Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Cats," Oliver had said to Jon during one of their training sessions, "like to know their place in the house– which is, of course, the head of it. They take our affection and protection as their due, and they're not afraid to be demanding when we forget."

He stretched out his long legs, joints popping, and Maisie had twitched her tail and her ears but kept her eyes on the hand with the treats. She was utterly focused.

"We can think of ourselves as superior to them because we have physical power," Oliver went on, "we decide the feeding times, we can close doors to keep them out, we can open cupboards and buy toys and generally make decisions. But anyone who's ever owned a cat knows that a human in a cat's presence is merely a convenient servant. Popular culture would have us believe that it's a thankless job, but we know that's not true."

Oliver held out a hand to Maisie, who rolled over onto her back at his gesture, and then sprang back up for a treat at his click. Her rumbles filled the air.

"Affection. Healing. Companionship," Oliver continued, scratching Maisie behind the ears. "Perhaps they could live without us, but they'd be miserable."

"And so would we," Jon said, holding out his own hand. Maisie sniffed his fingertips, then barrelled her entire face into his palm.

"Yes," Oliver said, and Jon had felt Oliver's gaze move from Maisie to him. One of Oliver's small, secretive smiles was on his lips. "Yes, we would."

***

Oliver had been furious– furious– when they'd explained their routine to him. It had been a shock after how excited they'd been to figure it out. And Oliver's anger was a strange thing, cold and gray and soaking, like sheets of rain coming down. Just as quick as the rainstorm it emulated, it had disappeared.

"I'm sorry," he'd said, his voice soft and polite as usual. "You aren't wrong, exactly. I'm upset because I didn't think to explain further, I just assumed– well."

And he'd gone on to explain that the catplay wasn't enough, Jon needed to be able to eat regularly– that the play was a way of curbing the hunger, of learning to control it, but it wasn't a replacement. It was no good for Jon to starve until they played together– animal abuse, Oliver had said, with the ghost of a smile– and so they established new routines. And Jon…well, Jon hates it.

He's learning how to siphon fear. It's difficult, he doesn't like moderating himself, and filching little bits of fear from people still feels invasive on one hand and horribly stale on the other. Following the analogy they've established, he supposes it's like feeding a cat dry kibble. It does what it needs to, and he's in no place to refuse it, but it's not real.

The relief comes when they have their sessions and Martin gives him something fresh. Martin dangles the statements in front of him in pieces, bits of freshly-killed carrion, and Jon turns into a barely-controlled, feral thing. The urge to overpower Martin, to steal the statement straight from his mind, is almost overpowering. But with the statements come training, and no matter how Martin strings the statement out, he always leaves the bulk for the end so that Jon gets more than a mouthful at a time.

It's wonderful. It's awful. Jon still hates himself, sometimes, but he feels good. He feels things more strongly, focuses more easily, finds affection easier to come by. And Martin's work at the hospice is good for him, too– even when he comes home with his fingers stained transparent blue and sobs for an hour into Jon's lap, he's expressing emotions and reaching out, and he's healthier. They're closer than they've ever been.

Maybe that's why Jon is less afraid than he perhaps should be when he reaches out to the local embodiment of all-things-end, and asks him to meet them at the club.

***

It's a weekday when they arrange to meet, and the club is quieter than usual. Jon's not in latex, just a plain black t-shirt and black jeans that makes Oliver laugh for some reason when he sees him. At Jon's glare he moves in with friendly confidence and takes Jon's chin in his hand, holding him to his side for a moment. It's so fast that Jon just goes pliable instead of freezing or fighting. He feels like a ragdoll.

"You're dressed like a dom, Jonathan," Oliver says with one of his easy smiles.

"Oh," Jon says faintly, because he's doubly pinned between Oliver's arm and his flat, reflective gaze. "I didn't bring anything to change into." The words leave his mouth without him planning what to say. It's an odd feeling. Had Oliver compelled him, somehow? But no– Oliver's abilities don't work like that.

Oliver just chuckles again and leans in, brushes their noses together. His hand is still holding Jon's head in place. There's a bit more pressure on Jon's throat, not nearly enough to choke him but enough to emphasize where Oliver's hand is, and Jon swallows reflexively. For one thrilling, terrifying moment he's certain Oliver is going to kiss him.

Instead Oliver steps back, keeping his arm loosely around Jon for a moment before letting him go completely.

"I don't think you need to change," Oliver says. "It suits you."

Oliver fingers press into Jon's side for one more moment, and Jon feels like his body is centered around that single, non-erogenous point. Jon grunts, startled. Oliver smiles.

"Martin's back," Oliver says, nodding to indicate the doorway leading from the restrooms. He moves ever so slightly away.

Oh dear, Jon thinks to himself as he makes his way towards their reserved room with determined, if perhaps overly-focused, intent. This is probably a bad idea.

But that's probably why he's doing it. That, and the fact that Martin doesn't want him doing a scene with Oliver alone, not yet. And Oliver doesn't really do hints as much as saying "when are you going to show me how much you've learned?" (which is, fortunately or unfortunately, exactly the kind of question that makes Jon want to prove himself immediately) so now he finds himself facing both of them, at once, in a small private room in a kink club in Glasgow.

Martin probably has library patrons that come to this club. Jon probably has students here, too, except he can manage his single teaching course online, and he's adamant that none of his students ever see his face. Would they recognize his voice? God, he hopes not.

And Oliver…who knows, with Oliver. He doesn't speak about himself much, and Jon hasn't figured out a way to ask. It's an odd feeling– he's never been reticent about asking questions before. If he really wanted, Jon could just know. He's trying not to, and so far, it's working. But he's curious.

And he's distracting himself, because there's nothing that makes him feel less like starting a scene than feeling under-prepared and intimidated, and he feels both quite acutely at the moment.

"Right," he says testily, because Oliver and Martin are chatting amicably about their volunteer work with each other and not paying any attention to him. If the supposed dominants aren't going to take the lead, then he bloody well will. "Are we going to do something, or should we just go down to the pub to have a chat?"

Both pairs of eyes turn to look at him at once. Jon stiffens his spine and knots his hands into fists against his side.

"Impatient," Martin murmurs, with a tch of his tongue. "Checking in with Oliver isn't a crime, Jon."

Jon cringes internally at the disapproval in Martin's voice, but aloud he scoffs and narrows his eyes.

"If you'd rather have each other's company, I might as well go and watch one of the demonstrations and get something proper to eat–"

Oliver clicks a small, black device in his hand. Jon feels it like an electric shock, even though of course it isn't, it's just a sound, and Oliver's fiddling with it like he didn't mean to make it click, but– "We haven't started yet!" Jon snaps at him.

"You're the one who wanted us to get moving," Martin reminds him, still with that air of almost matronly disapproval. "If you don't like it–"

"Maybe I will leave, if that's what you're suggesting," Jon retorts.

It's then that Oliver simply…sits down. He folds his long legs across each other and puts the clicker down beside him, and waits. He's not blocking the door, he's not doing anything, but Jon's bravado hits against that blank space and falters.

Martin glances at Oliver, then at Jon, and then he sits down as well. Now Jon is the only one standing, it's less power somehow, and he feels– he feels exposed. His mouth is suddenly dry. He glances at the door, wondering if he can get a glass of water. He imagines opening it, going back into the club proper, getting a drink, and then…simply leaving, because dear god he wouldn't be able to walk back in here knowing what's waiting.

"Are we having playtime on the floor, now?" he says with as much acid as he can fit in the tone, because he's already dying of embarrassment and he needs to lash out at something. How dare they team up on him like this? It was supposed to be…it was supposed to be nice, wasn't it? "Well. I didn't sign up for 'little' hour, or whatever it's called, so if you'll excuse me…"

He doesn't move. Martin smiles down at his hands, clasped demurely in his lap. Oliver just waits.

"Why don't you sit down, Jon?" Oliver suggests, after just a bit too long. Jon glances at the door again. He doesn't know how to give in, now. "Come on, kitten. You can do it."

It's the cajoling tone that does it, suggesting, as it does, that Jon might not be capable of the simple act of sitting down. He sits, with a huff. Oliver nods.

"Good kitten," he says, and then something touches Jon's mind– a curl of something, a tendril of fear, there and then gone. Jon jerks forward with a gasp, eyes rolling back. In the split second it connected with him, the touch felt invasive. It felt like a finger on the back of his spine. It felt wrong.

A fine tremor goes through Jon's body, knowing that Oliver can and will do it again. The anticipation is delicious.

He wants it so much he's nearly salivating.

A click. Jon's head jerks up, mind focusing after the whirl from that brush of fear.

"Come, kitten."

Jon doesn't bother getting up, just crawls awkwardly across the floor. When he reaches Oliver's knee he waits, curling his fingers in to stop his hands from shaking.

A brief smile on Oliver's face, and then a hand in Jon's hair, holding his head still.

"Good boy," Oliver murmurs. The touch on Jon's mind, when it comes, is less of a touch and more of a subtle iciness. Jon tastes iron on the back of his tongue. It doesn't hurt until after it's already gone, like realising you've pricked your finger on a nail only when you see the blood. Jon lets out his breath, forcing it to stay steady.

"Martin?" Oliver asks, and Martin nods and unhooks the messenger bag from his shoulder. He pulls out a mask and holds it out to Jon, asking for permission with his gaze. Jon nods.

The moment Jon's sight leaves, he sinks into the twilight haziness of his cat-space as if it's the only thing that's ever existed. He kneads at the ground to reorient himself.

When a hand touches his shoulder he flinches automatically, and then makes an apologetic sound and seeks for the hand again with his face. It touches his shoulder again, then his cheek. Jon leans into it.

A click. Jon tilts his head towards the sound, waiting.

"Let's put you through your paces a bit, shall we?" Oliver says, his voice slightly muffled but still sounding excited beneath the even tone. Jon feels an answering elation billow up around his heart, his lungs, filling his chest. It's a game. And he's gotten so very good at it. Any vestigial embarrassment vanishes, and he's focused on the chance to show Oliver what he can do.

Oliver goes through several commands at a time before rewarding Jon with that sliver of fear. With a bit of concentration, Jon can tell– can taste– that each bit is from a different person, a different life, a different terror. It's like scanning the table of contents in an anthology, getting an idea of what each chapter contains. He can sense which ones are interesting, which ones are completely and charmingly novel.

After too many boring slivers, Jon hears the click and Martin's command– Martin is showing off some of what he and Jon have practiced– and Jon simply…doesn't respond.

Another click, and the repeated command. Sit–heel–wait. Jon's supposed to sit back on his heels, palms up, and wait. Instead, he tilts his head towards Martin's voice to acknowledge the command and then insouciantly lies down in a sphinx-like pose.

"Jon," Martin says, exasperated and embarrassed. "Fine, then." Click. "Touch?"

Jon tilts his head towards the last place Martin was, considering it, and then goes back to sphinx pose. He doesn't care to perform for uninteresting scraps.

"I'm sorry, are we boring you?" Martin asks. Jon gives him as much of a look as he can behind the mask. Oliver chuckles.

"And there it is," Oliver says warmly. "I was wondering how long it would take. Let's see… was this more to your fancy?"

A slightly wider sliver of fear, like an eyelid cracking open just enough to show the color of the iris. A story. One of the interesting ones, one that Jon wants to dig into. He groans as it's taken away again, not enough, not enough–

"Let's try that again, shall we?" Oliver suggests. A click. Jon shudders, his mind still trying to capture the bit of terror Oliver showed him, to get his fingers into the crack and throw it open.

"Sit–heel–wait."

Jon rests back on his ankles before he can think about what he's doing, and then he waits, palms up, letting the soothingly familiar actions take place of whatever thinking he's supposed to be doing while his mind is a screaming whirling barrage of hunger.

"Good kitten," Martin says softly, and Jon grunts. In the strangely open mind-space the fear-offering left, Martin's words feel like a caress on the back of his shoulders.

"Wait a moment," Oliver says softly, and not to Jon. Jon hears the squeak of leather, and knows Oliver is holding out his hand to tell Martin to wait.

Jon takes the chance to let his mind come down from the dizzying state of need. He wipes saliva from his lips with the back of his hand. He feels exhausted and buzzing all at once.

"Alright," Oliver says, after an indeterminable amount of time, and there's another click.

"Down, kitten. Wait."

And so it goes on. Jon's mind slips into something warm and soft and dark, like a black plush blanket. He's aware enough to know he's dissociating, letting his body respond to the commands he's given without having to parse through them. Then he loses even the awareness of that–drifting simply into the state of receive and response, with no commentary from the back of his brain at all.

At some point, Oliver stops offering the fear, and Jon doesn't even notice. It doesn't matter as much as the smooth, steady rhythm of listening and reacting. Neither Oliver nor Martin ask him to do anything that requires thought or anticipation.

There's a low shift in Jon's gut, like he's falling, or drifting, and when it settles he's somewhere new and nowhere, all at once. He can still feel Martin and Oliver's presences. They grow to feel like great, weighty idols, faceless pillars of some lost and ancient religion standing guard over an empty, rolling landscape– a dim desert, the sand moving rapidly from black to gold.

And Jon…Jon is a simple cat, playing in the weathered sandstone road between the idols. He sources their will and dances with it but he is, ultimately, free from them. They're grand, comforting, awful things created by creatures who didn't know any better; he is their equal and their greater and he doesn't have to prove it to anyone, they know, but they do like to play with him, their kitten.

Fingers of heavy, weathered stone stroke over his head and down his spine. He arches to catch more of their touch, fur ruffling in the sunshine. Rumbling voices sing low, esoteric chants above him.

Jon rubs against one of the still hands, the great legs. He stretches and yawns and then flops onto his side against their weather-battered feet. The sun is warm. There are sand dunes stretching out across the plains of his slit-eyed vision, but no other living creature.

A lizard comes near, skittering and far too bold, and he paws at it for a bit before resting his head back on his stretched out front legs and enjoying the sun again. It's a terrible sun, he knows. The shadows of this shrine, too, are terrible. There is a reason no others visit here. There is a reason the creatures who made this shrine left it to the elements. There is blood beneath the sand: blood and dark and loneliness and death. He is a creature of all these things, and more, and so he is content to brave sun and shadow to be in this peaceable place.

"Bring him back," ghosts a voice over the wind. There's a sound like scarab wings clattering together.

"Kitten."

Jon lifts his head and then rests it down again, blinking sleepily. Why are they calling him? He's right here.

He drifts again, for a bit, on the corner of sleep. The sun changes. The shadows fall across him. He shivers and ruffles his fur up, closing his eyes tightly in denial.

More beetle-clicking sounds, closer together. It's almost like one click, magnified and echoing. Jon rubs his paws over his ears and tries to ignore it.

A pair of thumbs dig into his spine, massaging, and Jon makes a gutteral noise that doesn't make sense from a cat's throat. A hand reaches up under his hair, lifting it from his neck. Fingers scratch gently over his scalp. It seems like there's more than four hands on him, the way he's being pressed in on all sides.

A click, a single click, gets his attention. It's a jolt, a shadow that reaches into him, blanking out the sun and the sand and the shrine, and making everything dark and tight around him.

"Jon," a voice says, in the tone of someone who's repeated a name several times. Jon tries to point his face towards it, but everything feels diffuse and directionless. "Hey, kitten. Five more minutes, I think, hm? And then we'll wind down."

No, Jon thinks stubbornly, trying to claw out for the sun again. His arms feels stiff, and wrong.

"Five minutes will seem long enough," the other voice tells him gently. "All things end, kitten. And you're getting anxious, aren't you?"

Fingers dig into the back of his neck again and Jon groans.

"Good," Oliver says softly. "That's good, Jon."

Oliver.

The knowledge of ending hits Jon like a freight train, and he moans as he comes back into his present, his body, the reality of where he is. Oliver's fingers are still on the back of his neck, kneading.

Shit, Jon thinks helplessly as his body bows under Oliver's pressure.

There's a click, and Jon raises his head, blearily trying to focus, uncertain that he wants to.

"Right here, kitten," Martin says softly, and then Martin's fingers are under Jon's chin, gently but firmly directing his head where to go. He makes a sound, and Martin's thumb passes over his lips.

"You're doing so well," Martin says. Jon whines. Oliver is behind him, keeping him closed in. They're suddenly very real, and very close. When Martin puts his palm flat to Jon's chest and pushes him Jon grunts and falls back, caught between them.

"That's it! Good, kitten. What a good boy."

Oliver's hands are around his biceps, holding him still. Martin's fingers trace over his chest, lower, finding the hem of his shirt and then moving up, under, against his skin. Jon gasps and starts to pull his knees in, but there's two rapid clicks and he stops with a moan.

"That's better," Martin says. His fingers move again, reaching up. They brush casually over a nipple, and Jon throws his head back with a hiss, pushing his feet into the ground, his back pressing into Oliver.

"God, he's sensitive," Oliver murmurs next to Jon's ear.

"Isn't he just?" Martin says, sounding smug.

Martin hikes Jon's shirt up so it stays tucked under his armpits, exposing his chest completely. Jon's not cold at all, he's not even uncomfortable, but he's anxious. Jon tries to lean back again, and only succeeds at pressing harder into Oliver.

"It's okay, sweet thing," Oliver says calmly. "You're okay."

Jon mewls helplessly. It's too much, he wants to say, but that's ridiculous, because all Martin and Oliver are doing are touching him. Martin's palm goes flat against his chest again, over his heart, and Jon whines, squirming.

He's there, with them. He's distant. He doesn't understand what they're doing, or why they're doing it. They're not issuing orders, now. It still feels good. It feels huge, and frightening.

When Martin starts tracing over his scars, all Jon can do is pant and moan and shiver in Oliver's grip. He rocks his head back against Oliver's shoulder, then up, then back again. There's the faintest bit of stubble against Jon's temple–Oliver's so clean shaven he must use a straight razor–and Jon nuzzles against it as much as he can. He doesn't know if it's Oliver's chin or his cheek or his upper lip but he knows it feels grounding, that he likes how it feels.

"There we go," Martin says. Jon has a flash of guilt that he's not paying attention to Martin, but then there's a brush of skin over his stomach and he flinches back automatically. Martin clearly is capable of getting his attention. "I almost thought he'd passed out."

"Oh, he's been drifting in and out," Oliver says, and the words make more and less sense all at once. "I certainly understand a bit more. Hard to tell what–" Jon loses the thread of what Oliver's saying for a moment, and picks it back up at, "--close relationship."

"Well, we've been through a lot," Martin says. He sounds proud, pleased. Jon hums in pleasure as well. He doesn't quite know what's been said, but he has the sense that Martin and Oliver are…getting along? It's good. He's happy about that.

He tries to nuzzle against Oliver's face and frowns when it's not where it was before. He strains his neck back, searching, and mews impatiently when he can't find anything.

"Mm, sorry kitten," Oliver says, and rubs against Jon's cheek from the other side. The change in position is disorienting, so Jon decides not to think about it. He just enjoys getting what he wants.

Someone is petting his chest, his sides. They're firm enough that it's not ticklish, even though it should be. Jon relaxes more.

"I think–let go of his arms?" comes a disjointed phrase. Some of the pressure around Jon's body eases. He automatically curls to his side, knees drawn up, tucked against the wall behind him. He doesn't remember that the wall is Oliver until it shifts, and a weight wraps over and around his shoulders.

"--sweet–" Oliver says, in the midst of something else.

"--hear you–doesn't like–" Martin replies. He sounds amused. Both of them seem happy. Jon sighs and grips reflexively at Oliver's shirt, kneading. Martin is stroking his back, now. He assumes it's Martin. It's a slightly warmer touch than Oliver, and slightly damp.

Jon takes a few, deep breaths to make sure he's not hyperventilating. A hand rubs over his chest, avoiding his stomach. His head is still tipped back by the hand in his hair. He has no conception of how he's being held, just that he is, and that it's almost too much to handle. But it still feels good, so he stays in it stubbornly. There's a twitching, overstimulated energy rises in his fingers and toes but he can push it away for now, just like the memories.

"Jon, kitten. Are you okay? Do you think you can get up?"

Jon shakes his head, pushing back against the waves of sudden fear that come crashing down around him. The presence of the weathered idols are suddenly back: real, huge, threatening.

There's no sun, only cold shadow, and Jon knows all at once that he's done something wrong. Time is slipping through his fingers, an endless trickle of sand through an hourglass, waves on an endless beach, the ocean a black sinking void, a void, an endless void, everything ends–

"Get the hood off him. Now," Oliver suddenly says, sharp. Hands move to unsnap the cat hood. Jon feels like he's falling, dizzy, until suddenly he can see again and the world clicks back into focus. The imagery, the static, both quiet into background noise. As his adrenaline drops, Jon slumps back into Oliver's arms, gasping.

Safe. He's safe. All three of them, in Glasgow, in this world, this timeline. Alive. They're alive.

"Jon?" Martin asks, and Jon mewls quietly and burrows his face into Oliver's chest. Safe. Martin's fingers stroke his cheek, and Jon turns to catch them in his mouth. Martin relaxes his hand and moves closer, letting Jon use him like an infant's dummy. "Sweet kitten. Good boy."

Martin's strokes Jon's hair with his free hand. Jon senses rather than sees the look he gives Oliver.

"Something to, haha, to keep an eye on," Oliver says. "Three avatars in one place generating the power we do can be a bit…much. And with Jon partially cut off from Beholding–"

"Maybe we should wait to talk about this, yeah?" Martin interrupts. He strokes his thumb over Jon's temple. Jon groans around the fingers in his mouth.

"...Right," Oliver says. "How are we doing, kitten? What a good boy you've been. You've got all your dead weight on my lap, did you know that?"

"Was that a pun?" Martin asks, affronted. Oliver chuckles.

"Do you want to take him before my legs fall asleep?" Oliver asks in lieu of answering.

"Give him here, then." With a good amount of effort, Martin and Oliver manage to roll Jon into Martin's lap. Jon curls up against him at once. Martin is warm and comforting. Oliver's hand strokes down his back, dry and cool even through Jon's shirt.

Jon adjusts his grip around Martin's arm and then continues holding him. He lets Martin's hand rest against his mouth.

"Where did you go, Jon?" Martin asks quietly. Jon makes himself open his eyes, to look into Martin's face despite the persisting unreality.

"Somewhere else," he says hoarsely, and Martin jerks as if Jon had just stabbed him with a pin. Jon shakes his head. "No, I meant…"

What had he meant? He's suddenly unsure. Can he know that he hadn't…tapped into some other world, some other version of them?

A version where Oliver and Martin were long-lost gods and he was a desert cat. Yes, Jon. Very likely. Not at all conjured of subspace and cat masks.

Jon takes a deep breath and lets it out before sitting up in Martin's arms.

"I'm alright," he says, and allows himself a smile. "I feel…quite lovely, actually."

"Do you want the statement now or later?" Oliver asks. Jon has to take another steadying breath at that. Martin's hand finds his heart again and rubs soothingly.

"Later is fine," Jon says weakly.

"Aftercare room," Martin murmurs.

"I don't want to disturb anyone," Jon says.

"Do you need to read it aloud?" Oliver asks.

"It, um. I don't, but it feels better that way," Jon replies.

Oliver smiles again. Then he gives Martin a glance, like he's looking for permission for something, and then he leans in and presses his lips to Jon's temple.

Jon's hands tighten on Martin automatically. Something unspools inside of him, even as he sits unmoving. His heartbeat is unnaturally slow, and he knows it's because of Oliver, about how close he is.

The moment Oliver leans back Jon's heartbeat picks back up with all that that kiss had surged into him, and Jon turns his head, thinking to catch Oliver's lips again, to pour that energy out.

Oliver is already too far away. Jon's left staring at him, uncentered and wanting and spurned.

"Let's get you fed," Oliver says, as if nothing had happened, as if Jon wasn't alight with a thousand sparkling pieces of attention all focused on Oliver, on Oliver kissing him, on the need to return what Oliver had just pressed into him with chaste lips.

"Yes," Jon says, several seconds too late. "Yes, alright."

"Still not all the way back, love?" Martin asks in an affectionate murmur. He brushes Jon's hair back from his forehead, and Jon shivers at the touch. His skin is alight. His chest is tight. He has the strange, sudden urge to go for a run, or a swim, or something hard and physical and free.

"I…I am feeling…a bit…" Jon searches for a word, thinks odd, and his tongue stumbles back to antiquated terms, "...queer."

Martin snorts. He stands, helping Jon up. Jon leans heavily into him, already losing track of what they're doing, the conversation.

"Hungry," he murmurs.

"Yes, love, we know," Martin says, taking Jon's hand and tugging him gently towards the door.

Ten minutes and one statement later, Jon is as sated as he ever is, and fully energized. They do go to the pub, after all, and of course there's trivia, and after a concerned conversation with Martin to make sure he's not feeling overwhelmed by people they join a team. Oliver knows a lot about historical dates, even in this timeline, and Jon is salty over the fact that his missed answers are correct just not here, thank you, and Martin thrashes them both soundly in the musical and popular culture categories.

"It's a good thing we're all on the same team," Oliver comments over his beer.

"You know that means we have to split up next time," Jon raises his eyebrows in challenge. "Make it fair for the rest of these sorry sods."

"Never!" Martin declares, slamming his own pint to the table. His eyes are alight with the mania of competitive nerdom. "I will never give up an advantage."

"Christ, Martin," Jon chortles, knocked out of his deadpan by the sheer magnitude of love he feels for this man.

A waitress swings by to pick up empty glasses, setting her tray in her hip. "Need anything else, loves?"

"I'll take another," Jon says, then remembers his companions might not feel as energized as he does. "Er, unless–"

"Another Tennent's," Oliver slides his empty pint over.

"Swill," Jon mutters, making a face.

"We don't all have your posh Oxford tastes," Oliver shoots back.

"I'll take another ale, sure," Martin says, polite, and then smirks at both of them when the waitress leaves. "Oh, come off it, Jon. You do have posh tastes."

"Not always!" Jon protests, aggrieved. "But I'm not going to drink that piss-water."

"It's a local classic," Oliver leans in. "Are you really going to insult the fine people of this city?"

"Yes, if it means being a person of taste," Jon says. Martin snickers and kicks him under the table.

"Stop, you're going to get us shanked in an alley on the way home."

"It would be worth it for the maintenance of my dignity," Jon says, and Martin kicks him again. "Ow! Shove off, Martin."

They order chips when the waitress returns because Martin thinks they need something to soak up the alcohol, and neither Jon nor Oliver are inclined to disagree. The waitress, who has been gabbing familiarly with every table she stops at, seems on the verge of commenting on the way Jon's hand is resting on Martin's arm– a friendly how long have you been together, or something similarly innocuous and vaguely supportive– and then her gaze hesitates on Oliver, and she stumbled over a "you lads seem to be having a good time," before heading off to the kitchen.

Jon looks at Oliver and is surprised to see that he's actually leaned close enough to Martin to be playing idly with one of his curls. He's bouncing it between his fingers like a spring. Martin either hasn't noticed, in the excitement of his current rambling rant about What Library Patrons put in Books, or he doesn't mind.

Jon knocks his foot against one of Oliver's legs. Oliver gives him one of his small and steady smiles, one of those that says he knows exactly what he's doing and what he means by it. Jon swallows when Oliver sits back again with a stretch, only to reach out and take Jon's hand instead. He rubs his thumb across Jon's knuckles in a similarly deliberate way.

Lord, Jon thinks helplessly. He's going to need to talk to Martin about this. God, he doesn't want to have a conversation about it. There's no evidence that Martin won't be supportive, but…

"... Jon's been doing research."

"Hm? I've been doing what now?" Jon snaps back into the conversation with a start.

"You've been researching the changes. Trying to figure out how long the Fears have actually been here."

"As long as we have, haven't they?" Oliver asks. He looks troubled at the implication that that might not be the case.

"Yes and no," Jon says. "Martin and I…we were the last to be pulled through. The, um. End of the reel, as it were. There's evidence to suggest that some of the Fears arrived earlier than others, that some of them had a foothold before the rest, and the time to, er, split and develop uniquely to this world."

"What was the first, then?" Oliver asks, his eyes reflecting flat.

"Well, w-we, we don't know," Jon says with an awkward shrug. "It's difficult to track down an event that has no…no known occurrence. We know it happened because it had to have happened, but no one else was looking. Any number of esoteric texts, ancient cataclysmic myths, um, sudden outbreaks of war or terror– I mean, we were never in a world without them, so it's easy to attribute various events to their influence. But that's not to say that, that people aren't entirely capable of–"

"Doing shitty things on their own," Martin finishes.

"Right," Jon says.

"But?" Oliver asks. "You must have an idea, or you wouldn't be looking."

"Well, yes," Jon sighs. "I suspect one of the primordial fears would be the first–Dark, or so on– or perhaps the Web, since it's due to its influence that we're here at all. But there's actually some evidence that the Desolation might–"

"Here's your drinks, loves," the waitress interrupts, setting them down along with the basket of chips. Jon startles and feels himself flush. He's past caring if most people think he's mad, but he also feels a bit of defensive fear for the people of this world. It's a constant war– to tell them, to warn them, or to keep them in ignorance. It makes him an arbitrator of knowledge in a way uncomfortably similar to Jonah–or, even worse, to a sort of Christ-figure. Antichrist.

Oliver's eyes seem to grow deeper, less like black granite tombstones and more like the yawn of an open grave.

"I'd like to hear about it," he says, and very pointedly interlaces their fingers, "later. Maybe not in a pub."

Jon's neck heats again at Oliver's smile. He knows Oliver wasn't flirting with his suggestion, but Jon's suddenly tongue-tied all the same.

"Right," he says breathlessly. "A-Another time."

Oliver squeezes his hand, and Jon feels his eyes widen.

"Later," Oliver says again, his eyes dark and promising.

They turn the conversation to lighter things, but Jon isn't quite able to get rid of the lingering goosebumps on his skin, and he can't ignore the way Oliver doesn't let go of his hand, or the way Martin's hand steals possessively over his thigh. By the time they say goodnight and part ways, he feels off-balance from more than the alcohol.

"You're drunk," Martin declares as Jon flops dramatically against him for their walk to the subway.

"Mm not," Jon says.

"Well, I am," Martin says, and giggles. "And, okay, yeah. Fine. You're right about Oliver."

"Course I am," Jon says. "What am I right about?"

"He's…he's nice. For being a death avatar and all."

"Hm," Jon hums. "I'm not sure nice is the right word."

"He's nice the way I am," Martin allows.

"So…not?"

Martin pushes Jon's arm and Jon stumbles a few steps away, laughing.

"Oh, come on! You've said as much!"

"That doesn't mean I want you to say it!" Martin grumps.

Jon leans back into Martin's side, liquor-warmed and fully-fed and smugly content.

"He was playing with your hair, you know," he confides, leaning his head against Martin's shoulder. It's an awkward position while they're walking, but it feels too nice to stop.

Martin goes pink. "I know."

"Oh," Jon thinks about this. "You didn't stop him."

He hopes Martin takes the invitation to say more. He can tell from Martin's pursed frown that he at least received the message.

"I…" Martin hedges, and then grasps at humor again. "Maybe he thought I was you."

Jon gives him a scathing look for this. "Martin."

"Well, I don't know!"

"I don't mind," Jon says carefully. Martin's face burns even brighter. "I mean, if…you have a good…rapport."

"I'm not interested in him like that," Martin says quickly.

"You work well together," Jon says. He feels his own flush creep up higher. "I should know."

"Yes, well. Um." Martin coughs into his hand, looking everywhere but at Jon. "Yeah, it was...it was good. Tonight. It might've just been because it was the first time, but. Um. I wouldn't mind trying again. Sometime. If you wanted that. He's actually pretty good at–"

Martin cuts himself off so quickly that he squeaks, leaving Jon dying to know the end of the sentence.

"He's good at what?!"

"Nothing!"

"You can't leave it at that!"

"I absolutely can, and I am."

"Martin!"

"Nope. That's all you're getting from me, Jonathan Sims. And don't you dare try to just know."

"I won't. Because you're going to tell me."

"I absolutely, positively will not. We're moving on. Oh, look! There's the tram!"

Jon needles him mercilessly the rest of the way home, but Martin doesn't budge. For a while, teasing his boyfriend is the only thing that matters in the world, and Jon is infinitely grateful for it. He's even more grateful for his life when they open the door to find their cats caterwauling for a late dinner, and for the eventual pile they make in bed– Martin's arm flung across him, Maisie between their feet, Master of the Universe a purring lump above their heads on the pillows.

Miserable without them, Jon thinks sleepily to himself, and passes into a dreamless sleep.