Sasha had never been loud, but Martin still felt her absence as an echoing silence. Ever since she’d vanished, Tim had been even more distant, with the occasional sharp word impaling Martin’s attempts at good humor. But he didn’t really mind. It dug at the hollowness in his chest, and maybe that was good. It distracted him from his worry.
The police had taken Jon, after finding the old man dead. He hadn’t tried to run, or even protest, just used that disarming charm that made Martin’s heart flutter, and went along with them. Before he left, he’d rested his hand on Martins arm, fingers lingering on his wrist, and he’d said they’d talk when he returned. And he would return. No one had any reason to suspect a man like Jon of anything.
Least of all Martin.
He stared down at the page in front of him, and tried to think. Dark, erratic scribbles marred line after line of his attempts, but he had to keep trying, had to get it just right.
Odd how my eyes never find you. Stranger still how your skin, Softer than a baby’s breath, Slips over mine like a glove.
It was utter tripe. Martin lifted his pen to scratch it out again, but before he could, the paper was snatched out from under him, the pen scoring a jagged line through the words, but not covering them.
“What’s this?” Jon peered down at the paper with that funny little smile that always made Martin’s stomach roil. He pressed his lips together, trying to hold it back.
“Well, it’s just—well, you know, I write a bit of poetry, and—” Martin made a vain attempt to grab the paper back, but Jon danced out of his reach, ever graceful. A lock of golden hair fell into his eyes, and Martin itched to reach out and touch it. It was so perfect, sometimes he wasn’t sure if it could be real.
“This is lovely, Martin.” He set the paper back on Martin’s desk, and Martin shivered. “Is it about me?”
“I—I mean.” The words stuck in Martin’s throat, and he tried to swallow them back down. Jon was smiling. That couldn’t be bad. “Yes, it is.”
Jon’s smile widened, and Martin froze in place, terror shooting through him. What would Jon do now, that’d he’d pretty much confessed he fancied him? It wasn’t right, was it, to fancy your boss. And Jon was a good man, he’d never take advantage. Even if Martin wanted him so much he ached.
But Jon just gave him a conspiratorial wink. He’d always been a bit of a flirt, but had never turned it on Martin before. The sick feeling was back in full force as Jon conspicuously scanned the room. They were alone, so alone. Martin wrapped his fingers around the edge of the table as Jon walked around it to stand behind him, placing a clammy hand on the side of his neck.
“Don’t tell Elias,” Jon whispered into his ear, then bit down lightly on his earlobe. Martin actually squeaked, and then winced. But Jon only laughed softly, rotating him so they were facing each other. His eyes were glassy, probably from lack of sleep. But it didn’t matter. Martin wanted nothing more than to stare into those eyes forever, in the hopes that someday, Jon would look back.
But Jon’s eyes disappeared from view as he leaned in, waxy lips brushing against Martin’s, hand tightening on his neck.
“Later,” he murmured. Martin shut his eyes, and felt Jon pull away, like he’d never been there at all. Martin didn’t look until the door shut behind him.
Strange, how Martin couldn’t bear to watch him leave.
Fill: Not!Jon/anyone, impersonation, manipulation, creepiness...
The police had taken Jon, after finding the old man dead. He hadn’t tried to run, or even protest, just used that disarming charm that made Martin’s heart flutter, and went along with them. Before he left, he’d rested his hand on Martins arm, fingers lingering on his wrist, and he’d said they’d talk when he returned. And he would return. No one had any reason to suspect a man like Jon of anything.
Least of all Martin.
He stared down at the page in front of him, and tried to think. Dark, erratic scribbles marred line after line of his attempts, but he had to keep trying, had to get it just right.
Odd how my eyes never find you.
Stranger still how your skin,
Softer than a baby’s breath,
Slips over mine like a glove.
It was utter tripe. Martin lifted his pen to scratch it out again, but before he could, the paper was snatched out from under him, the pen scoring a jagged line through the words, but not covering them.
“What’s this?” Jon peered down at the paper with that funny little smile that always made Martin’s stomach roil. He pressed his lips together, trying to hold it back.
“Well, it’s just—well, you know, I write a bit of poetry, and—” Martin made a vain attempt to grab the paper back, but Jon danced out of his reach, ever graceful. A lock of golden hair fell into his eyes, and Martin itched to reach out and touch it. It was so perfect, sometimes he wasn’t sure if it could be real.
“This is lovely, Martin.” He set the paper back on Martin’s desk, and Martin shivered. “Is it about me?”
“I—I mean.” The words stuck in Martin’s throat, and he tried to swallow them back down. Jon was smiling. That couldn’t be bad. “Yes, it is.”
Jon’s smile widened, and Martin froze in place, terror shooting through him. What would Jon do now, that’d he’d pretty much confessed he fancied him? It wasn’t right, was it, to fancy your boss. And Jon was a good man, he’d never take advantage. Even if Martin wanted him so much he ached.
But Jon just gave him a conspiratorial wink. He’d always been a bit of a flirt, but had never turned it on Martin before. The sick feeling was back in full force as Jon conspicuously scanned the room. They were alone, so alone. Martin wrapped his fingers around the edge of the table as Jon walked around it to stand behind him, placing a clammy hand on the side of his neck.
“Don’t tell Elias,” Jon whispered into his ear, then bit down lightly on his earlobe. Martin actually squeaked, and then winced. But Jon only laughed softly, rotating him so they were facing each other. His eyes were glassy, probably from lack of sleep. But it didn’t matter. Martin wanted nothing more than to stare into those eyes forever, in the hopes that someday, Jon would look back.
But Jon’s eyes disappeared from view as he leaned in, waxy lips brushing against Martin’s, hand tightening on his neck.
“Later,” he murmured. Martin shut his eyes, and felt Jon pull away, like he’d never been there at all. Martin didn’t look until the door shut behind him.
Strange, how Martin couldn’t bear to watch him leave.