Chapter 6

Jon tugs at his scarf for what might very well be the ten-thousandth time in the last half hour. “What if they don’t like me?”

He doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands, is the thing. It’s been getting colder in the evenings this time of year, and the nice pair of gloves that Sasha had gifted him for his birthday last year have been lost sometime between March and September to the recesses of his unmanageable closet, leaving him hopelessly devoid of something to pick at. Tonight, the latest victim is his scarf. Earlier, it’d been his shirt, of which he’d managed to unravel the entire bottom seam before he’d left work in a fit of nervous energy.

Martin must notice this, because he takes Jon’s hand, curls his own around it, and then tucks the both of them into his coat pocket. “You’ll be fine. They’ll like you— well, Melanie doesn’t like anyone, but the others will like you.”

Jon frowns, wiggles his fingers in Martin’s grasp but doesn’t fight back. “But what if they don’t?”

“Jon,” Martin says sweetly, a little exasperatedly, “really. Has anyone ever disliked you straight off the bat?”

“Yes,” Jon retorts. It’s no secret that most people find him abrasive and unpleasant to be around — it's honestly a wonder that he has the friends that he does. “Many times. You didn’t like me when we first met.”

“I thought you were an arsehole,” Martin corrects, “I never said I didn’t like you.” It isn’t the firmest rebuff of his statement, especially when Jon remembers the arguments they’d had early into their relationship (still do now, too, but with more affectionate mockery mixed in), but Jon always did have something for people who weren’t afraid to put him in his place. For people who weren’t afraid to get their hands dirty.

“Yeah, well,” Jon says petulantly, wiping his runny nose on the back of his hand. “I just don’t want to get us both kicked out.” He remembers how the man guarding the meeting had looked at him like he was a piece of meat on a butcher’s block (Jared, Martin had called him — said that he runs a gym but had worked briefly at a library in the past, which Jon thought was just about the world’s funniest cosmic joke). It isn’t that Jon expects to fight any of them. It’s just that, should one break out, he’s not sure that he could hold his own against all those teeth. Talk about being thrown to the wolves.

“They won’t kick us out,” Martin assures him with a squeeze of his hand. “And if they do, I’ll make sure to give them all a piece of my mind.”

Jon’s mouth twitches up into a smile. “My hero.”

“Hey, I saved your arse from Julia, didn’t I? And that jerk at the bar a few months ago?”

“I’m pretty sure that was Tim and you’d gone to the loo.”

“Well, I would have saved your arse,” Martin says with a nudge, and Jon chuckles despite himself. “You know, if I wasn't in the loo.”

“I don't doubt that a bit, dear,” Jon replies with a reassuring pat on his arm. He doesn’t dare single out the way he notices Martin swell up a bit in pride at that; whatever gesture of saccharine domesticity strokes Martin’s ego is Jon’s secret weapon and Jon’s alone, thank you very much.

Martin leans over, rubbing the fuzz of his cheek against Jon’s temple in an almost-kiss. “Well then,” he says sweetly, “you shouldn’t doubt me either when I say that they’ll like you. I’m sure that—”

“Martin Blackwood, finally showing his face.”

Both of them freeze at that — Martin, at the words, and Jon, because he’s hopelessly tangled up in Martin’s limbs that he has no choice but to stop too. He silently mourns as Martin untangles them to turn around towards the source of the voice.

The brief moment of sorrow is quickly replaced with distress as he looks back with Martin to see a familiar face. Two familiar faces, to be exact, though Jon can’t for the life of himself remember their names: a woman with a shaved head and an old denim jacket patched over and stitched up in red floss like blood (he can only read two from the distance between them — one for a supposed band called Grifter’s...something, and the other inviting him to “experience dyke rage for yourself,” of which Jon has to politely decline), and a man who Jon can’t be certain has changed clothes since the last time he’d seen him. Maybe it’s just the fact that he’s dressed in all black. Maybe it’s the fact that he towers over both Jon and Martin that makes Jon’s heart pound against his chest hummingbird fast. What’s faster than a hummingbird? He feels as small as one under his shadow, fighting off the kneejerk instinct to make himself even smaller. To pull back his ears and tuck his tail between his legs and hide behind something big and strong and safe. Is it too late to make a run for it? Maybe he could—

“M-Melanie! Gerry,” Martin says, putting a hand on Jon’s shoulder to force him back into his own body. He walks the both of them forward to meet the pair, Jon’s legs like puddy underneath him as he jerkily follows Martin’s lead. “Jon this is...well, Melanie and Gerry. Guys, this is, um, Jon!”

“I’m Jon,” Jon says too quickly, then winces at his own social blunder — christ, are you even paying attention? He swallows, sucking in a few measured breaths before trying again. “I-I’m Martin’s...” he begins, before realizing that offering up that sort of information is a little presumptuous when they still technically haven’t had the talk yet — but maybe not saying it is worse, because what if Martin expects him to say it? But then again, he equally could not expect him to say it and stumble into an awkward conversation in front of two strangers, but then he could not not—

Jon shakes himself out of his thoughts. Focus, man. “...Martin’s...Jon,” he settles on finally.

Great going, Jon. Nailed it.

Melanie raises an eyebrow as she looks up to Gerry, a look passing between them that Jon can’t hope to understand. “You’re Jon?” she says after a moment.

“Um,” Jon says, wheels spinning in his head as he attempts to parse her tone. “Yes...?”

That seems to be the right answer — or, at least, the answer she was hoping for, because her face splits at this into a downright dastardly grin. Christ, she has a lot of teeth. A lot of very sharp teeth that are all pointed in Jon’s direction, and he has the sudden urge to hide behind Martin’s arm and growl at her. She lets out a soft, breathy laugh in what might be...disbelief...? “Oh hoh, okay then.”

“Not exactly what I was expecting,” Gerry says mildly, “but I can definitely see it.”

Wait, what? “Um,” Jon starts, “sorry...?”

Melanie’s little laugh has morphed into what can only be described as a devious little chuckle. “Martin has said a lot about you.”

“Um!” Martin squeaks.

“O-oh, really?” Jon says, glancing up at Martin to confirm. Martin has talked about him? He supposes it’s not that implausible, given how much he’s spoken about Martin himself to his own friends, but the idea does spark something in him, warm and fuzzy and just the slightest bit giddy. Martin has talked about him. “All good things, I hope...?”

“Oh trust me,” Melanie says, just as the stoic line of Gerry’s mouth twitches, and he looks away. “The way he talks about you, we’d been expecting a unicorn that shits rainbows.”

“Melanie!” Martin snaps, flushing a dark pink.

Jon laughs before he can stop himself, smothering it quickly with a cough as Martin shoots him a glare as cold as ice. “I never knew you felt that way, Martin,” he says, only the faintest hint of smugness creeping into his tone.

“Oh, shut up,” Martin snaps back. He turns his gaze upon Melanie. “Must you share every private thing about me?”

“Oh, you were hardly keeping it private,” Melanie rebuttals. “Just last month you were saying about how you were going over to Jon’s place, and we all—”

“Why don’t I tell everyone about your little podcaster crush, hm? Since we’re sharing inappropriate details with the world now apparently.”

Melanie’s eyes go wide, her face pink, her nostrils flaring in a way that gives Jon the premonition of Martin being about two words away from getting bitten himself. “That isn’t— you don’t—”

“Oh it isn’t, is it? See, I’d say that story I heard said differently—”

“Martin Blackwood, I swear to—”

Jon steps back out of the way as their arguing pitches. Best to keep out of the crossfire. Best to let Martin do whatever...posturing contest he seems keen on doing with this strange woman with all her smooth, sharp-polished edges. Jon thinks he likes her, in a way. He can’t say he hasn’t had his own fun annoying Martin. Even if the, ah, hm...subject matter does make him a bit flustered thinking about it — Martin was talking about him. Martin has talked about him enough that these people he’s only just met can recognize him by name alone. Martin was apparently excited enough about being invited to Jon’s dingy little flat that he had to share it with his whole group, which— okay, it’s only just now occurring to him what sort of implications that might hold, but he doesn’t particularly care about that. Hm. Maybe he should invite Martin back. It has been a while. The five in the morning cry session they’d had over the weekend doesn’t count, and really, he’d like—

“Sorry about them,” Gerry — christ, Jon hadn’t even heard him approach, the jolt of surprise hitting him square in the chest — says. “They can usually hold it until they get inside, but...well.” He towers over him in a way that Jon remembers finding intimidating at first without knowing his intentions, but now it seems the man’s casualness is what’s truly disarming about him. He fiddles with one of his snake bites, seemingly waiting for the conversation to continue.

“Oh, r-right,” Jon says, practically feeling his conversational skills spilling through his fingers like sand. “They seem, uh...th-they seem...close?”

“Think they’re just too similar as people, in all honesty,” Gerry says, then looks over at him. It definitely doesn’t help the intimidation factor that he has to be painfully handsome on top of everything. Not in the way Martin is, exactly — Gerry doesn’t have Martin’s smile, or his soft edges, or his sweet, dangerous voice — but more so someone he might have found himself smitten with in high school. An unattainable, not-at-all-his-type-and-yet-completely-fascinating type of attractive. Or maybe it’s just— god, what had Tim called it? “Gender envy”? Jon finds the term a bit silly, but he can say that a lot of his “crushes” over the years have seemingly aligned with some internal goal rather than a need for an actual relationship. “You here for the meeting, then?”

Meeting...? Oh, right. God, he’d nearly forgotten; somehow just the reminder of it is enough to set his nerves on edge once more. “Oh, uh, yes!” Jon says quickly. “I’m um. We’re...attending, yes.”

“Cool,” Gerry says, kind enough to overlook Jon essentially socially pissing himself. But maybe...

He hadn’t really thought about it, but if they’re also going to the same place, then that means—

“Are you...um,” Jon starts. Stops. He doesn’t know how to put this. He doesn’t know if there’s some...some unspoken werewolf etiquette about speaking of these things that he doesn’t know of, and if bringing it up is going to get him bitten. Again. Or worse. He’s not sure how far a “sorry, I just got here three weeks ago” excuse would go over. Jon clears his throat. “Are you...like us?”

Gerry looks at him for a moment, eyebrow quirked. Jon can feel himself blushing under the scrutiny, but he can’t say why. “Uh,” Gerry says, “you mean...queer...?”

“What? N-no, I mean—”

“Oh. Oh, okay, good, good,” Gerry interrupts with a sigh, “get kinda worried when people have to ask that I’ve unconsciously started dressing like my mum without realizing.”

Jon laughs at this. He doesn’t mean to. He just can’t help himself when he’s standing next to a man in leather lace-up boots and eyeliner whose biggest concern is apparently people assuming he’s straight. Jon clears his throat, trying to push the smile off his lips. “Sorry. Um, I-I just meant, are you...um...”

Jon starts to gesture to his nails, but stops, realizing they aren’t exactly giving anything away after Martin had helped file them down and painted them a nice shade of blue. Much nicer than Jon’s job he’d done in reciprocation, painting most of Martin’s finger in the process. Frowning, Jon looks over himself, trying to find another body part to convey his message, before ultimately pulling at his lip and flashing his jagged teeth.

“Oh,” Gerry says after a moment of looking at him like he’s got two heads, like it’s only now just clicking into place, “you mean a werewolf?”

Okay, well. He supposes that’s one question about the social conventions of this whole debacle that’s been answered. Jon doesn’t know why he still struggles to say the word; perhaps it’s not the fact that it feels too strange to refer to himself as such, but rather...rather that it feels too right. Feels too much like putting on an old pair of winter boots you haven’t worn in a while. “Er, y-yes,” Jon says, “a...werewolf.”

“Melanie is,” Gerry says, nodding over to where the woman is still arguing with Martin, and— okay, so Jon doesn’t want to stereotype, but he can see it, if he looks close. He can see the sharp points of her nails and her teeth, can feel the smoldering heat radiating from her as she glares at Martin like she’s going to rip him apart. “I’m...hm,” Gerry continues, “it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?”

“My mum’s side was kind of a whole mess,” Gerry makes a vague motion of dismissal with his hand, “y’know how it is. I won’t bore you with the details.”

Jon desperately hopes he will — a little spark of needling curiosity hooking its claws into his shoulders — but doesn’t press. Not yet. He’s only learned about the existence of werewolves a few days ago, and the thought of there being even more things out there lurking just beneath the veil of humanity is almost too much to handle. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. “Oh,” Jon says, thinking for a moment before asking, “Um, could I ask why you’re here, then...?” He’s quite certain Martin specified this meeting as for werewolves and werewolves alone. At least, that was the impression he’d gotten from Jared when he’d attempted to follow Martin the last time.

Gerry shrugs lightly. “It’s the only non-human group in the area that isn’t run by a whole bunch of wankers. Plus, the free food.”

Jon doesn’t snort at that. That wasn’t a snort. He coughs into his arm to cover the noise-that-was-not-a-snort. “Right.” Jon likes Gerry, he thinks. He’s less intimidating now that he’s talking, with a sort of laid-back energy that makes it feel like he’s known the man a lot longer than he has. Still devastatingly cool, though. Jon can’t even hope to compete. The piercings aren’t helping that fact, and Jon idly wonders how many he has.

“Fifteen,” Gerry says without preamble, “though I’ve been thinking of doing another helix lately. Haven’t decided yet.”

Stunned, Jon stares up at him. “How did you—”

“It’s a question most people ask,” Gerry shrugs, as if predicting Jon’s thoughts are no big deal. “Either that, or how many tattoos I’ve got.”

Jon isn’t sure he buys that answer, but doesn’t press. Instead, he narrows his eyes, and asks, “...How many tattoos do you have?”

“Not enough,” he answers with a cheeky grin. “You got any?”

“Me? O-oh, no,” Jon says. He’s honestly never given it much thought. He’s long since accepted that he’s typically going to be the boring one in whatever group of friends he’s communing with; the farthest he’s ever toed over the line was a single helix piercing he’d gotten in uni with Georgie, but that has long since closed after he’d gotten his library job.

“Well, if you ever do,” Gerry says with a wink — and no, Jon doesn’t blush, thank you, he just...gets a bit warm is all. Probably is a bit overdressed for the weather, “you let me know, and I’ll put you in touch with the right people. Do a little bit of pointillism myself, too, but I’m not sure that’s exactly your style.”

“Gerry,” Martin calls over from the momentary lull in his heated discussion, “will you please stop trying to sell him something?”

“Yeah, Gerry,” Melanie pokes in, “stop flirting with Martin’s boyfriend.”

“Melanie—!”

Gerry laughs a little at this. It’s a nice sound, easing some of the tension in Jon’s shoulders he didn’t realize he was carrying. These are people Martin trusts. These are people Martin feels safe around, and in turn, Jon thinks he may learn to feel the same. And sure, maybe he’s still a little bit irritated at only getting to learn about this side of Martin’s life now, after everything, but...but he’s glad that Martin has friends like these. He’s glad that Martin’s life isn’t as lonely as he feared it might be.

Gerry gives him a nudge on the elbow, a friendly gesture like he’s known him for years — is it strange to say that he feels that way, at least? — and nods towards the building ahead. “You want to go inside? I can introduce you to some of the others while they finish...whatever it is they’re finishing.”

Jon looks over to Martin, his— his boyfriend, he supposes. Huh, that’s quite nice, isn’t it? He’d never really gotten the chance to think of him as such the first time around before they were ex-boyfriends, and holding the word in his head makes him feel a bit warm. Martin’s face is pink from exertion as he argues with Melanie — something about of great ecological importance, and something about the integrity of research, which Jon finds a little funny. Martin wouldn’t know research integrity if it bit him in the ass. It makes him a bit nostalgic, in a way, remembering the first time they’d had a proper conversation was just after Martin had blown up at him about some textbook on house spiders. Maybe he just likes when Martin actually stands up for himself. Maybe he’s just a little bit hopelessly in love with the man.

Jon looks back to Gerry, flashes a half smile at him, and says, “Yes, that— that’d be good.” Gerry nods and turns off towards the long, looming building of whatever new world awaits him.

And then Jon takes a deep breath, lets his heart thump loud enough for everyone to hear, and follows after him.

Jon is not asleep.

Not quite. Not exactly. Yes, his eyes are closed, and yes, he’s not exactly sure where they are at this point in time, but he’s still generally aware of his surroundings. The cold chill of glass against his cheek. The radio, playing some soft nineties pop music. The sound of Martin humming along as he wraps his fingers on the steering wheel, quietly, as if not to wake Jon without realizing he already is so. It feels...like it should be like this. It feels right.

Jon wagers that they’ve been driving for over an hour now. The traffic had been heavy out of London, but now the roads are quiet around them as they step into the countryside. Jon’s never been up to this area before, but Martin says it’s nice this time of year. Lots of empty campgrounds and wide open forests. Good spot for running, just as they plan to do tonight (tonight, Jon thinks anxiously, it’s tonight, just like they’ve talked about, and no amount of ignoring the little moon symbol on his phone is going to change that) after they meet up with Martin’s— er. Martin’s...support group, he supposes.

“Please don’t call it a pack,” Martin had said when he’d taken Jon to lunch before the first meeting. “It makes us sound like some bad erotica novel.”

And Jon had laughed at that without meaning to, spurting the drink he’d been sipping on through his nose. Somehow, it’d gone over well after that, despite the snot and spray of soda.

It’d been a nice evening, actually. Not what Jon was expecting in the least. He’d been so nervous when Martin had brought up meeting those similar to them that he’d chewed his nails bloody that morning. God, what was he getting into? Here he was, a— a-a newly...birthed? bitten? Transformed? A newly formed thing (he still has trouble saying the W word. He doesn’t know why. It isn’t that he doesn’t believe in them now, obviously, it’s just that he’s quite certain blaming all the shedding and the smell and the weird instinct he kept having to beat down to sniff damn near everything on “that time of the month” is only believable insofar as his behavior doesn’t cross completely over into the absurd. Which it has. He’s quite certain Tim and Sasha think he’s losing his mind. Sasha had offered him a heating pad she kept in her desk the other day though when he’d gotten particularly snippy, and he can’t say he doesn’t appreciate the somewhat misguided gesture), and now he’s off galavanting with a whole pack (ha) of strangers who could rip him limb for limb if they wanted to.

Not that they would, Jon doesn’t think. Maybe Melanie, if he steps on the wrong feet tonight. Or Daisy, but she’s more likely to go for Martin’s throat than his.

...That’d been the other surprise about the meeting, when he’d arrived and seen his friend of nearly a decade leering behind the drinks table.

“Daisy?” Jon had said, unable to be fully shocked or scared or overjoyed. Just...confused. Confused to see Daisy in a nice button-up with her hair actually brushed, only then realizing that they’d known each other that long and he’d never seen her outside of a hoodie.

“Daisy?” Martin echoed, somehow even more bewildered than he was.

Daisy had nodded at him, downing whatever juice filled her blue plastic cup and crinkled it in her hand. “Good to see you too, Sims. Glad you’re still in one piece.”

“What are you doing here?” Jon asked.

“Same as you, I suppose,” Daisy smirked, teeth sharp as thumbtacks, like the dog that had bit him as a child. “Honestly, I’m surprised you never noticed it.”

“Honestly...so am I.”

“S-s-s-s-s-s-sorry,” Martin butted in as he stepped between them, seemingly torn between who to look at as his eyes darted back and forth. “Your friend Daisy is Alice Tonner?!”

“Call me Daisy one more time, Blackwood, and I’ll rip your throat out.”

And. Well. Jon wouldn’t put it past her.

So Jon’s not awake but not asleep. Kind of. He’s letting himself float in and out of full awareness at the moment, only focusing on the warmth of the late afternoon sun on his face, because everything has been so loud today. Louder than usual. He’d called out of work after snarling at his toaster this morning, not willing to risk embarrassing himself with his own jumpy nerves, and he’s quite certain Tim and Sasha think something is seriously wrong with him. They’ve been texting him every hour the entire day. Probably doesn’t help that Sasha had seen the tail end of his almost-panic attack the other day, when he’d come stumbling out of the bathroom after discovering...something on his back. Right at the base of his tailbone, a little fleshy nub just above his waistband. Martin had to talk him down from that one over the phone, ensuring him that it was normal, it happens, it’s alarming but it’s nothing to be worried about; he’d even picked him up after work and taken him for ice cream as consolation. And sure, maybe Jon felt a bit silly about crying over the fact that he is apparently growing a tail, but it’s a lot, okay? It’s a lot of new things all at once. A lot of things that are only made a bit easier to bear when he has someone as patient as Martin to explain them to him.

So it’s a bit loud in Martin’s car, with every part of him already on edge. The rattle of a cup of blue-gold dice in Martin’s back seat keeps startling him no matter how bumpy the road, and the lingering smell of a sandwich from god-knows-when is only making him hungry. Maybe they can stop somewhere for food. Maybe he can pitch the idea once he’s feeling ready to be more fully awake, to let Martin know he’s awake, and they can make a date of it. He wonders if this counts as their third date. What was the rule for third dates again? Kissing or having sex or saying “I love you”? Jon supposes it doesn’t matter too much. It’s not like they’ve done anything in the correct order anyway.

The car is beginning to slow, then comes to a stop. Jon hears the creak of the gear shift as Martin puts the old thing into park (it’s an awful old vehicle — it’s red, too small for the both of them, and smells like stale cigarette smoke from a previous owner — and yet Jon has oddly found himself becoming attached to the thing. It fits its owner in a way he can’t describe), then goes to turn down the music. A hand rests gently on his shoulder.

“Jon, love,” Martin says softly, “we’re here.”

Jon isn’t sure he wants to be awake yet. He’d quite like to nap. He’d quite like to climb in the back seat and shove aside all Martin’s group project supplies he still hasn’t gotten rid of before pulling Martin back there with him and kissing him for as long and as leisurely as he likes. He doesn’t do that. He instead peeks one eye open, winces at the harsh light, then stretches out his arm.

“I’m awake,” Jon says, voice creaking in a way that directly contradicts that statement. He grinds his palms into his eyes, rubbing away the sleepiness. “I’m awake, I’m up.”

He can hear Martin smiling at him, even if he isn’t looking. “Y’know, I’m a bit envious of your car-sleeping abilities. Can’t say I can ever manage it myself.”

“Wasn’t asleep,” Jon rebuttals, “just resting my eyes.” He blinks hard, letting the scene outside resolve into as clear of a picture as it will get without his glasses, which have likely fallen somewhere between the seats. He’s not sure he even wants to attempt to stick his hand down there to find them and risk being made aware of how Martin treats his mass-market paperbacks.

It’s a campground, he reasons. At least, that’s what it looks like they’re sitting in the parking lot of — he can see a few cookie-cutter cabins off by the treelines, a camper here and there on the wide stretch of field ahead of them, a menagerie of picnic tables painted in old graffiti, but the rest of the place seems empty. Just a few boys with fishing rods and a man and his daughter playing fetch with their dog, all tinged in the russet browns and oranges of mid-autumn leaves.

Jon looks over to Martin. “Where are we?”

“North,” Martin says, “a bit outside of Cambridge.”

“Oh,” Jon says, looking back to the window. “And the others...?”

“Er, probably won’t be here for another hour or so. I-I figured we could walk around a bit? And get acquainted with the place before...y’know?”

“Mm,” Jon hums, stretching out his legs which have begun to feel terribly cramped from all the sitting. His ankle pops as he rolls it. “Probably a good idea.”

Martin had explained it to him a little, in the best way he could. The whole process of being and then...and then unbeing. Becoming something else. It wasn’t so much the process itself that left an uneasy feeling in his gut, but more the final destination. The uncertainty. The unknown of what he’d feel, what he’d see, what he’d understand when he clung so tightly to his own perception.

You’re still you, Martin had told him, holding him close on the sofa where he’d spilled his anxieties to him, you don’t lose yourself really, it’s more like...more like taking off your filters. Like it’s you in your simplest self.

Jon didn’t know how to explain that that was somehow even more terrifying than the idea of waking up naked in the woods the next day with no clue how he’d gotten there; he didn’t know how to explain that he didn’t know his simplest self, couldn’t trust that part of him, couldn’t expect that bit of himself to keep the rest of him safe when he’d spent so many years cultivating the person he is today.

He does trust Martin though. He trusts Martin, and he supposes that will have to be enough.

Jon pulls his seat back up into upright position, adjusts his jumper, and reaches for the door handle. “Right. Well then, let's—”

“Um, Jon, you might, uh...”

Jon looks back to Martin, eyebrow raised. “Hm? What?”

Martin opens his mouth. His lip twitches wordlessly, eyes scanning over him in an expression that Jon can’t put a name or emotion to. “You just...um. You. Er—”

“What?”

“Hang on,” Martin says, then unbuckles his seat belt and cranes his torso to rummage through the back seat floors. Jon watches, holding his tongue on a smart comment about cleaning out his car every so often. He’s pretty sure he spots a party hat from Tim’s birthday two months ago in the mess, along with a pair of trainers, a hand mixer, and— good lord, is that his diploma?

“Ah!” Martin spouts triumphantly, plucking free the item he was seemingly looking for as he snakes back around to the driver's side. He holds it out to Jon, who doesn’t have any other idea of what to do other than take it. “Here just— you might want to, uh, put that on? At least until the sun goes down.”

Jon looks down at the item in his hand, and only after turning it over does he realize it’s a beanie, knit blue with a white stripe around the base. He frowns as his hand snakes up to scratch his neck. Is it that cold out? Sure, it’d been a bit chilly when they left London, but a scarf seemed to suffice just fine, and it isn’t like—

Jon’s hand freezes where it rests just below his ear. What was his ear. What was smooth and hairless and definitely not that shape as he traces a finger up the side, over fur and up to the tip-top that flicks away under his touch—

Jon slams down the visor and flips open the mirror. Okay, well, the tail was— a lot, he’ll admit, enough to make him panic, but this change only makes him annoyed when he sees himself. This is just ridiculous. “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking—”

Martin makes a noise. Just a little thing. Just a barely there sound that draws his attention over to the man, who sits staring out the window with his lips firmly pressed together. Jon shoots him a look. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” Martin says, obviously laughing as he struggles to keep the stupid smile off his face.

“You are! You are so laughing!”

“I just— it’s— they’re cute.”

Jon’s expression snaps into a scowl. “They are not cute.”

“They’re a little cute.”

“Martin Blackwood, I swear to—” Jon reels in his frustration for long enough to cram his— his fur, christ, up under his cap before he goes for the door handle. “Stop giving me that— I’m getting out of this car.”

“Jon—” Martin’s saying as he opens the door and climbs out. He hears the driver’s side door open as Martin follows suit. “Oh, c’mon, I’m not allowed to find you cute?”

“I’m not cute,” Jon says petulantly, arms crossed tightly across his chest as Martin comes around. He keeps them there as Martin puts his arms around him, resolute enough to firmly broadcast his disdain, but lets himself be pulled into a hug. “Don’t think I’m not taking note of how completely unaffected you are.”

Martin laughs a little at this. It’s not exactly true — Martin’s grown most of a beard nearly overnight, and the prickle of his nails is evident as his hand trails up and down Jon’s back — but Martin holds himself together in a way that Jon can’t even hope to mimic in his nervousness. It makes Jon a little embarrassed of himself. A little nervous, like he’s already fucking this up when he hasn’t even had a full month of...everything. “It’s just first-time jitters,” Martin assures him, “and, well, hormones. Your body getting used to everything and all that. I was the same way, but you get used to it.”

You get used to it isn’t exactly helping his present situation, but. Well. “Could I, um...” he starts, muffled into Martin’s coat before he frees his mouth from the fabric trapping, “could I ask...when your first...?”

Martin thinks for a moment, resting his head against Jon’s. “I think I was thirteen...? It was, um— well, turns out that going through puberty twice at the same time is kind of genuinely awful?” He chuckles. “God, I remember I was so unbelievably sweaty that I seriously thought something was wrong with me, and I mean, sure, you can’t exactly predict that sort of thing, but a little heads up from my mum would have been—”

“You were bitten when you were thirteen?” Jon says softly, wide eyes looking up at Martin. He thinks back to the photo he’d found of Martin from high school, baby-faced yet much too thin for the man he is today, and the thought makes his chest ache just a bit. To imagine that Martin going through that.

Martin raises an eyebrow. “Hm? Oh, n-no, I wasn’t— my dad was one, but, um, m-my mum didn’t exactly...tell me this...? I’m...I think she was just hoping that I wouldn’t show any symptoms and never brought it up, but it turns out it’s a bit different with y’know, genetics.”

“Oh,” Jon says, which he supposes makes more sense. Martin doesn’t speak of his mother often enough for Jon to have gotten a full picture of her, but from the muddy snapshots he’s managed to piece together in their time knowing each other, he’s quite certain the two of them wouldn’t have gotten along. Probably for the best she was long gone before they met. Then something else springs to mind and Jon frowns, looks up. “Wait, but what about your shoulder?”

Martin blinks at him. “My shoulder...?”

“You have that— that scar, on your shoulder that looks like a dog bite, I just...I-I don’t know, I thought—”

Jon stops himself as he looks up to Martin’s face. Up to Martin’s wide eyes. Up to Martin’s complexion, first starting at a sickly pale before darkening like a timelapse sunburn. All the way down to his collar. All the way down to his chest, Jon knows from personal experience, and takes great delight in having that little factoid to himself. “U-um,” Martin says, voice coming out more of a squeak than anything. “That— er, well, you see— um. That wasn’t...well, there was this guy—”

That catches Jon’s attention, pulling him forward. “Oh, there was a guy,” he says, now thoroughly fixated as Martin grows increasingly flustered.

“Yes, shut up. There was a guy I went out with for a bit, and he had a tendency to get a little too teethy, and it really is not as interesting as you think it is, Jon, please—”

“No, no,” Jon insists, smiling smugly up at him as he tucks his arms around Martin’s midsection. “Please continue telling me all about your past flings, since you’re always so keen to poke fun at mine.”

“I don’t— I don’t poke fun,” Martin protests, “literally all I said that one time is that I had no idea how you and Georgie ever thought you were compatible—”

“We were in university! I was still too busy believing I was straight to make good decisions.”

“—As was I, okay, so you really can’t play double standards here,” Martin argues back. “And it’s not like it matters now! I haven’t heard from him in years. Christ, he actually finished his degree as far as I know, he’s probably up in Edinburgh with some nice tech gig.”

Jon blinks at the words. “What?”

“What?”

“You—” Jon wets his lips. “What do you mean ‘actually finished his degree’?”

Martin blinks back. Opens his mouth, works his jaw back and forth. “Oh. You— you don’t...ah. Hm. Well—”

“...Martin.”

“See, Sasha figured it out when she apparently ran a background check on me, and I just figured you— I just thought she would have...told you...?”

Alarm bells ping in every nerve of Jon’s body as he stares up at the man. “Martin, what the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s not— it’s not bad—”

“You’re kind of making me think it is!”

“Well, okay fine, it’s a little bad, but it’s not like it really affects you, I just—”

“Martin!”

“I faked my degree, okay!”

Jon’s hands lose their hold on Martin’s sides, slowly, then all at once as they drop back to his own sides. He takes a step back. Takes in the full scope of the person standing before him. “Martin. What.”

Martin seems to aim for a sheepish smile, but the expression misses its mark and ends up more of a pained, awkward twist of his lips. “I sort of...embellished some things about my education...?”

Jon gawks at him as he processes the words in his head. “But I saw you,” he says dazedly after a long moment of silence, “y-your picture from university, you were on the crew team—”

“Well, yeah I went there,” Martin corrects, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just didn’t, um...graduate...? I mean, I was going to, but my mum got sick, and I couldn’t be so far away from her because we couldn’t afford live-in care, a-and so I dropped out, and then I had to pay for her medication so I just, um, s-started putting it on my CV that I...y’know...and it turns out most people don’t actually check those sort of things? A-and I mean, I did finish my degree eventually — online, at least, so that I could apply for graduate school, but that wasn’t until she’d already passed and I wasn’t working full time, and—”

Jon’s only half hearing the rambling explanation spilling out of Martin’s mouth. The gears in his head whir and clunk as his thoughts come together, disjointed at first, then all at once— “Wait, hang on, was that what was up with your names?”

Martin stops his rambling, raising an eyebrow. “My names...?”

“Your— J-Julia, she um. She showed me some of your employment records,” Jon says, pointedly leaving out anything else she’d alluded to, “and s-sort of...alluded to some animal attacks, but I just thought—”

“Oh my god,” Martin gawks, mouth hanging open to his whole mouth full of sharp teeth. “Wait, is— is that why you thought I was doing something illegal?!”

“No! Well, okay, maybe a little,” Jon scrambles, waving his arms, “but really, I didn’t— it was that or that you killed someone, and I really didn’t think—”

“You thought I killed someone?!”

“No! No, no no no, it was just a possibility, I didn’t actually—”

“Jon.”

“I didn’t! Not— not seriously at least. I mean, that’s why I followed you to your meeting, to prove to myself that—”

“Jon, oh my god, we need to have a serious conversation about your self-preservation instincts,” Martin chides, taking Jon’s face between his hands, and firmly shutting him up, “and your taste in men.”

Jon tries to frown at him, but his cheeks are squished between Martin’s hands. “Well, I like you,” he says, equally irritated at being cut off and cheeky at having Martin’s full attention — lovely, irritating Martin. The angle is nice though, Jon thinks. Good for appreciating the round shape of Martin’s face, the little roll of fat under his chin that looks in desperate need of kissing. “And you’re a man.”

“Yes, well.” Martin sounds as if he’s trying to be firm, but a smile chews at the edges of his lips. “Not exactly a resounding testament to your judgment there.”

Jon laughs a little. He places his hands over Martin’s, pulling them away from his face so that he can hold them. “You know, Tim’s going to kill me when he finds out about us,” he says. That’s partially Jon’s fault, he supposes. It’s going to be a bit difficult to take back some of those things he’d spouted in his drunken litany post-breakup to a supportive audience of one, who was always quite keen on letting Jon know that he could kick Martin’s ass if he wanted. Jon had never taken Tim up on the offer, but he doesn’t doubt that he could. “Well, me and then you.”

“So...” Martin begins, “how long should I be avoiding Tim if I want to keep my neck...?”

Jon hums as he taps his chin. “I could be...persuaded...to put in a good word with him for you.”

“Persuaded?” Martin says, squeezing Jon’s hands. “And what might be the cost of this ‘persuasion,’ Mr. Sims?”

Jon thinks about the question for a moment. He silently beckons Martin a bit closer, glancing around at the few other park-goers flitting about in their own worlds. The man and his daughter and their dog. The boys with their fishing poles. The couple getting out of their car with a cooler and a picnic bag, to which Jon takes note to do the same the next time they come up here.

“Maybe something like this,” he says, placing his hands on Martin’s cheeks.

Jon kisses him. Holds it there for as long as he cares to, as long as his breath will hold as he cradles Martin’s face in his own hands, not caring who else sees. He loves Martin, and Martin loves him. That’s all. Everything else is just a walk in the park.