kam

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When Martin still lived with his mother, before she decided to move into the care home, there were good days and there were bad days.

The good days weren’t good by any normal metric of the word. His mother was still sick, and her aches and pains and memory lapses never went away entirely. She still snapped at him if he turned the television up too loud or not loud enough, or if he put too much salt or too little on her eggs in the morning. She still never quite seemed like she wanted him around, but… that was okay, Martin told himself. He understood that she was tired, and she’d always been just as stubborn as he was—more so, even. He knew he’d be upset too if he kept forgetting things or couldn’t hold a mug of tea steadily enough to drink from or needed help washing his own hair. It was only natural that she would be frustrated with him, even on the good days.

But on the good days, that was all it amounted to in the end: frustration. The memory lapses were infrequent or nonexistent, and his mother’s hands trembled less than they usually did. She would even mutter a thank you under her breath if he was particularly helpful. On the good days, they would go outside in the short time between when Martin got home from work and when it grew too dark to venture out. His mother hated being seen by others, particularly once Martin started having to push her wheelchair after she lost the strength to do so herself, so they stuck to the quieter areas. Neither of them spoke to each other, but that… that was all right. At least she was spending time outside, and Martin could stretch his legs properly after sitting behind a desk all day.

Once they were home, Martin would make one of his mother’s favorite meals—the chicken casserole she liked with the almonds, maybe lemon pepper salmon if they could afford it that week. The fact that she ate her meal without complaint was as close to a compliment as Martin ever got, and it felt… nice. She would turn in early, more exhausted than usual from the time spent outside, and he would have some time to himself to write. He can still look back on those poems—the ones from the good days—with a certain fondness.

The same cannot be said for those from the bad days. In the months leading up to his mother announcing, unexpectedly and painfully, that she intended to check herself into a care home in Devon, the bad days began to outnumber the good. And the bad days were bad. In every sense of the word.

Her memory was always the worst on the bad days. Martin knew, logically, that at some point, she would begin to forget who he was. It was common in dementia patients, the doctors said—she might confuse him for another relative or become convinced that she was living thirty years in the past. He was told not to get frustrated with her and not to correct her. That would only upset her, the doctors told him firmly. Martin understood that, so he made sure to avoid telling her when she was misremembering things. He bit his tongue every time she accused him of having forgotten to do something that he’d done yesterday or every time she incorrectly claimed that they’d had the same meal twice in a row. It wasn’t worth it, he reminded himself. It would just upset her more.

He wondered, though, if it would have upset her less if he’d corrected her when she’d looked at him and called him by his father’s name. But maybe it wouldn’t have done a thing, even if he had managed to convince her that his name was Martin and that he was her son. After all, the memory of what she saw when she looked at him—on the bad days, on the good days, on every day in between—is burned into his mind like a brand. He doesn’t know if it would have made much of a difference at all to know that he wasn’t his father. Not when she already hated him.

Martin had grown accustomed to this system—good and bad days mixed together with no way to predict which was going to come next. He likes to think he’d learned from it, if nothing else. How to adjust his behavior based on the manner of day. What to say and what to keep hidden. Which activities would be best and which should be avoided. He took the bad with the good and moved forward and took care of his mother to the best of his ability, because what else was he to do? It had to be done, so it would be. There was no other option.

Here, somewhere else, in the borrowed house they have made their temporary home, there are good days and there are bad days. It’s a situation Martin should be equipped to handle but isn’t, in part because Jon has good days and bad days and he has good days and bad days as well. Sometimes they align; sometimes they don’t. In a battle of good versus bad, the bad wins every time, hands down. Like an oil spill, polluting everything it touches.

Martin wakes an hour before he has to leave for work. He stares at the ceiling above him, feeling something heavy and sour settle in his chest, and knows that today is a bad day.

Maybe that’s why he brings it up. Because he’s tired and cranky and having a bad day. Or maybe it’s because he’s always thinking about it in one way or another, like a song that’s been stuck in his head for the past eight weeks. Maybe he’s just ready to be done with this. This… tension. He knows—he knows—that it’s not always this bad. That it doesn’t always eat at him. But, if he were to keep track, he knows that the bad days would far outnumber the good. And he is so very tired.

Maybe it’s none of those reasons. Whatever it is, he still finds himself sitting at the kitchen table across from Jon, looking up from his morning mug of tea, and saying, without any apparent preamble or origin, “Why did you do it?”

Jon looks up from his computer with a frown. “Do… what?”

Martin grips his mug just a bit tighter. “K… kill Jonah. Go off on your own.”

Jon blinks at him, clearly trying and failing to figure out where Martin is coming from with this. Given that Martin isn’t entirely sure himself, it’s probably a futile effort. Jon closes his laptop and says, “I, er. I thought we’d already talked about this. You… already know why.”

Martin does. Jon has explained it to him, and if prompted, Martin could probably repeat back those words. He knows. But he… he still doesn’t understand why. Explanations and thought processes, they- they don’t make the aching chasm in Martin’s chest go away. He thinks that even if Jon implanted the knowledge in his mind—emotions and rationale and all—he still wouldn’t understand. Not really.

He doesn’t know that he ever will.

“I- I know,” he says. “But I still… I don’t understand, Jon. I’ve been thinking about it—t-trying to wrap my head around what you said, y-your reasoning—a-and I can’t come up with an answer that I’m happy with.”

“I’ve given you the answer.” Jon is frowning now, a small crease forming between his eyebrows. The bags under his eyes are heavy. He… hasn’t been sleeping much lately, ever since his dreams took a turn for the worse. “It’s not my fault you don’t like it.”

“It’s not about like—”

“No, I- I think it is.” Jon picks at the edge of his placemat with a fingernail. “I’ve told you my reasoning; you know why I made the decision that I did. If the facts are there and you’re still struggling, it comes down to the emotions. You don’t agree with my reasoning. You don’t like it.” He sighs. “I… I can’t change your mind about that. I know. But it’s been weeks, a-and we’re here now, so I don’t see how dwelling on whether or not I should have made the decision I did helps us in our current situation.”

“Because it affects us, Jon!” Martin takes a breath and tries to calm himself. He feels… restless. Like the only way he can scratch the itch deep beneath his skin is by casting bitter words out of his mouth. It’s an overwhelming sensation. “It affects us. Ever since we arrived here, we’ve had this- this cloud hanging over our heads. Yeah, sometimes things are… good. Great. A-and I’m happy, a-a lot of the time. But I just… I can never stop thinking about how we got here. The last moments we spent in our world. And I-I’m sorry that I can’t let it rest, but it’s… important to me that we figure this out? I- I don’t…” Martin hesitates. “I don’t know that I can really be happy here while I’m still bothered by the things that happened in the past.”

“I… suppose you’re right.” Jon worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “But I- I really don’t know what else you want me to tell you, Martin. I can’t give you anything other than my own thoughts on the situation, and you… you already know those. If this is just another way to tell me again that you didn’t agree with me… I’m sorry, but I don’t want to hear it.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” Jon studies Martin’s face. “I can’t change what’s happened. I can’t change your mind on the matter. I don’t know what you want from me, Martin.”

“I—ugh, I don’t know!” Martin takes a few deep, calming breaths. “I… I think I just want it all to make sense.”

I want it to stop hurting, he should say. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t. Maybe because he knows there’s nothing to be done about that. And isn’t that a terrifying thought—that there’s nothing to be done at all? That there’s no way to change?

Martin tries not to think about it.

“I… don’t know how to help with that.” Jon sighs. “It- it makes sense to me, which I know is… unhelpful. But true. I… do still stand by my decision.”

Martin knows that. He knows that Jon hasn’t changed his mind. So why is he still frustrated at hearing it?

The decision to leave me, you mean? he doesn’t say. That’s… well, it’s a little bit petty, honestly, and maybe childish as well.

But that’s the core of it, isn’t it? The fact that Jon laid down next to him in the tunnels and let him think that everything would be fine and then snuck off by himself. The fact that Jon told him that, if given options, he would choose the one where they both lived. The fact that Jon broke his promise.

“You just… you promised me you wouldn’t,” Martin finds himself saying in a small voice that sounds uncomfortably close to whining. He wants to take the words back as soon as they leave his mouth, even more so when Jon’s expression shutters.

“You… keep saying that,” Jon says slowly. “That I’ve ‘broken my promise.’ But as far as I recall, my promise was that I wouldn’t sacrifice myself at the first opportunity. And in my mind, that’s… that’s not what happened. I- I didn’t go to the Panopticon with the intent to die, Martin.” Quieter: “And you promised that you wouldn’t try to stop me.”

“I promised to let you go if you had to. And you didn’t! We had a plan, and it would have worked. Regardless of why you did it, it- it wasn’t necessary! So don’t try to imply that I went back on my word, b-because I didn’t. I didn’t.”

Jon takes a breath. “So then, the way I see it, we… we both kept our promises.”

Technically, Martin knows, Jon is right. Frustratingly so, but right all the same. Still, something about it doesn’t sit well with Martin. Probably because it doesn’t feel like a resolution to say, well, we each kept our promise and we each understand why the other wanted to do what they did, so we might as well just stop discussing it. It’ll just keep bothering him, and it’ll keep coming up again and again and again.

No, this… this needs to end now.

“Maybe,” Martin says. “But that’s… that’s still not good enough.”

“Well, I’m sorry that there’s not an easy resolution to this!” Jon sets his mug down a bit harder than strictly necessary. The sound nearly makes Martin flinch. “Not everything can be figured out or brushed away or- or fixed! Some things just… are.”

“I know that, Jon. Christ, you- you think I don’t know that? I know it’s complicated; I know it’s hard. That’s why I’m asking you about it—so we can figure it out!” Martin scowls down at the table and mutters under his breath, “But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Martin doesn’t necessarily mean for it to be heard, but Jon, predictably, catches it anyway. The frown on his face deepens, and he says flatly, “What?”

“I said, I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re not the most… emotionally available person. I- I thought it was getting better—th-that we were getting better, a-at talking—but… evidently not.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “I’m not emotionally available?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s just…” Jon drums his fingers on the table in an urgent, agitated rhythm. “I- I feel like sometimes, there are things you don’t tell me. A-about how you’re feeling, o-or things you’re thinking about. And I- I don’t… I don’t know how I’m supposed to help if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Martin doesn’t know if he’s irritated because Jon’s wrong or because he’s right. That irritation bleeds into his voice, turning it as sharp as knives. “Sorry, j-just let me be clearer then. I’m angry. A-and frustrated, and tired, and anxious, a-and hurt. It hurt me when you lied to me and left me and put me in a position where I had to kill you. And you don’t get to pretend that it didn’t, e-even if you think you made the correct decision.”

Jon’s eyes are wide, like he hadn’t expected Martin to say so much all at once. “I- I wasn’t going to,” he says faintly. There’s a pause, like he’s taking the time to process Martin’s words in full. “I’m sorry, Martin,” he says finally. “I- I don’t know what to do besides apologize. I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I—” Martin breaks off, surprised to find that the words aren’t there. Slowly, he deflates. “I… I don’t know. You’re right; what’s done is done, and we can’t change any of it. This is just… how things are now. No way to change it; no way to go back. Just… this.”

But what if this isn’t good enough?

“Right,” Jon says decisively. “So the best thing we can do i-is just move forward. Put it behind us. N-not dwell on it.”

“You’re not getting it, Jon.” Martin rubs a tired hand over his eyes. How is he supposed to go to work after this? “I can’t put this behind me. I- I can’t just stop being hurt by this.” Then, maybe a bit spitefully because he’s weary and frustrated: “Maybe you can, but… I can’t.”

“You think this is easy for me?” Jon says, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “You don’t know what it’s like to see, e-every time you close your eyes, the results of your mistakes. To be tortured by them. I am choosing to deal only with the things that are happening here, in this reality, b-because thinking about what happened before—agonizing over the decisions I made and the things that brought us here—has never helped me in the past.” Quieter: “It’s… it’s the only way I can handle the guilt, Martin. I can’t think about how things could have gone differently. I just… can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin says, and he means it. “I- I get it. But I can’t stop thinking about how things could have been different. And I just—I keep coming back to what happened.” Martin hesitates. He feels very constricted, like his skin is on too tightly. He wishes he could wriggle out of it, then feels promptly nauseous at that mental image and the unfortunate connotations of that line of thought. “I just… I- I thought, after we first saw Jonah—wh-what he’d become—that we’d decided that you taking his place was out of the question.”

Jon stares at him for a long moment. Then, he says flatly, “Because you ‘forbade it’?”

“No.” Martin actually tries not to think about that particular part of their argument. It’s… not his proudest moment. “Because you told me, the night before you… you left, that you were sorry.”

In hindsight, Martin realizes that Jon had probably only brought up their argument because he thought it would be his last chance to do so. It was late—or at least, it felt late—and Martin wasn’t really in the mood to talk about it. He was too nervous, too occupied with what they were about to do. He just wanted to wrap his arms around Jon and talk about nothing at all and take comfort in the knowledge that soon, it would all be over.

But they talked about it anyway, if only briefly. Jon began by apologizing, quickly following up his sorry with the assertion that he’d wanted to do so sooner but Martin had already been gone. (He said the word gone the same way one would deliver bad news, as if expecting to be yelled at or punished in some way.) He said that he shouldn’t have shouted and that Martin was right—taking Jonah’s place in that moment wasn’t something that would have made a difference. The conversation was short and not nearly enough. But once Jon had the apology off his chest, he didn’t seem interested in discussing the matter further, and Martin wasn’t either. Maybe… maybe he should have done so anyway.

Thinking back on the conversation now, Martin realizes that Jon never actually said that he’d stopped considering taking Jonah’s place as a viable option. His wording had been very careful, and he hadn’t lied. Somehow, that almost makes it feel worse.

“Oh.” Jon looks down at his hands. “I… I’m sorry Martin, but that wasn’t… that wasn’t what I meant. I just… I- I felt awful still, for yelling, and I- I didn’t want to leave that lingering between us.”

“Because you already knew you were going to go.” Martin swallows. “You knew how I felt about it—we’d already talked about that exact scenario—a-and you did it anyway!”

“It wasn’t your decision to make!” Jon snaps. “I’m sorry it hurt you and I’m sorry you feel that I abandoned you, but it was bigger than us. I- I had to make a choice, a-and you already know why I made the one I did.” Jon hesitates. “It’s… not as if you didn’t do the same.”

“What.”

Jon takes a breath. “A-Annabelle. When… when you went with Annabelle. You made a choice that you thought was best a-and left without telling me, putting yourself in a potentially dangerous situation. And it… hurt, when I found out that you’d gone willingly. So, yes. I made a choice, and it hurt you. But please, just… don’t pretend like you didn’t do the same.”

“Those two situations were not the same. My decision didn’t involve killing an entire world! Actually, my decision helped save an entire world, i-if we’re really getting down to the details.”

“But that’s not what this is about, is it.” Jon looks at him, his eyes sharp and ringed with dark, sleepless circles. “This whole conversation, the- the fact that we’re getting nowhere. Just… rehashing the same things, over and over again. It’s because it’s not about my decision at all—not really. It’s about us. This is about how what I did affected you. Not once before now have you mentioned the rest of the world, o-or even Georgie or Melanie or Basira. Even back then, when you found me in the Panopticon, i-it was all about you and me. How I could have done this. How I could have broken my promise to you. How I had left you, and what I… I asked you to do when I gave you the knife. It was never about the decision itself—it was about the fact that I made it in the first place.”

“It—that’s not—” Martin exhales heavily in frustration. “Fine. Maybe th-that’s part of it.” A big part, he doesn’t say. “But i-it’s more complicated than that!”

“I really don’t think it is. My decision hurt you because I made it without you, and I chose to leave you, and you felt like you couldn’t trust me anymore. And… I felt the same when you left with Annabelle. That, a-and more.”

“I left because I didn’t have another choice. I thought she was going to kill you Jon, and- and besides, w-we needed another way to fix things!”

Quietly, Jon says, “There’s always another choice. There was with Annabelle, and there was with Jonah. We just don’t always like what it is.”

“Taking Jonah’s place was never a choice. At- at least it shouldn’t have been.”

“Well, it was. You can’t wish something out of existence just because you don’t like it.”

“That is not what I’m doing.”

“Isn’t it?” Jon takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “It was an… impossible decision, Martin. There were no good choices. I- I am sorry that I hurt you when I left, and I… I recognize that I made the choice to do so. I just… want you to understand that I felt similarly when you left with Annabelle. R-regardless of your intent.”

Martin softens, just a bit, at the vulnerable, pained expression on Jon’s face. “I… understand. I am sorry for worrying you.” He hesitates. “But… I couldn’t just do nothing. Y-you get that, right? Doing nothing would have been… objectively worse in that specific scenario. I had the chance t-to find another way, and—I took it! And you know what? If given the opportunity, I’d probably do it again. Because we’re here, and we’re alive, and our world is… well, I- I suppose there’s no proof that it’s better now, but I have to assume that it is. This is the best possible outcome.”

“For us, maybe.” Jon gestures toward the door. “But not for them. They will suffer because of the choices we made.”

“And we’ll not have committed mass murder.”

Jon pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can we not have this moral debate again?”

Martin bites back a retort about how it shouldn’t be a debate at all and says instead, clipped: “Fine.”

“Fine,” Jon echoes.

They sit in silence for a long moment. There’s a clock on the wall in the kitchen—an old analog thing, with little golden designs etched into its marbled face—that ticks rhythmically. Martin glances at it, almost absently, and realizes with a start that it’s five minutes after when he typically leaves for work.

He stands, maybe a bit too quickly, and says, “I have to go, or I’ll be late for work.” He turns away, about to hastily collect his things, before pausing for just a moment more. “You’ll… be okay?” he says quietly. “I-if I go?”

He half expects Jon to say something snippy about how he’s not a child and can take care of himself. Instead, after a long few seconds, Jon says with surprising softness, “I’ll be all right.” Then, tentatively and a bit awkwardly: “You’ll… you’ll come back?”

The words shouldn’t hurt as much as they do—like razor-sharp needles in his chest. “Of course,” he says, trying not to sound as affected as he is. “I- I’ll see you later.”

He collects his things and goes. He can feel Jon’s gaze lingering on him until it’s severed by the front door as it shuts between them. Martin takes a deep breath to steady himself and then walks away, leaving his emotions further behind with every step.

It’s better that way. They’ll… still be there when he gets back.

He’s always been good at compartmentalizing.

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It’s not until after dinner that night that Jon brings up their morning discussion. He does so tentatively, as if handling a bomb or a rattlesnake. Something that will cause him serious harm if he fumbles it. Given that his first words are, “I- I’ve been thinking,” he’s probably right to be cautious. In Martin’s experience, rarely does anything good come from those words.

Jon seems to expect Martin to respond in some way, so Martin sets his book down on the couch next to him without bothering to mark his page and says, “Okay?”

“It’s… about the conversation we had. A-after we saw Jonah for the first time.” Jon fiddles with the yarn on his lap. He’s been learning how to crochet, and though Martin can’t quite tell what the amorphous blob of yarn on his lap is supposed to be, it’s… nice to see him picking up a hobby. “I- I’ve been thinking about it for… some time, actually, but i-it was never quite the right time to bring it up? But I think, with our previous conversation, it… might be beneficial if I do so.” He hesitates. “You’ll… you’ll tell me if you need me to stop?”

Martin nods, more so to be reassuring than to actually indicate his agreement. Being away from the house and doing mindless filing work at the historical archives had helped to clear his mind, but only slightly. As much as he’d tried to avoid it, he also couldn’t help thinking about their conversation as he’d shelved boxes and organized files. As such, he… doesn’t know if he’s going to ask Jon to stop. His need for closure is still strong, and his fear that he’s never going to get it has grown with every passing moment. If there’s a chance that Jon can prove him wrong… he has to take it.

Jon exhales slowly. “All right.” He tangles his fingers in the loose yarn, tugging it out of shape. He hesitates, then speaks quickly, as if trying not to lose his nerve. “During that… conversation, y-you said that when I looked at Jonah, I… I was envious. You… used it as proof that I- I must have secretly wanted t-to hurt people. That I enjoyed smiting other avatars. That I- I ‘got a kick’ out of making people scream.”

Right. They’re… jumping right back into it, then. Martin distantly remembers saying those things, like reflecting back on a dream. Somehow, when Jon phrases it like this, it makes it sound like he was accusing Jon of being a monster. And that tastes so incredibly bitter on his tongue. “I… remember,” he says, for lack of anything better to say.

Jon nods, looking down at his lap. “Well, it… it wasn’t envy.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “You- you were right; it wasn’t anger or fear either. It was…” Jon pauses, face pinching as if trying to figure out a way to put words to a concept that resists the very notion of human language. “Part of me wants to call it hunger? Imagine, you- you walk into a room and in front of you i-is a table of all the food you could ever eat. And suddenly, you’re just… aware that you’re so hungry, more than you’ve ever been before. That’s… the best way I can describe what it was like to walk into that room, look at Jonah, a-and feel all of that fear.” Jon seems to shrink in on himself a bit. “It was never about the suffering, Martin. It was just… who I was. O-or what I was. The position I held in that world. But the decision I made, t-to take Jonah’s place, it was… it was always in an effort to help. Not t-to take power. It was never about that.”

“I…” Martin deliberates over his words for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts into something cohesive. “I- I don’t know if you can divorce the situation from the fact that there’s power involved. You and I, we- we both know what it’s like to not have any control over what happens to us. T-to the people we care about. So to finally have the means to help, to- to do something about it… I get it. But i-it’s not that simple.”

Jon worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “I… suppose. B-but I do think that my motivations make a difference in this situation. And I- I thought that clarifying how I felt in that moment might help you to understand that I didn’t make the decision I did for selfish reasons, o-or because I wanted that power. That, a-at least for me, it was solely about the worlds a-and containing the Fears, not… not any alternate personal desires.” Jon hesitates. “I… also wanted to mention it because it… has bothered me. That y-you thought I enjoyed the- the position I found myself in in that world. P-part of me has always assumed that- that you didn’t really mean it, that it was just… words said in anger in the moment. But part of me h-has always wondered if you… you really meant it.” Quieter: “If you really saw me that way.”

“I… don’t know,” Martin says honestly. “I-it was complicated, Jon. I don’t…” He trails off, fiddling with a loose thread on his trousers. “I don’t think you really understand what it was like for me? T-to be traveling through an apocalyptic wasteland with you, the… the Archivist. I know that you didn’t… choose to be in that position of power, a-and I know that you didn’t want people to be suffering. It’s… not about that. It’s- it’s just… I- I felt…”

Something must show on Jon’s face, because his voice is soft and concerned when he says, “Martin?”

“I felt powerless,” Martin manages, voice choked suddenly. There was so much out of my control, he almost says. I felt like I needed to be louder, more assertive, just to put us on equal footing, he almost says. I felt like an afterthought, just a reason to keep you human, he almost says. But he can’t. He leaves the word powerless hanging there in the air, and he doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t think he can make his lips form the words.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says after a moment. “I… can see how you would feel that way, given the situation. But you- you know I never… you know that I never thought that I- I was more or better than you, right?” Jon’s hand twists in the yarn. “We were equals, in my mind.”

Martin purses his lips and nods. Knowing and feeling are two very different things, though. He knows, logically, rationally, that Jon would never have thought of him in that way. But he still can’t help but worry that he did. Can’t help but feel all the negative, awful, swirling emotions that come along with it.

“Is… is that why the smiting was such a big deal for you?”

No. Yes. I don’t know. Martin shrugs. Then, even though he’s aware that he sounds a bit pathetic, he says, “Did you… did you really hate it that much? The- the smiting?”

When Martin chances a look at Jon’s face, he sees Jon’s lips pursed into a thin line. “It’s… complicated. It felt… good, at times. G-getting revenge, hurting people who had hurt me a-and others. But it also felt… bad. I- I would use the Eye to destroy them, and then I would feel this wave of… guilt? N-not for the smiting itself necessarily, though… I suppose that was part of it.” Jon pauses. “I… think it made me feel inhuman. M-more than I already did, that is.”

Oh.

“I’m… sorry,” Martin says quietly. He thinks about it then—really thinks about it—and finds that he’s earnest when he says, “I- I didn’t mean… what I said, w-when we were arguing back then. I was just…”

“Angry,” Jon supplies. “I… understand.” He hesitates. Then, stiffly, like he’s not quite comfortable doing so yet: “I understand, but I… am still upset.”

“I know.”

“A-and I still don’t agree with your sentiments.”

Shorter: “I know.”

“And…” Jon hesitates, long enough that Martin is on the cusp of asking him to just spit it out. Then, he says, “And o-one of those sentiments is the… Oliver situation. While we’re, um. On the topic of the smiting.”

Didn’t we already talk about this? Martin wants to say. But that appears to be the theme of today—talking about things that have already been talked about, beating the dead horse until it’s broken beyond recognition—so instead, he says, “Okay?”

“I- I know that I’ve already brought this up,” Jon says hastily, like he feels the need to justify himself, “b-but I- I think I should clarify my feelings on the matter. N-namely the fact that it’s… something that the more I’ve thought about, the less I see the levity in.”

“Okay,” Martin says again, for want of anything better.

Jon takes a breath. “There is… a sufficient amount of blame that should be placed on me, f-for not alerting you sooner to the fact that I was not… always comfortable with our brief endeavor into serial revenge killings. But I also think that it is fair for me to say that I always felt…” Jon hems and haws for a moment before saying quietly, “I always felt as if it was you who enjoyed it more than me. And… Oliver was one such instance in support of this.”

That… is not how Martin remembers things happening. “I-in my defense, I thought you were enjoying it as well! I wouldn’t have asked if I knew you hated it.”

“Wouldn’t you have?” Jon says it so softly, like he’s admitting a dark truth. It just feels vaguely patronizing. “I said that I didn’t want to kill Oliver. You pushed. Because you were jealous.”

Maybe Martin is more tired now than he was this morning. Maybe it’s been a long day. Maybe it’s been a long few years. Whatever the reason, sharp, bitter frustration is beginning to bubble up within him once again. Maybe it never left. He doesn’t really know. “Because I thought that was what we were doing!” he says, more sharply than he intends. “Killing avatars, making the world… well, better might be a strong word, but you know—a semblance of! And I thought you had agreed to it!”

“I had! But Oliver’s situation… it was different.”

“I didn’t think it was.”

“Well, it was different to me,” Jon bites out. “I get that you- you were jealous of him a-and that you don’t exactly think… highly of yourself—”

Martin can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Oh, no, hold on. That’s not fair. You do not get to bring that into this.”

Jon looks at him skeptically. “I don’t see why not, given that the two topics are related. It’s important to address that your motivations behind wanting Oliver dead were not entirely related to his actions and were likely rooted in your jealousy and low self-esteem. Given your history of—"

No, nope, this conversation is not happening right now. “Shut up. Shut up! You do not get to—”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “I’m just following the natural line of conversation.”

Condescending bastard. Well, fine. If that’s how things are going to be. Martin can play this game too. “Oh? Then why don’t we talk about your belief that your decision is always the right one? How about the fact that you throw yourself into danger because you think your own life is worth less than- than a statement or a-a bit of knowledge? What about your history, Jon? Because I’m not the only one who has issues. But at least I acknowledge mine.”

“Do you? Do you really? Because you never talked to me about what happened in that Lonely house you were trapped in. You hardly said anything about your domain. Hell, we never really even talked about what happened recently w-with the fact that you were exhaling fog.”

“I said plenty about that.”

“Only that it happened and that you weren’t in danger of it happening again. You didn’t say anything about how you felt about it. W-whether it bothered you or not.”

“Well, forgive me for not wanting to talk about the thing that I’ve been trying really fucking hard to leave behind.”

“I thought talking would help!”

“Well. It wouldn’t have.”

Martin glowers at the floor. The carpet probably doesn’t deserve the full force of his ire, but it’s that or glare at Jon, and this feels… safer. Easier.

Then, Jon says out of nowhere, “Did you go with Annabelle because you don’t value your own life?” and, well. Martin finds himself turning the full force of his scowl on the man in front of him.

“Really? Really, Jon?”

“I-it’s a legitimate question—”

“No, it’s an asshole question. It’s the kind of question I might—might—expect my therapist to ask, but you aren’t my therapist, a-and I don’t want you to be! So don’t try to ask pointed questions a-about whether or not I’m suicidal.”

“I—”

“No, you know what? Fuck this.” Martin stands, so quickly he almost knocks his book off the couch. “I’m not going to sit here and get—psychoanalyzed by you right now.”

“I am trying to—”

“Don’tsay that you’re trying to help.”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut with an almost-audible click. “Fine,” he says, his voice like acid. “I won’t try to help. Because god forbid I care.”

Martin laughs, too loudly. “This isn’t caring. This isn’t helping! This is asking fucking invasive questions that aren’t wanted or appropriate!”

“You’re the one who’s been implying this whole time that I went off by myself to kill Jonah and take his place as a-a convoluted way to martyr myself! I really don’t see how this is any different.”

“It just—it just is!”

“How?” Jon laughs sharply. “Please, explain it to me. I’m all ears.”

“Because I’ve explained why I went with Annabelle, and it was not because I- I wanted to sacrifice myself! Fuck’s sake, Jon.”

“And I’ve explained why I left to kill Jonah. I have explained this so many times, Martin—I don’t know what’s so hard to understand!”

“Right,” Martin says with a bitter laugh. “Because it was about saving all the other worlds. It wasn’t about us.”

“Exactly!” Jon makes a wild, frustrated gesture. “Martin, we have had this conversation over and over again. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to say something that makes sense!”

“Well, this makes sense to me!” Jon scrubs a hand across his face. “Christ, we’re… we’re talking in circles. We’re not getting anywhere new, just—rehashing the same old arguments.”

Martin thinks, suddenly, of their conversation a few weeks ago. Of his conviction, lying on the couch that night and staring at the ceiling, that… that this was going to be it. That nothing would get any better and nothing would get any worse and that they would just be stuck in this awful limbo forever.

Martin feels that same fear now. That no matter how hard they try, no matter what he does, nothing is going to change. That they’ll never be rid of this conflict, this constant argument, this tension that never seems to fade or falter.

Maybe it will be this, always. And that thought sends an icy wave of awful numbness washing over him, replacing all of the anger and hurt and pain with… nothing at all.

“You’re… you’re right,” Martin says faintly. “We’re not getting anywhere new. It’s been months, and- and we’re still here. Nothing has changed.” He takes a small step back. The new distance between them feels like a chasm. “Maybe nothing ever will. Maybe… we’re only ever going to argue.”

“You…” Jon’s voice drops to a near-whisper. “You don’t mean that.”

Martin laughs humorlessly. “I really do. And I… I can’t, Jon. I can’t do this forever.”

He takes another step back, seized with the sudden and overwhelming desire to just… not. To not be here; to not be with someone else. (To not be with Jon.) The front door is there, inviting and close, but he ignores it. He… he’s not going to do that to Jon. No matter how angry he is. So instead, he turns and walks toward the bedroom.

“Martin,” Jon says, insistently and a little bit desperately. “Just… talk to me.”

Martin swallows sharply. He doesn’t look back as he says quietly, “That’s not going to help.”

“No,” Jon says, his words so faint they’re almost covered by the sound of Martin opening the bedroom door. “I suppose it’s not.”