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Jon's life was good, even if it was a little monotonous. He went to work, where he technically was a research assistant, but where in practice he spent more time sorting files and trying to create an effective system out of the mess than anything else. He went home, made his own food at least two nights a week, and hung out with Georgie at least two times a month – and, more importantly, The Admiral.
Even with the nightmares – dreams of things he could never put into words, terrors like nothing he could ever explain – life was good. More often than not, he was happy. More often than not, he was content.
But, despite that, it felt like something was missing.
~~~
Martin's job was good. It wasn't necessarily what he would have picked, but it paid the bills, and he could read poetry books from the stacks after work, or on breaks. And seeing all these stories – truth or fiction – was even inspiring him to try writing his own poetry again, a habit that was slowly eking out its own time in his daily routine, between cups of tea in the morning and sometimes, instead of reading during lunch.
Even with the nightmares – the ones full of terror, of impossible things, and horrors beyond comprehension, dreams that he tried to put down in his poems, with talk of eyes and worms and loss, and hundreds of different metaphors that were never quite right – life was good. Better than he could have hoped for, really, growing up.
But still, there was something missing.
~~~
Jon was, at heart, a romantic. He didn't show it very well, he knew, but there was still the part of him that yearned for that closeness with someone, that liked cheesy romances and sappy endings. It didn't actually help in the romance department – if anything it had probably led to the breakdown of more relationships than it had helped – but it was a part of him, if hidden.
And it wrapped back to his Mark, really. Black, for romance, and he traces the letters, both insanely curious and filled with longing for someone he has never met, and vaguely concerned for whatever else might come with it.
Marks mean your life has been touched by fate, after all. It's considered a sign of good luck, but… he's really only ever gotten a feeling of foreboding at the thought.
~~~
Martin is a bit of a romantic. He's pretty obvious about it – and, honestly, it's hard to not be a little fond of romance when some people have signs of true love embellished into their very skin – even if he plays it up, sometimes. Just a little.
It's an easy role, is the thing. He likes romance, likes to write poetry, and so it's an easy stereotype to slip into. People don't look any closer, don't try to make him into something he isn't, because he can talk about his poems about love and connection and – maybe a little longing – and he doesn't have to go deeper. They don't see the poems about the nightmares, or about never quite fitting in, about caring and caring and never getting anything back in return, and sure, you didn't do it to get something back but it would have been nice. – about.
About trying to keep a steady job and pay the bills when he hasn't slept through the night in two weeks because of night terrors. About life. About living.
So he acts shy about his poems about romance – and he is! Honest, he isn't really all that proud about his writing – and just. Doesn't mention the rest. Doesn't go any deeper. Even with the poems about romance, he doesn't go into them – doesn't talk about falling in love, about having someone who knows you completely but would never hurt you with the knowledge. Of all the people he's known, only Tim and Sasha have even dug that deep.
Though he'd never told that one boyfriend, who'd found a poem Martin had just started writing and hadn't been planning on sharing – that he'd called "so romantic" – that Martin had meant the phrase "your skin, parted beneath my hands" a lot more literally, considering the nightmares he'd started having around that time.
~~~
Jon traces his Mark sometimes, thinks about the story behind the words. Because there is a story behind them, there has to be. Especially since – well, there's obviously no way to be certain what Jon might be saying, in this as-yet-unknown exchange. But if not the exact content, he feels he can rather guess some of the form.
After all, there are only so many reasons someone might respond "I love you too."
(And, he gets the feeling this reason isn't sarcastic.)
~~~
Martin's Mark is kept covered, for the most part. It's not really common practice for those with Marks, but the content of his implies they'd already met, and at some point, he'd gotten tired of explaining that they hadn't. There's a story behind the words – about the two of them meeting, that much is clear, but, well, he is a romantic, even if he likes to pretend it's just a cover of some kind, and mostly he just focuses on the words themself.
Content over theory.
There's not a lot of context that can be taken from them – not useful context, anyways, in the vein of predicting this unknown meeting.
"No. But I love you." He could lose himself going down a spiral of why's and how's and what's and when. But seeing the words fill him with a sense of warmth, like a safe hearth, out of the cold and storm, and that's enough for him.
~~~
They meet.
Maybe it's in one of the stacks of books and reference materials at the place they'd managed to both work at for years without ever running into each other, out of all people there. Maybe it's at a coffee shop, and they bond over having the same order – or about how objectively awful the other's order is – or over the one barista who prepared both their drinks, and neither one of them wanted to say anything considering it's clearly their first day on the job but they'd somehow managed to completely burn both Jon and Martin's drinks despite them using different machines and processes, and really, how do you even manage that?
And there's – something.
Martin is reminded of those poems he wrote, about blood and fear and death, but also the poems about connection and having someone who knows you completely and you can trust them with yourself, and how themes of the second always managed to make their way into the first without him intending.
And Jon thinks about the nightmares he has, and how he'll wake up from them but there's the feeling of pressure on his lips and a bubble of warmth in his chest that lasts long after the terror dissipates, leaving him feeling giddy and happy for no reason, even more incomprehensible than his nightmare for the medium it sets itself in.
So when they meet, there's – something. There's a tingle on their lips and a light in their hearts. A connection, a recognizing of the other.
But it's not enough.
Not by itself.
~~~
Thankfully, it doesn't have to be.
Because maybe there's something about Martin that Jon finds familiar. But a sense of familiarity doesn't tell Jon how Martin takes his tea, or the face he made when he took a sip only to splutter in disgust at the realization that it was burnt. How he lights up, shyly, hidden, when he starts talking about other people's poetry, trying to hide how much it means to him, but coming across so clearly when he starts to talk about the actual meaning behind it.
And there's something about Jon that Martin finds familiar, but that doesn't hold a candle to watching him continue to absent-mindedly take sips of his burnt coffee, making a face of disgust at the taste and putting it back down, only to forget again a few moments later that he'd hated it and taking another sip. It doesn't have anything on his intensity, how he puts all of his attention on Martin, and what he's saying, even after the conversation opens with him stating that he "knows nothing about poetry and doesn't care to learn," or on how he's gruff and blunt and honestly kind of dour.
But when the same person who burnt both their drinks – the person who was clearly new and overwhelmed – has a customer who isn't nearly as forgiving as the two of them, who walks up with their drink in hand and starts berating the employee. The employee who really doesn't deserve this, and is getting close to crying, and the disgruntled customer is slowly getting louder – Jon clenches his jaw and Martin can see him thinking it over, before he stalks up himself, and all that dourness and bluntness focuses itself on that customer, berating them quietly. And then he looks very awkward, as he continues to stand there when finally they walk away in a huff. And the barista looks very close to crying again, but this time from relief, and he stands very stiff as they thank him, then he nods and says something quietly to them before walking back to the table, ready to pretend he hadn't just done that.
It is a million little things, shared and reflected and adored, and the little things have room to grow into bigger things.
Maybe a bit of it is the aching sense of familiarity.
But that never would have been enough by itself.
~~~
It's not like they fall in love instantly, of course. They share a conversation over burnt coffee and tea, and there's something there – though it's not like they're Bonded, they don't have each other's words, and how could they tell? But when one of them looks at the time and realizes they need to leave soon, the other asks for their number, and they end up texting over the next week, silly little things that don't mean anything, things that are somehow more important for it. For the fact that they're willing to trust the other cares anyways.
And maybe they end up finally meeting again in person when they do run into each other at their workplace, and there's some laughter as they realize they've both worked at the same place for multiple years but they didn't meet each other until they bonded over equally bad drinks.
~~~
The thing about Marks is that they are not some guiding hand, telling you who you must care for above all else. They do not tell you anything you would not find yourself. They are a beacon, a signal for hope, that between bad times there will be good.
They are a promise, one that is never made lightly.
~~~
Martin notices him tracing his Mark one day, asks him about it.
"No," he says "I've never met them. I've no idea what the story is."
Martin hums a bit. "I have one too. A Mark. It doesn't make a ton of sense, either."
They end up comparing Marks. One observes "They could fit together, really." And then they look at each other, considering, but there is nothing more they can learn, no greater observations than the ones they have already made, and so it is put to the side, inevitably, nothing more than a footnote in the story of their lives.
They talk about it, at some point. The Marks they both have, the people who lie at the other end who they'd neither any clue about, and about each other, in the Here and Now, with each other and happy.
They talk around and about and through half a dozen different things, but. Eventually – "What if you would be happier with them? What if this doesn't work?" and "I don't care! I'm happy now! Here, with you. And I'm willing to work, to keep that happiness."
~~~
But that does not mean you need a Mark, to find happiness. Many people have no Marks, and it does not make their relationships any less deep.
A Mark is a promise, but it is hardly the only kind of promise made.
~~~
There's no grand gestures, in the end. There's no kiss, no emotional declarations of love.
There is just Jon and Martin, in Jon's flat, existing. Jon is making a korma, Martin has just put the kettle on. They happen to meet eyes from their own corners of the cramped kitchen – and it's hardly like it's the first time, either. But there has never been this moment, of them, in their flat, completely content and so perfectly happy.
"Oh." Martin states, a lifetime's worth of memories slotting into place as if it had always been there, which it had, in a way.
"Hello." Jon replies, dumbfounded.
"Yes. Hello."
And neither of them could say who moves first, but then they're hugging, they've collapsed on the floor and wrapped around each other. Something in the back of Martin's mind somehow finds the mental process to be thankful that they'd been in the flat when this had happened, picture if they had been in public, really – and the rest of him is rather busy with the feeling of Jon in his arms, the tears that started leaking from his eyes at some point.
The words "We're safe." And "You're here." And "We made it." And "I love you." Get tossed around, back and forth and probably each phrase is repeated two or three or eight times, but really, they deserve it, after everything.
At some point after they finally relax from the stress of surviving the apocalypse itself, Martin realizes the kettle has been whistling for a few minutes already, and Jon rescues the food before it can burn.
There's good food, and tea.
There's laughs, and tears, and after everything, joy.