude, Jon, but bear with me. Do you think you’ve ever been as emotionally close to anyone else as you are with me?” He squeezed Jon’s hands warmly, adding: “And I am with you?”

Jon shook his head. Of course not. Martin was something new to him, something untapped in the world. A treasure, a diamond in the rough. There was nothing that compared to their relationship.

“Jon. I don’t want to tell you how you identify, that’s not my place, but I, I think you’re still asexual.” Jon’s eyes snapped to meet Martin’s; it was his turn to furrow his brow. “After you came out to me, remember? I started looking into asexuality. I wanted to be able to impress you at Pride this summer,” Martin ducked his head, wincing at the cheesiness of his words. “But did you know there’s a bunch of subtypes of asexuality?”

What? This was news to Jon. There’s wanting sex and not wanting sex, right? He shook his head numbly and felt a comforting, grounding squeeze of his hands again.

“There was one I researched a little extra, because it confused me, and I wanted to understand the difference,” Martin continued, moving a hand to stroke Jon’s cheekbone, to guide his face to meet his. “Demisexual, Jon. It’s a subtype of asexuality, and it’s when-” Martin’s eyes rolled back in his head, as they were want to do when he was struggling to recite something from memory. “-you don’t even have to option to feel sexual attraction until an emotional bond is established. And it’s not, like, a one-to-one thing, either. There was a woman talking about her experience on a forum and she basically explained it like sex being a door, right? And the door has a padlock on it. Emotional connection opens the padlock, but you still have to open the door.”

Jon’s mouth was agape. He…there were so many things to parse out here. “You…you looked all this up for me?”

Martin’s cheeks pinked slightly. “I wanted to make sure I understood asexuality. It’s a whole subgroup of its own; it was interesting.” Martin had been a Researcher for a reason, Jon supposed dimly.

“I. I want to research for myself, but demisexuality?” He rolled the word in his mouth as he spoke. It felt nice, weighty. “And it’s still asexual?”

Martin nodded, vehemently, pulling out his phone as he spoke. “Yeah! Its flag is the same colors too, just arranged differently.” He showed him the white and grey flag, divided with a smooth purple stripe and a black triangle on the edge. “A-and, I mean, if you realize you’re not asexual, or you’re something else, you know I’ll still support you regardless, right? I don’t love you because of your sexuality, or your identity. I love you because you’re Jonathan Sims, and everything else besides that is bonus.”

Georgie’s friends, not his. They tolerate him well enough, but he can see they’re perplexed by Georgie’s choice in partner. Quiet, pedantic, acerbic Jon. That’s what they think of him, he’s sure of it.

He’d had one friend before Georgie. It was his first year, he’d felt even more out of place than he did in Bournemouth, surrounded by kids eager to socialize and participate. Jon was in the library at some forced mixer, mumbling his way through ice breakers and trying to ignore the titters his answers brought. But he’d caught the eye of one girl from the floor below his; tall, with long brown hair and a wicked gleam in her eyes. She barked out a laugh at one of his answers, gave a commiserating smirk. He smiled tentatively back.

From that moment on Maria latched on to him, despite his many efforts to push her away. She was one of those people for whom intimacy came naturally. She studied with him in the library, they bantered back and forth over drinks she’d dragged him to, attended shitty concerts together where Jon had to duck out early, too overwhelmed by the flashing lights and sweaty bodies. She was easy-going, quick with a laugh and even quicker with a smile. It was nice to have someone who appreciated him, flaws and all.

One night over too many drinks, he confessed to her- he’d never felt that pull you were supposed to, that primal attraction that seemed to govern the lives of those around him. He confessed it like a dirty secret, something you kept close to the chest. But she just nodded, gave him a tap on the wrist as she always did when he got nervous. “My girlfriend’s asexual too,” she said, in the most nonchalant of tones. “You want another round?”

He blinked. He’d done his own research as a teenager, trying to find out what made him so different and how he could ‘fix’ it. There weren’t many resources back then, and though he’d seen some helpful information he felt too nervous to delve deeply. He’d heard the term only in science class, and he didn’t like the connotations that brought. But to hear someone use it so casually, as if it was something to be accepted, something completely normal, almost made him weep with relief. Here was someone like him, in a relationship with Maria, who was practically his idol in all things. 

The next day she passed him a pin in class: black, grey, white and purple. “My girlfriend’s got a ton of ‘em, thought you might like.” Later that night he stared at it, turning it over in his hand. He thought of putting it on his backpack, but instead decided to tuck it away in his drawer. 

At the end of the semester, Maria transferred to a different university to be closer to her girlfriend. She made him promise to keep in touch, but, well- Jon’s never been good at that. 

And now here he is, standing at Georgie’s door as she laces up her boots. Her fingernails are painted pink, purple, and blue, just like Jon’s. She’s even convinced him to let her braid his hair, threading it with similarly colored ribbons. It looks nice, Jon has to admit, and he found he liked the feeling of her fingers in his hair. She’s much more flashily dressed, but bright colors have never been Jon’s style.

“What’ve you got there?” Before he can protest, Georgie’s grabbed the pin out of his hand, staring down at it with some consideration. He sees something briefly flicker in her eyes- a dawn of understanding, and what he hopes isn’t disappointment. Georgie’s face is anything but unreadable most times, she wears her emotions plainly for all to see. But Jon’s not so sure of his ability to decipher them now, not with all of these thoughts rushing through his brain at hyper-speed.

“I-I really-” he begins to babble, hands fluttering nervously as the silence stretches on. “I should’ve told you, I mean-”

Georgie interrupts him with a gentle hand to his chest, pulling at his sweater. He looks down to find her delicately pinning the button to his chest, right above his heart. He shivers at the carefulness of it, looking up to meet her eyes.

“Yes,” she says, each word considered. “You should’ve.” His heart drops and he anticipates her next words, as heartbreaking as they will be.

“I want you to feel like you can trust me with these things,” she continues, and Jon pauses in his panic. What? “I sort of figured, honestly- you’ve been quite the gentleman these past six months. Even when I came on to you in that bar.”

Jon remembers that night. How could he forget? He’d never had someone approach him, want him so brazenly. It was strange. “You’re not mad?” His voice is tentative, though luckily clear of its usual stutter.

“No.” She shakes her head, her hand dropping from its place on his chest. “I just wish you’d told me, but- communication’s not our strong suit, is it?”

Jon lets out a weak laugh. “No, it isn’t.”

“We’ll just have to work on that. And maybe discuss boundaries, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I know you’re fine with cuddling-”

“Yes, please. Don’t stop that.”

“I won’t,” she laughs, taking his hand in hers. “But we can talk about this after brunch.” She looks down at their hands, suddenly unsure of herself, her grip loosening. “Is...this is okay, right?”

The trepidation in her tone is so uncharacteristic, completely foreign to him. They’ve done this a million times, but he finds the sudden hesitance almost sweet in its own way. She’s assessing his comfort level, making sure he’s not just going along with it to please her. After all, Georgie’s always telling him he needs to be more assertive.

“Yes,” he says, bringing her hand to his lips and delighting in the blush it earns him. “It’s more than okay.”

Every day working for the Research department of the Magnus Institute was different than the last. Sometimes researching involved consulting old, esoteric books in the Institute’s library; sometimes it meant searching the darker, less reputable corners of the Internet; sometimes it meant long phone calls or in-person interviews with those who had evidence (or claimed to have evidence) of the supernatural.

Today, as it happened, Jon’s work involved studying another man’s body.

The body in question belonged to Adam Arneson, member of a cult... trying to end the world, was it? Or just trying to kill a lot of people in strange, supernatural ways? The evidence was iffy either way, but some understanding of the cult’s true aims might--might--be achieved through detailed analysis of the cryptic tattoos worn by members of its inner circle, including Arneson, who had also made the potential misstep of showing off said tattoos while on holiday at the beach.

So yes, Jon had his work monitor set to a close-up view of another man’s mostly unclothed body, and yes, it was in fact for work purposes, thank you very much. But it wasn’t terribly surprising that somebody just passing by might not reach the same conclusion.

As it happened, that somebody just passing by turned out to be Sasha; Jon hadn’t even heard her approaching (though that said less about how quiet her footsteps had been and more about how focused Jon was on decoding the tattoo symbolism rather than on his surroundings) until she spoke up to say, “Enjoying the view there?”

Jon jumped a little at the sudden sound, and he could feel his face heating up--he’d never been one to blush easily, but then, this was an unusual occasion, and it might well be the exception that proves the rule (in the original meaning of the phrase)... “No! I mean, er, perhaps a little bit, but not- not like that, I don’t think.”

Sasha’s hand rested against her hip as her gaze darted between Jon’s face and his computer screen. “Define ‘like that.’”

“I mean, he’s an attractive enough man, sure, but I don’t want to- to kiss him, for instance, or, or even-”

“Bed him?” Sasha’s word choice seemed calculated, there, a wry smile forming on her face as she waited for Jon to elaborate.

“...that, yes. I’m not attracted to him in that way. But that doesn’t mean I can’t see that he’s good-looking, or even enjoy the thought of myself going on a date with him--well, if he wasn’t part of an evil murder cult, that is.”

“Yeah, that’d be enough to make anyone a hard pass in my book too, no matter how hot they were.” Sasha said, a slight nod accompanying her words. She drummed her fingers on Jon’s desk for a moment before adding, “But you are into guys, then. Dating-wise, anyway.”

“Guys and girls, yes... anyone, really. I...” Jon looked at Sasha for a long moment, really looked at her, as he tried his best to judge how she would react to his next words. He hadn’t come out to too many people over the years, but Sasha always seemed accepting enough--and she knew about Tim, and they were still best friends, right? “I’m bi. Well, biromantic, technically. And asexual.”

“Oh!”

Jon’s heart skipped a beat as he heard Sasha’s voice, as he noted the excitement in it but was unsure of the exact source of said excitement, as his mind filled with possibilities both positive and negative.

“Oh, I’m the other way around!” Sasha laughed a little at her own statement, and though Jon was still processing it, the implications of it, and of that laughter, were enough to bring a shaky smile to his face.

“So you, you understand. You’re like me.” Jon’s heart fluttered at the thought of it. He wasn’t sure anybody had really understood before, though a few had tried, at least.

“Well, sort of. Like I said, it’s the other way around for me--bisexual, aromantic. So I’ve got no interest in being that guy’s girlfriend-” Sasha pointed in the direction of Jon’s computer monitor; Jon blinked a few times as he was suddenly reminded that there was still an image of a mostly-naked man currently displayed on his computer. “Or having candlelit dinners with him, or having a crush on him, any of that sappy stuff, but I do want to-”

Sasha’s grin was growing with every word, and Jon didn’t terribly like the look of it, didn’t like where this sentence seemed to be headed.

“Do things you probably shouldn’t be discussing on the clock?”

Sasha blinked in surprise, pushing her glasses up a bit before responding. “I suppose, but where’s the harm in it, really?”

“You know Elias has cameras all around the Institute, right? There are probably microphones in them, too. Whatever you were about to say, imagine Elias listening to it.”

Sasha made a face. “Alright, fair enough.” Jon thought she might continue on the same topic of conversation for a minute there, but instead Sasha leaned in closer to the computer screen and added, “Who is that guy, anyway?”

Jon let out a low sigh of relief. “He’s a high level member of the Serpent’s Fang. I’ve been trying to decode his tattoos, but they don’t seem to make much sense. See, that’s an ankh there, a symbol of life from Egypt, but right next to it is algiz, which is a Norse rune of protection...”

Jon and Martin were laying side by side in the safehouse’s lone bed once again, alternating between flipping through the handful of mediocre-at-best novels that Daisy had left there and making small talk to kill time before they both felt ready to go to sleep for the night. (Jon had just abandoned the last book he’d tried reading, a hokey Western that seemed to use every cliché out there, while Martin was checking out an old romance novel that had come as almost more of a shock than the knives in the closet when they first went through the place.)

Jon heard Martin setting his book down on the nightstand beside him, and Jon assumed that he’d just lost interest in it before hearing Martin speak up.

“Can... can we talk about something? Something kind of personal?”

Jon was glad now that he’d abandoned his own attempts at reading for the time being.

“Sure, what is it?”

“You’re, er... you’re asexual, right?”

Jon nodded. His sexual orientation (or lack thereof) had come up some time ago, long before he’d even imagined the present context for that information might be possible, during an outing with Tim and Sasha back when working in the archives was fresh and new to them all. “Yes, that’s right.”

Martin’s shoulders slumped down a little. “I thought so, but... I just... I thought we were together.”

Jon blinked a few times, looking right at Martin. Was that fear in his dark eyes? “We are.”

“Not just, just together in this safehouse, I mean, but together. As-” Martin grabbed a blanket and made a fist, squishing the blanket’s fabric within his hand. “As a couple.”

“We are.” Jon repeated, adjusting his position slightly so that he could get a better look at Martin. “Both can be true, Martin. Both are true.”

“Wait, but, but I thought...”

As Martin’s sentence trailed off, Jon realized what must be confusing him so much, realized that he had incorrectly assumed they’d already discussed something that Jon had long since taken for granted.

“We haven’t gone through what my being asexual actually means yet, have we?”

Martin wrinkled his nose a bit before shaking his head. “What d’you mean?”

“Me being asexual doesn’t change my romantic feelings for you. When it comes to romance, I’m bi, not aromantic, so I can still, you know, date people. Be together with someone.”

Martin looked away from Jon’s gaze, staring pointedly at the wall in front of him instead. “Oh.”

“It just means that I’m not sexually attracted to you--or anyone, for that matter, so don’t take it personally. Never have been, never will be. But romance is another story.”

Martin looked back Jon’s way, though he still didn’t quite meet Jon’s gaze. “So... no sex, yes dating? Is that the gist of it?”

“Sort of. It is possible to...” Jon started fumbling around with his hands, trying to make vague gestures to explain what he struggled to put into words. “To be asexual and have sex. Or even to be asexual and like sex. But I, I’ve never cared for it personally, though if, if you want-”

“Jon.”

Jon’s half-finished sentence died instantly as he heard the certainty in Martin’s voice. “Yes?”

“I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. If, if sex is a problem... that’s not a deal-breaker for me. It’s nice, sure, but not as nice as...” This time Martin was the one gesturing vaguely towards their surroundings as a whole. “Well, as all of this. As just being here, by your side, no matter what.”

Jon let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “That’s... that’s good to hear. Maybe I should have said something sooner, I know it- it can be a deal-breaker, for some, has been before...”

Martin shook his head emphatically. “No, no, I knew you were asexual, if anything it’s my fault for not understanding that.”

“Well, a lot of people don’t get it, actually, it’s... it’s a common enough misunderstanding, really...”

Jon laughed a little, and Martin gave him a strange look in response.

“Is my ignorance really that funny?”

“No, no, it’s just... I’ve had this talk before, about how being both bi and ace works, it’s... it’s normal, for me to have to explain this to a potential partner. Despite everything, we’re- we’re getting to do something normal.”

Jon reached out and grabbed Martin’s hand, and Martin gave Jon’s hand a tight squeeze as he let out a soft laugh of his own.

“Of all the words to use for our relationship, I never thought normal would be one of them.”

“Neither did I, but here we are.”