#ace flavor: who knows? not even Jon

[sm0kebreaks]

It’s really beautiful that we can all have different interpretations of ace Jon’s approach to asexuality. I’ve always been a little frustrated that they didn’t make it clearer in canon that he’s ace (as you say, thirdhand gossip is really not a reliable source there) but that’s only in the sense that I’d really prefer clear representation since we already get so little- and that would be regardless of his stance on sex. As it is, we have what we have and that allows for everyone to project onto Jon their own ace experiences. Not to even mention that we’re talking about fan content- who tf cares whose interpretation is “canon”, you know? Ace Jon in all his flavors means a lot to a lot of us and that’s what matters.

There are so many things about tma that are way better to talk about than whether or not someone is allowed to make Jon sex favorable. I love seeing sex favorable Jon, even as a sex repulsed ace myself- the best part of asexuality for me is that I’m part of a community of such broad experiences and I really wish other tma fans would see that beauty too.

In short, you’re absolutely valid and thank you for sharing/making sex favorable jontent, it’s a wonderful contribution to both the ace community and the tma fandom. Wishing you the best 💜💜

i replied to the weong ask and meant to post this one but i dont have more to say besides i agree its amazing what a vast spectrum all our experiences are

[rosy-cheekx]

Hypothetically

 @aspecarchivesweek Day One: Wish

I wish to make you happy.

Jonathan Sims/Georgie Barker

This was it. Jon fiddles with the pale green collar of his shirt; eyes focused resolutely on the version of himself in the mirror that hung on the wardrobe in his student flat. Tonight’s the night I’m going to ask Georgie to…

He shakes his head to himself, wincing at the end of that sentence. He knows what he’s going to do tonight, what he wants to do tonight, what difference does vocalizing it make, even if it’s just to himself?

Glancing down at his watch, Jon chews his lip. He was meeting Georgie at the bar in thirty minutes. The bar was ten minutes away…He should probably leave now, right? In case he needed to find them seats or use the loo or if the walk ended up taking longer than the dozens of times he’s been there before? He doesn’t want to be late, that would just make everything worse-

Huh. He’s pacing. Jon forces himself to stop and stands in the middle of his bedroom, wrapping his hands around his sides, thumbs digging into his back, feeling his diaphragm push his ribs out and in as he breathes, focusing on the solid movement of his body. Why am I so nervous? His therapist had talked to him, years back, about identifying sources of his anxiety. He hates that it works, hates that it means confronting his own brain and acknowledging his faults.

Is it the bar? No. This bar, The Addison, is one of the few pubs Jon actually enjoys. It’s always got a bit of a draft so even in the busiest nights it never feels like the heat of the room is inescapable. Jon’s not the biggest fan of beer, per se, but he can knock back a pint with the best of them, so long as he has something in his stomach first, and the pretzels and beer cheese The Addison makes are his favorite. The thought of them make his stomach growl.

Is it Georgie? No. He has a lot of strong feelings for Georgie, feels comfortable being himself around her. He drops his stuffy academic persona and can be his regular, less-stuffy-but-still-academic self, the one who speaks to her flatmate’s cat in a higher-pitched voice but still with proper Queen’s English, because “they deserve to be treated with respect, don’t you Madame?” She cares about him, too, he knows that, and he’s enjoyed their months as friends and the past few weeks they’ve been a couple.

As a couple…He feels a twinge of anxiety in his chest that makes him flap his hands instinctively, a quick stim to ward off the impending doom building in his belly. Ah. Found it. He and Georgie have only gone on a few dates: a coffeeshop on a Saturday morning, and a movie night in Georgie’s flat, an evening which had been planned to be a movie marathon of Georgie’s favorite bad horror movies, the B and C rated films that were truly just a vehicle for half-naked women sprinting down alleyways and gratuitous fake blood effects. Any excuse for them to laugh over popcorn and predict the plot points, except Jon had fallen asleep partway through the second movie and had woken up the next morning on Georgie’s couch, a worn fleece blanket over his slumped form. But this? This was a proper night-time date, involving alcohol and a walk home and, Jon was sure, a “mind if I come in?” and it would be different because it wasn’t a friend he was talking to, it was his girlfriend and there were expectations and he was a virgin and didn’t want to disappoint her because he knows Georgie is experienced and she deserves to have a good time and it’s his responsibility as a boyfriend to do that, even if he’s terrified because he hasn’t before—

Woah. Jon takes a deep breath. That was a lot. He did a full Sims, as Georgie would say, letting things snowball in his head until he explodes. He closes his eyes, wringing his hands again, just a gentle flutter at his sides. It’ll be fine. She’ll understand. She has up to now. Georgie has understood his weird studying habits, his deep aversion to spiders, his need to be early everywhere, his sudden shutdowns and stimming habits and how he loves to be held and touched. She can certainly handle him being a nervous virgin.

Jon slips a condom in his wallet and then, hesitating, tears off two more and throws them in. In case he messes up the first time. Checking his watch, he sees its quarter to eight. If he leaves now he’ll only be five minutes early. Perfect.

--

The Addison is a healthy dose of busy on a Thursday night in late autumn, the hum of conversation and music floating over Jon is just the right amount of chaos for him to reach equilibrium, feeling enthused by his nervous energy. He’s sitting at the bartop, spinning the cap to his beer bottle, watching it whirl, whirl, whirl, clattering on the stained wood and spinning all the while. It’s entrancing.

Georgie is speaking to him now. She smiles warmly at him and feels his stomach flip. God, she’s gorgeous when she smiles. Her hair’s in braids this month, pink and orange weaved tightly together, contrasting with the tight black turtleneck dress she wears. He catches himself staring at her profile, the planes of her face animated as she tells him a story about her professor and his alleged vow to fail her this semester. His face is warm. See, he soothes himself, you are attracted to her. You’re just nervous.

“Jon. Jon?” Georgie’s eyebrow is quirked up and she’s smirking at him, like she’s caught him in a lie. “Everything alright? You’re staring.” Jon feels another rush of blood to his cheeks, prickling at how exposed he feels to have been caught up in his thoughts about her.

“Oh-uh, yeah,” he nods, hesitating before reforming his own features into a smile. “I-I was just thinking. Well. How nice you look tonight.” Georgie isn’t immune to compliments, he knows this for certain, and its reaffirmed as she ducks her own head briefly, smile shifting from teasing to soft.

“O-Oh. Thank you, Jon.” She sips her drink, preferring something a little harder than Jon’s beer, usually a vodka cranberry she can nurse throughout a night or throw back when she needs a little something more in her bloodstream, fogging her mind. “You look really nice too, you know. Your green shirt is my favorite.” She gestures to the button up and he nods absently, glancing down at it. When he looks up, her face is close to his, hand weaving into the curls by his ear. He sighs and leans into the touch, feeling a shiver run through him when they kiss. He tastes the cranberry on her lips, vodka on her tongue, her liquid courage enthusing him as well as her (not that she needs any excuse to be bold, really), and makes a choice.

When they pull away for air, he grins wildly at her, the face he makes when he knows he’s about to a very Not-Sims thing. When the bartender makes his rounds again, a pale man in a black button-down, Jon orders his own ruby-red drink. Georgie’s eyebrows meet her hairline as he does so, folding her hands together. “Who are you and what have you done with Jonathan Sims?” The chuckle behind her voice balances the sternness of her words. He just grins at her and takes a sip of his newly-acquired vodka and cranberry juice, the dry flavors curling on his tongue and making his head feel light and warm after even half the glass.  

-

Jon is drunk. It doesn’t take a genius to see that. He knows he’s a lightweight and even the divine soft pretzels he’s been munching on since his arrival can only handle so much. He’s finished his second hard drink on top of the beer and is feeling properly light and airy. Like a cake, he giggles to himself. He’s having fun, chatting with Georgie about life and cats and uni and their plans for the future. Jon’s entertaining a couple of options, a few research jobs in London, and Georgie is poking his side, making him laugh as she teases him about his studying skills being useful for something more than exams.

“At least I have studying skills!” He says, pushing her off his side, linking their fingers together to inhibit her from poking him again. “You can’t ride my coattails forever, you know.”

“I won’t have to! It came in today.”

“What did?” His thoughts are clouded, edges of anxiety smoothed over into something more ignorable.

“My microphone! So I can start my podcast about spooky shit, remember?” Georgie squeezes his hand and finishes her own drink, far along as Jon in liquid consumed but not nearly as affected as he is. “I’m going to uncover the world’s mysteries and teach my faithful audience about the supernatural. I’ve got the title nailed down, too.” With her free hand she paints a banner in the air. “What the Ghost. ‘Cause it’s like ‘what the fuck’ and I can talk about all sorts of weird shit.” Georgie swears a lot, and more when she’s tipsy.

“Can I see it?” The words are out of his mouth before he can think them through. “The-the microphone, can I see it?”

Her eyes widen and she nods, “Oh, yeah of course! I haven’t been able to test it out yet, so maybe you can help me.”

Jon insists on paying. So does Georgie. They resign to splitting it, each vowing to pay next time and knowing they will never outsmart each other.

-

Jon doesn’t realize how drunk he is until he’s walking the five minutes to Georgie’s flat. Tucked into her side, the air is cool around his face, the wind an icy hand cupping his cheek. Everything feels smeary, liquid, warm. Hands in the pocket of the peacoat he knows he bought for the aesthetic and not to keep him warm, he fingers his wallet, feels the circular outline inside, and feels…nothing. Good. He can do this.

He’s always loved Georgie’s flat. It is warm, all orange and yellow lamplight, houseplants, and a cosy cluttered look. Her roommate exists only in residuals, the sneakers she leaves by the door and the dishes she does at odd hours more proof she exists than anything like conversation. Jon respects that. Georgie’s room is a lot like the rest of the flat, which means it’s a lot like Georgie herself. Warm, dark, soft, and scattered, with hidden elements of cat hair no matter how many times she cleans. Jon throws his coat over his desk chair and collapses onto her bed, reveling in how her pillows feel under his back. He takes a moment to greet the weird smile-faced stain on her ceiling before sitting up, watching Georgie fold herself next to him and open a carboard box, taking out a chunky black microphone with a USB cable. She brandishes it like a sword, before angling it to her face.

“This is BBC 4 with breaking news,” she intones into the microphone, putting on a crisp RP accent and lowering her voice an octave. “Ghosts and ghouls have been discovered at King’s College, Oxford, residing as university professors. News anchor Jonathan Sims has the story. Sims?”

Jon presses back his giggles and leans into the character, accent already pretty close to the posh voice she puts on. “There’s been an error, actually. They’ve been the students all along. Journalism student Porgie Parker has been found out to have been a ghost. These discoveries were made after her boyfriend, English Literature student…Bonathan Bims, realized she had never picked up a textbook because she couldn’t! Her hands went right through them!” By the time he’s gotten to the word textbook, Georgie has pounced on him, microphone forgotten as she wrestles him to the bed, alternating between poking and tickling him until he lets the bit trail off, voice a mix of giggles and pleas for her to stop.

When she lets off, Jon abruptly realizes the intimacy of their position. She’s straddling him, her hands pinning his wrists to the plush pillow behind his head. They’re both breathing hard, cheeks flushed, and smiling.

Jon isn’t sure who started the kiss, but it doesn’t really matter. His arms are wrapped around Georgie’s neck and her hands are cupping his face, cool to the touch, nails lightly scratching his jawline. The bed is soft and Georgie is warm, pressing in from all sides, and it feels good. This he likes.

She kisses along his jawline and he feels heart rate pickup, flexing his hands (when did he curl them into fists?) as she presses against his neck. He wishes vaguely she’d put her hands back in his hair, he likes that soft feeling of pressure on his scalp. The smile on the ceiling is smirking at him now, the curve of the water stain looking more vicious than it had earlier.

Her hands are on his chest, she’s unbuttoning his shirt. Her hands feel too cold now, the shiver running through him one of anxiety, not desire, and Jon is sitting up before he knows what he’s doing. Fuck. Georgie, the saint, backs off him and kneels beside him on the bed. Jon’s hands flit to the undone buttons, fingertips circling them, suddenly unsure what to do.

“Are you okay, Jon?” Georgie’s voice is softer, eyes searching his face as she wedges her hands underneath her knees. He watches her wrists, the swing of her braids as she cocks her head, anything to avoid her eyes.

“I-” he gestures to her vaguely. “Y-You know I haven’t before, right?”

“Oh. Oh.” Georgie nods, understanding maybe a little better than he expected. “No offense, but I kinda figured, Jon. Not in a bad way!” She backpedals. “I just figured, you know, there’s no rush.”

“I mean, there’s a little of a rush,” he admonishes under his breath. At her hum of confusion: “You know, the whole-” he gestures again, as if he could pluck the word from the air. “-third date…thing.”

“Jon,” Georgie sighs his name, voice soft and so patient, a voice he doesn’t think he’s heard used anywhere else. “There’s no rule saying what we have to do when. Or how. Or ever, for that matter. It’s no one’s business what we do except ours.” She reaches out a hand, waiting for a slight nod, before taking his thin hands in her own. “Is that why you drank more than usual today?”

Jon nods, feeling a sag of relief spread throughout his body. “I just- I want to make you happy.”

“You do make me happy, you twit. That’s why we’re friends and it’s why I’m dating you.” She presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t need sex to be happy. Is it fun? Yes. But not necessary.”

Jon frowns, chewing on his lip and eyeing the window of her bedroom, tracing the rectangle with his eyes over and over again. “I-hmm.” Georgie watches him search for words; she knows how he ticks well enough to know they’re coming if she waits. “What if, hypothetically, I never had sex with you? Ever.”

“Well,” she gave his hands a light squeeze. “Hypothetically, I’d be totally okay with it, though I’d ask if you were asexual and make sure we had appropriate boundaries.”

“Huh?” The word draws him back to her face, the deep brown eyes that search his own. “Asexual. Like, no sex?” She nods, again, ever-patient. “Huh. Asexual.” He drops the pretense. “Maybe.”

Asexual. The word felt good as he rolled it around in his mouth. He traced the letters with his fingertips in cursive against his thigh as Georgie let go of him, rolling off her bed to pull on sweatpants and a t shirt instead of the dress she was wearing 

“Let’s look into it, if you want. Together.” Georgie grins at him now, rye and warm. “I will have to ask you if want hypothetical crisps, because I’m hypothetically fucking starving.”

[cuttoothed]

You know what I love? Canon bi ace icon Jonathan Sims.

I’m bi ace myself, and the mere fact of his character existing makes me so happy.

I love how much the fandom has embraced him being ace, and I love that so many fans use his character to explore the ace experience in so many different ways.

I love Jon when he’s sex repulsed. When he’s never had to try it out to know he doesn’t like it. When he has tried it and knows it’s definitely not for him. When he loves kisses and snuggles, or when he’s not too keen on intimate touch at all, and shows his affection in so many other ways.

I love Jon when he’s sex neutral. When he gets why people are so into it, but also really doesn’t get why people are so into it. When it’s maybe a fun or intimate thing to do once in a while, but he’ll never bring it up unless his partner does. When his response to the idea of sex is a shrug and a “sure”.

I love Jon when he’s sex interested. When he’s curious or kinky or just vibes with the good feelings sex can produce. When he enjoys sex but isn’t driven by it. When he’s gray- or demi- and finds himself unexpectedly getting the hots for someone.

I love every fan creator who takes him being ace into account in their work. Every time I see the “Canon Asexual Character” tag on AO3 it adds a month to my life. Whether you write Jon as sex repulsed or neutral or interested, you’re valid in my books. Whether you’re allo or ace, if you want to write about his character and how he might relate to sex, I support you. If you want to write straight up smut, that’s cool too; we all need to blow off a little steam sometimes.

Side note: for allo writers, it’s always a great idea to have an ace person do a sensitivity read on your sexy Jon fic. I’m ace and I sometimes have another ace friend read my fic over, if I’m writing Jon a flavor of asexual that falls outside my direct experience.

I’m aware that the single line in canon we get about Jon’s asexuality most closely aligns with a sex repulsed (or at least disinterested) reading. And it’s great that sex repulsed aces can relate to him so well. But the fact is that many fans⁠—ace and allo⁠—love Jon’s character and relate to him for all sorts of reasons. I support all these fans in exploring all kinds of human experiences through Jon’s character, including sex and sexuality, as long as everything is labeled with appropriate tags and warnings so that people who don’t want to read it can avoid it.

Yes, even things I don’t want to read.

Yes, even things I personally find repellent or distressing.

Fanfiction is not canon, and does not pretend to be.  As long as it’s tagged correctly, it’s not my place to tell people what they should and shouldn’t write.

There are people who will say that nobody should write about Jon having sex. And there are people who will say that only ace fans can write about Jon having sex. Well, I have as much Asexual Authority (TM) as anyone else in this fandom, so I hereby give everyone blanket permission in perpetuity to write as much (or as little!) fic about Jon having sex as you like.

Jonathan Sims is an amazing character, and better ace representation than my heart could ever have hoped for. I’m thrilled that so many fans find joy in exploring and engaging with his character in all kinds of ways, and I encourage you all to continue doing so!

Image ID: Marge Simpson holding a potato. Caption reads: I just think he’s neat.

[bluejayblueskies]

peaches and roses

happy international asexual awareness day! this doesn't deal directly with asexuality (though jon and martin are both ace in this)--it's a follow-up to one of my aspec archives week fics, agape, but can be read as a standalone!

ao3 link in the source

.

The bell that hangs above the door to the bookshop—hung there by Gerry and too high up for Jon to reach without significant effort—jingles, and Jon immediately snaps the book he was thumbing through shut like he’s been caught committing a crime.

“Hi!” Martin says cheerily, his cheeks red and wind-bitten from the chill of the October air, and Jon’s never been more thankful for a dark complexion that doesn’t give away the fact that his face is burning up at the moment as well. He subtly slides the book to the side and covers it with another as Martin steps fully into the shop, a travel mug of tea in each hand. He approaches the counter and hands one of the mugs to Jon with a smile before saying, a bit playfully, “Got any new poetry books?”

“No,” Jon says, too-quickly. “No, uh. Just the usual.” He thinks he should probably say something along the lines of We’ve already got too many books of poetry for any self-respecting bookshop or You would just complain about their excessive use of metaphors anyway, but all he manages is, “Any, er. Any new blends this week?”

Martin hums and gestures to the mug Jon’s holding. It must be quite cold outside—Martin’s cheeks are still bright red. Jon makes a mental note to dig his gloves and hat out of the back of his closet. “It’s, er. It’s not really a new blend? I- I mean, it’s- it’s new, it’s just not… it’s not something I’m serving in the shop yet.”

“Oh,” Jon says, looking at the mug in front of him with growing curiosity and, beneath it, something warmer that curls in the pit of his stomach. “I… what is it?”

“Oh, just- just some, uh—you know, it- it’s a combination of things—well, of course it is, all blends are—just some, er, you know, a- a bit of rosehip and dried peach, Lady Grey and- and oolong—”

“You hate oolong,” Jon says, amused.

“Yes, well, it’s not for me,” Martin says, a bit snappishly in that way Jon adores, where his forehead creases along the middle and his lips purse ever so slightly. “Threw in some dandelions too, I know you’re fond of those, and just a bit of almond because I would never hear the end of it if I left that out—”

“Martin,” Jon says, his stomach twisting into something light and fluttering and fond in a way he doesn’t quite know how to handle. “I’m sure I’ll love it.”

Martin makes a small noise in lieu of finishing his sentence and says, quietly, “Yeah. It’s, er. You- you’re the first to, er… try it, so- so let me know if it’s not—you know what, I’ll just let you… yeah. Should- shouldn’t be too hot.”

This has to be the thousandth cup of tea Martin’s given Jon. It’s certainly not the first that’s been made specifically for him; Jon can still taste the smoke on his tongue, tinged with almond and blueberry, when he thinks back on the day he’d stuttered his way through a poorly-executed coming-out and Martin had taken it with a smile that sent Jon’s heart racing in his chest.

Maybe he’d known before that, that he was a little bit in love with Martin Blackwood. But the first sip of that tea had solidified it into a flower that blossomed within him, growing ever bigger with every smile and cup of tea and teasing remark.

Jon doesn’t think he’ll ever grow tired of the way Martin says his name, like he’s learning it again for the first time. He never, ever wants to stop hearing him say it.

The tea warms Jon from the inside out and tastes like spring mornings and summer sunsets and Martin, Martin, Martin. With the lingering taste of rosehip on his lips, Jon says, “It… it reminds me of you.”

Martin makes a small, choked noise. “Y- yeah? Does… does that mean it’s good?”

Softly, Jon says, “How could it not be?”

“Oh,” Martin says, just as softly. And, well. It seems as good an opening as any.

“You know, I- I never really liked tea before I visited your shop the first time. It served a- a utilitarian function, so to speak, a slightly more palatable caffeinated alternative to coffee. I’d always just get black—whatever was cheapest—and try to pretend like I didn’t hate it.” Jon lets out a small laugh. “Gerry used to joke that I wasn’t a real Englishman.

So—and forgive me when I say this, Martin, I- I really do know better now—I didn’t come into your shop with the… highest expectations. I honestly think I just chose at random from the menu—your selection is quite extensive, Martin, much as you seem insistent on expanding it every other week. But I- well, to say it was a life-changing experience would probably be a touch excessive, but it- it did change me. Er, a bit.”

Jon swallows, ignores the little curl of embarrassment in his stomach, and continues, “I- I made it a mission, if I’m being honest. I thought, maybe it’s just the one. Maybe I- I just got lucky, found the- the one kind of tea that I like. So I came back the next day and got a different one. And it was good.” Jon laughs, a bit breathily, and says, “They’re all good, Martin. Even- even the kinds I don’t like, the- the herbals and anything with peppermint, they… they’re still good, in their own way.” Jon hesitates, only a moment, before deciding that if he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it right. “I still don’t know if I like tea, but… but I like your tea, Martin.”

Martin is staring at him with wide eyes, and Jon curls his fingers around the mug in front of him so he won’t lose his nerve. The warmth seeps through his palms, a comforting presence, and he lets out a small breath to relieve the tension. “I- I like the way you notice what I like, the- the flavors and the kinds of leaves, things I- I don’t really understand. I like the way you smile at me, when- when I tell you I like one of your blends, and- and the way you say my name. I like the way you talk about poetry, and even though I- I’ve never understood the appeal of it before, I… I want to.”

Jon tries not to let his hands shake as he reaches over and retrieves the book he’d been leafing through earlier, the small scrap of paper still stuck in between the pages to mark his place. “I- I’m not very good at…” He trails off and waves his hand in the air, gesturing at Martin and then himself and trying to ignore the pounding of his heart in his chest. “And I- I wanted to write you a poem.” He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, as they bring with them a hot flush of embarrassment, augmented by the way Martin’s mouth parts slightly in shock, and he continues quickly, “But, er. I thought this might be preferable.”

He flips the book open to the marked page, takes a precious few seconds to attempt to steady his breathing, and begins to read.

Sweet, sweet is the greeting of eyes,

And sweet is the voice in its greeting,

When adieus have grown old and goodbyes

Fade away where old Time is retreating.

Warm the nerve of a welcoming hand,

And earnest a kiss on the brow,

When we meet over sea and o’er land

Where furrows are new to the plough.

After he finishes, there’s a few moments of silence before Martin says, quietly, his voice cracking around the words, “But… but that’s Keats. You hate Keats.”

It’s true; Keats is a bit too old-fashioned for even his tastes, and half of his poems sound like frivolous drivel. But even still, Jon had picked up the Keats book as soon as it had arrived, had skimmed it over and over, had carefully chosen the best poem he could find for his purposes, because…

“But you like him. And… and I like you. It’s- it’s not personalized tea blends, but I… I wanted to give you something. To- to show that.” Jon runs his thumb along the edge of the page, a nervous motion prompted by the steady increase of his heartbeat. “And- and maybe to ask if you… wanted to get dinner sometime? With, er. With me.” Of course with you, you’re the one who’s asking him.

Jon opens his mouth again, not entirely sure what he’s planning on saying but certain that it’ll end in another stuttering mess of embarrassment, when Martin’s voice cuts him off.

“Yes.”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut so quickly his teeth click together. “Yes?” he says, so quietly it’s barely audible over the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears.

Martin laughs; it’s a beautiful sound, like the twinkling of wind chimes and the tweeting of birds at dawn and the whistling of the wind through tree branches. “Yes, Jon, I- I’d love to get dinner with you.” He laughs again before pressing his hand over his mouth, hiding that smile that Jon adores so much. His words devolve into giggles a few more times before he manages to say, “Christ, sorry, I- I’m just… happy.” He removes his hand then and looks at Jon, a new, shy smile upon his lips that Jon’s never seen before but that he immediately holds close to his chest to treasure forever. “I’m just happy.”

Martin leaves eventually, and Jon presses the Keats book into his hands as he goes, letting his fingers linger on Martin’s skin for a moment before they part. The tea is still hot when Jon takes another sip, rose and peach and almond blooming across his tongue, and he feels his lips curl into a smile, wide and giddy, against the lip of the mug.

The bookshop smells like roses and paper and ink and Martin, Martin, Martin.

It smells like home.

[beholdme]

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 4

Chapters: 4/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can't help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3]

Gerry leans out his window one early, early morning as summer dies in a crushing heatwave. Even at 4 A.M. the humidity presses against him, and his cigarette does nothing to soothe it.

He smiles as a bird begins its first song somewhere nearby and moves back inside.

He glares at the half-completed commission painting on his main easel, petulantly flipping it off as he walks past to get to the painting he's actually been working on.

The painting shows Frankenstein's monster in a white dress and a flower crown, walking through a library, barefoot and beaming. It's a small one, nothing like the monster in the other corner, but he thinks Martin will like it and plans to give it to him to hang in the bookstore.

Martin had cooed over the sketch, and suggested that they should name the painting so people finally had something to call it other than 'Frankenstein' or 'Monster.'

"Everyone deserves to have their own name, Gerry," Martin had told him firmly, "Even if they have to pick it themselves."

Both intimately familiar with the concept, they had exchanged a significant look over those words.

"Not spiders," Jon stated firmly from nearby.

"Yes, spiders." Martin had whispered into Gerry's ear, and they had dissolved into secretive laughter.

Gerry had painted a small spider and cobweb into the corner of the final piece, hoping Jon would notice and shudder every time he noticed the little guy. If Martin saw it and thought of their sweet camaraderie, then that was all the better.

He signs his artist's mark into one corner and considers it a job well done.

***

Martin's eyes fill with tears when Gerry takes it over to the store to give it to him later that week, when it has dried and he can wrap it in soft tissue paper to deliver it.

The weather is still oppressive outside, and Gerry orders something icy while Martin looks it over.

"You shouldn't have." He tells Gerry weepily, dragging his eyes away from it.

"Why not?" Gerry shoots back, leaning over and tucking a piece of wavy blonde hair behind Martin's ear, tactile as ever. "It makes you happy, and art is meant for enjoying, not sitting in sketchbooks."

Martin comes around the counter and pulls Gerry into his arms. He hugs him back, absorbing the sweetness in the embrace.

"Thank you, Gerry."

"You're very welcome, Martin."

***

Gerry texts them all at 3 in the morning to invite them to the park the next afternoon. Martin replies immediately that he would love to, Jon replies the next morning grousing about being texted in the middle of the night. Gerry and Martin both understand that it's because he had probably only just gone to sleep when it arrived, but they say nothing.

When they arrive, Martin goes immediately over to coo and feed bread to the local ducks, while Jon and Gerry settle nearby.

Martin glances over at one point to find them looking at him with identical looks of adoration on their faces and feels all the blood rush into his face.

Gerry is leaning against a big tree that they chose to set up under, trying to escape the afternoon sunshine. Jon is laying with his head on Gerry’s lap, uncharacteristically relaxed and amicable as he smokes an indulgent cigarette. Nearby, Gerry’s sketchbook is laying open, but his pencil lies abandoned as he plays with Jon’s hair instead.

Martin wasn't sure what he thought was going to happen when Jon told him about Gerry. Honestly, he had supposed that Jon would simply prefer to be with his previous lover and that would be that. And yet somehow Martin found himself courted by both of them, and it fills him with pleased warmth every time he allows himself to think about it. Being wanted and pursued was a feeling that Martin had never let himself bask in, preferring to ignore the idea that he was desired in any way, rather than risk the crushing rejection that he so feared if he wasn’t.

He had let himself go after Jon anyway, so hopelessly enamored with him that Martin had been willing to risk any dismissal, even the razor-sharp one he was convinced would be the only result of his rushed date offer.

Jon’s enthusiastic acceptance was the biggest shock of his life, and each small way he showed Martin that he cared for him was like opening the curtains in a dark room; bright, unexpected and so beautiful it hurt just a bit.

Martin wanted to default to the assumption that Gerry was only playing along to benefit his relationship with Jon, but with Gerry, it's hard to deny that he is actually interested, his attention so focused and his flirtation so palpable.

Now they're on a date in the park, and things are so easy and affectionate between them, and Martin can't help but let himself feel a fond hope in that place that he hasn't ever allowed himself to feel before.

***

It turns out Gerry's idea of a picnic is just junk food and pink lemonade from Martin's bookstore, but he gets no complaints as they lie together in the dying light of afternoon and toss candy and chocolate between them.

Jon migrates from his lap to lie between Martin's legs eventually and Gerry takes the opportunity to sketch them together. The light shifts in Martin's blonde hair, gilding it golden, and Jon's smile shines out of his mossy green eyes as he tips his head back to look up into Martin's face.

Gerry hopes he has the adequate talent to capture the magic that moves between them, that he feels moving between all of them.

When the sketch is finished, Jon demands it, obviously enamored.

"Ask nicely," Gerry replies tartly, holding the sketchbook to his chest protectively.

Jon narrows his eyes at the sass and rolls up to his knees to shuffle towards him. His eyes are narrowed rather intimidatingly, but Gerry knows it's more of a face of consideration than an actual threat.

"Gerry." Jon takes his head into his long-fingered hands and tilts his face upwards. "Please." He presses a kiss to Gerry's mouth and punctuates each successive word with another. "Can. I. Have. That. Sketch."

Trying to appear unmoved by the display, Gerry responds with a dispassionate, "Why should I?"

"Because," he leans down to whisper, "My heart shall break without it."

"Well, I suppose we can't have that," Gerry tells him dryly, handing it over.

"Thank you," Jon says, offering him another kiss as payment. Gerry leans into this one, sliding his hand up into Jon's hair and pulling them closer together.

When they separate and Jon flops down next to Martin again, his attention has been captured by something across the park.

“Martin?” Gerry nudges him with a foot.

Martin’s attention snaps back towards him, a grin spreading across his face. “Can we get ice cream?”

***

They do go get ice cream. They pack up their things, and meander across the park with only a vague sense of urgency as the sun sets around them.

In the ice cream parlour, they stand in a line before the freezer window and consider their options as a bored-looking clerk eyes them.

"Really, Gerry?" Jon asks in disbelief as Gerry orders the black charcoal flavor.

"Obviously. Have you met me?" He gestures at the length of himself. His hair is dyed a violent shade of blood orange, and his piercings glint in the light of the setting sun. He's wearing combat boots and black skinny jeans, and the tattoos on his hands and arms stand out starkly against his pale skin. His black tank top has a Metallica album cover on it, and he's wearing enough black eyeliner to put an over-dramatic teenager to shame. The ice cream will certainly fit with his aesthetic.

"But what if it doesn't taste good?" Martin asks, sounding genuinely concerned.

"And what happened to your obsession with drinking pink things?" Jon adds triumphantly.

Gerry just shoots Jon an offended look. "You don't drink ice cream, Jonathan. Get a grip. Besides, it's lemonade flavored, it'll be just as good as if it were yellow."

Martin giggles, although it's not clear if it's at Jon's flushed embarrassment or Gerry's firm opinion on the matter. “I’ll have the strawberry,” Martin tells the server, who then looks to Jon for his order. Sensing his distraction, Martin adds, “He’ll have mint chocolate chip.”

Jon, chastised, doesn’t even argue.

They sit outside on a bench, the air finally cool enough for them to brave sitting in the open for a few minutes, side by side, Jon in the middle. One hand occupied by his ice cream, he can hardly link hands with both of them, but Gerry takes his left hand, and Martin reaches across his lap to hold both their hands in one of his. It’s a bit tangled, but all of them are happy.

Jon, always a speedy eater, practically inhales his cone and sits looking very satisfied indeed. Martin also appears content and at ease as he eats at a far more reasonable pace, savouring a rare indulgence.

Gerry faces twists at the first taste of his own ice cream, but he says nothing, resolutely working his way through it.

“No good, Ger?” Martin asks, looking over Jon's head at him.

“It’s fine,” he mutters, although his expressiveness calls him a liar.

“That bad, huh?” Jon crows, voice filled with triumph.

“Bite me,” is Gerry’s only response, eyes rolling sullenly.

“Can I try it?” Martin asks earnestly, reaching a hand out. Gerry hands it over, nose wrinkling. Martin secretly thinks the expression makes him look quite adorable, but would never mention that to Gerry. He tastes it and makes a face. “It’s weird. Too sweet, probably to overcompensate for the taste of charcoal. And not lemony enough.”

Gerry grunts in agreement. Jon, overcome with curiosity, slips it away from Martin as he attempts to pass it back to Gerry.

“That's just rude, Jon.” Martin pronounces, scandalised. He pinches Jon just above the knee for good measure, but he simply accepts it as his due and takes a big bite of the pilfered dessert.

Jon sits up straight, eyes lighting up.

“Really?” Gerry grouses, “After the shit you gave me for ordering it?”

“Yes, actually. It’s good!” Jon’s voice is filled with rare animation, and Gerry waves him away as he tries to hand it back.

“Someone should enjoy it. I wouldn’t want to deprive the ice cream of its purpose in life,” Gerry’s expression lightens. “Besides, I’ll probably get more satisfaction from watching you eat it than by eating it myself.”

Jon blushes at the suggestive comment but doesn’t let it deter him, finishing the ice cream almost as fast as he did the first one, sitting between his two favourite people in the world.

[at-the-exd-of-everythixg]

1, 8, 6, 17, 18, 21, 35, 40, 47, 55, 60, 62, 68, 85, 88, 94

@blind-mutant

1. coffee mugs, teacups, wine glasses, water bottles, or soda cans?

Coffee/tea cups! I love collecting them and I have twenty five different cups. My favourite is my Steven Universe and my alpaca one!

8. movies or tv shows?

Mostly tv shows because I love more content and if I don't like the movie then it's harder for me to sit through it but I still wanna, you know? And second seasons will always be better than sequels.

6. pastel, boho, tomboy, preppy, goth, grunge, formal or sportswear?

I would say Tomboy? I wear a lot of shirts and hoodies and I don't have the emotional or mental strength to make enough effort to dress nice enough for grunge or pastel styles and I'd rather be in my pajaymas. My favourite item of clothing is a giant cat sweater I got from Japan that goes to my knees that's super fluffy and has paw coverings over my hands and even a tail with it.

17. most frequently worn pair of shoes?

My trainers since I hate new shoes and I literally wore my last pair until water filled them sksksk it's either boots or trainers that I don't stop wearing.

18. ideal weather?

Thunderstorms! I love sitting inside with the rain pounding against my window and I always get excited when I hear thunder and see lighting out in the distance.

21. obsession from childhood?

You already know about MLP so,,,winnie the pooh. I love it. I'm so soft for Winnie and I cried when his movie came out, not to mention the fact that I own my prized Winnie the Pooh Tsum Tsum and kept all of my childhood books of him.

35. average time you fall asleep?

2am? I stay up to chat to everyone and in my worse nights when I'm really into a thread idea or I can't sleep then I'll stay up until 4am. Quarantine has made that habit much worse seeing as I don't have to get to much.

40. weirdest thing to ever happen at your school?

A student poured white board cleaner into my nineth English teacher's drink and she had to get her stomach pumped.

47. favorite type of cheese?

Mild cheddar! I'm sensitive to foods and also I'm that kid who if hungry and alone, I'd eat an entire block of cheese.

55. favorite fairy tale?

Little red riding hood! My dad used to tell me it and then have the big bad wolf eat everyone in the end because I always like him the most XD

60. if you were a character in an anime, what kind of anime would you want it to be?

O hh!! A classic Japanese school dorms and I'm the classical daydreaming student but soon there begins a series or supernatural events and I'm left in the centre of it as i increasingly wake up in odd places with torn clothes and....boy, I sure hope that's ketchup spilled on me....

62. seven characters you relate to?

1: Tulip from Infintiy train - we had the same situation with our parents and it was...nice to see someone deal with parents that don't care for each other anymore and it's nice to see it thought out carefully.

2: Steven from SU - Particularly in SuF. I'm rather calm for the most part and my parents often ranted about their problems to me and I felt like I had to take care of it. I don't get angry all that often but when I do it tends to be very explosive and I felt a lot like a monster as kid. Especially with his schools treated me by putting me outside or in an empty room for a few hours alone.

3: Coraline - The mother thing is obvious but we're also both very sarcastic and would absolutely love dancing rats and would absolutely go down a magic chimney for a magical world. Also talking cats!!

4: I feel like I need to include a ghibli character like @awkward-snake-girl did! So Haru from Cat returns - Both messes and we both like the idea of being able to nap all day as well as regretting somethings we could have done. The only difference is that I'm not a coward and I'd absolutely marry a cat.

5: Jaskier from the Witcher - Sometimes you just wanna go on adventures and write songs about the super ripped hot guy and I think that was pretty neat of Jaskier to follow his dreams for.

6: Sokka from Atla - Yeah absolutely vibes. We're the jokes and meat guys because I'm hysterical and I literally eat nothing but meat because I'm a carnivore apparently. The idiot of the group yet the one with the most common sense? At least online vs real life because I'm stuck with my mum who doesn't think dinosaurs existed and my friends over who was sexier; Pennywise or Ronald McDonald.

7: Jonathan Sims from Tma baby!!! I cannot say ENOUGH how thrilled I am to have actual ace representation that isn't a side character or a character that's often written as robotic or childish? A lot of ace people are expected to have no emotion or to not be ready for an adult spectrum of emotion (actually said to me once) so it was SO refreshing to have someone who's written out more than those two boxes! Plus Jonny allows everyone to explore the spectrum of asexualtiy with Jon so I get my repulsed Jon aND my sex positive Jon! Also horror podcast hnnng RIP to Jon but I would gave taken up those eyes baby.

68. worst flavor of any food or drink you’ve ever tried?

Sakura sauce on Macdonald's. Oh my God don't put flowers on your macs.

85. fairy tales or mythology?

Mythology! There's so much exciting details in those and I'm always amazed that once people worshipped these gods.

88. your greatest wish?

I wish I didn't cry so easily.

94. favorite season?

Autumn! My birthday is in it and usually it's a nice mix of warm and cold enough that I can wear sweaters, not to mention Halloween is fun to look at, even if we don't celebrate it much in England.

[radiosandrecordings]

i don't know with regards to other media,, but with regards to TMA Specifically the jon-not-knowing-what-asexuality-is thing that is. So popular. feels very much of a similar flavor to the way he is in fandom frequently infantilized as an asexual neurodivergent(-coded?? i forget to what extent that is canon) person?? in the specific ways it tends to be written.

I would actually argue the opposite? When I said what I said in that post, I’ve realised my phrasing is a little misleading because I was basing it off a tweet that was made when 106 came out, and I misremembering the phrasing as being more along the lines of “he wouldn’t know the word for it” when it’s “I don’t know if he would identify as such” which I guess could mean he knows it but he’s so I Refuse To Think About Myself that he doesn’t really use the label despite being so. It’s a vague phrase and Yknow, a tweet so probably not the best backing, I was just trying to get across that general sense of “ace characters who weren’t/aren’t aware/talkative about their own identity” which I still think he fits into with the stuff said in the S4 Q&A about how he wouldn’t talk about it even when asked

With fan stuff though the majority of stuff I’ve seen DOES have him know the word and identify with it? Which might be wish fulfilment by fans. I’ve also seen enough where he can at least articulate his feelings to Martin and Martin is like “Oh, ace right” which does fall into the trope I was talking about, but I don’t see a lot of stuff that infantilises him? Maybe I’ve just carefully chosen who I follow, I do feel occasionally people will draw/write him in a way that.. okay this’ll sound weird but it’s not very similar to how he is in canon/ how a 30 year old man would act/look and more similar to a teenage girl if that makes sense, but I wouldn’t see it A Lot but again, maybe just based on who I follow not doing that kind of thing.

I don’t see that so much in regards to neurodivesity though? And I also don’t see it’s crossover with his aceness a lot and I’m. Idk I don’t want to say ‘skeptical’ but I never know what people mean exactly when they say an ace person is being infantilised because is that meaning their being changed in other aspects of their identity to be more naive and childish about General Life or is is specifically like, someone being grossed out at sexual stuff which can be an ace thing, depending on the person because everyone is different Y’know

[silkysonia-blog]

Entertainment Video: Funny Buzzfeed Script- High School vs College You

Think Like A Girl

Skit #1

High School kid:

“Hey Goop-Sauce, since you’re the oldest, get some swishers during lunch and we will smoke during free-     block behind the atrium!”

High School Sonia:

“Ok but Mr. Dempsey could smell it on us last ti- OMG let’s try mango “flavor!

 College kid:

“Dude, the RA totally almost caught me, but guess who scored party favors!”

College Sonia:

“Hell yeah I can totally skip math 130 tomorrow!”

 Skit #2

High School kid:

“Did you hear how the teachers found a condom on the couch at the dance?! Everyone has been talking about it since Assembly!”

High School Sonia:

“That’s insane! I bet it was Khloe, she was totally the first girl in our grade to lose it right!”

 College Sonia:

(walks past a dorm door that has bra/underwear in front of it) :This was funny like 2 months ago…”

 Skit #3

High school birthday:

(classroom party and teachers makes everyone  sing happy birthday)

College birthday:

(wake up to a Magic Mike poster and king size Reece’s tape to dorm door)

 Skit #4

High School kids:

“I can’t believe we snuck out of Assembly and drank Pinnacle Whip and no one caught us! We are sooo badass.”

High School Sonia:

“I know! But this is sooo nasty, I almost drown during that shot.”

 College kids:

“Bro, I freakin’ raged lastnight, stayed up all night studying, and aced my final! Let’s draaaank!”

College Sonia:

“Hell yeah Beercales ( Beer-Heracles), but don’t give me Pinnacle. That’s all I puked up in High School. I’ll take that Fireball though!”

Think Like A Boy

Skit #1

High School boy:

“Bro, you know you need to nail at least one chick before college…”

College Guy:

“Yo a threesome with another dude isn’t that awkward, we just high-fived when we switched haha.”

Skit #2

High School boy:

“Bro, we can get laid. Just watch a ton of “Jersey Shore” and watch Pauly D!”

College Guy:

“Damn dude, I should work at Subway because I’ve been givin’ out plenty of footlongs!”

Cultural Changes

Skit #1

High School kids:

“Man, How I Met Your Mother is such a great show! They are never going to cancel this, it’s making a killing right now.  Is Robin dating… Kumar?! I wonder who will be hotter, The Mother or Robin?”

College kids:

“Barney’s job was fake?! Why does it sound like the mom… dies?! WFT it’s ROBIN!”

Skit #2

High School kid:

“Dude I’m so hungover… I just told my mom I’m sick hahaha I’m so bad.”

 College Sonia:

“Oh man, I’m so hung over I can’t even brush my teeth right now.”

College kid: “Take a morning shot, you’ll be just fine, girl!”

Skit #3

High School kids:

“Ew, vegetable juice!”

 College kid:

“Hell yeah, Bloody Mary’s anyone?”

College Sonia:

“Healthy alcoholism, people!”

Skit #4

High School kid:

“You always need Get Low, Lil Jon played at a dance! It’s the classics!”

College kid:

“Turn Down For What! Imma get TURNT!"

Skit #5

High School kid:

“I feel bad for Bruce Jenner, he is the only reasonable one on this show.

College kid:

(Picks up Vanity Fair, “Call Me Caitlyn”)

“So this what our parents felt like with Michael Jackson!”

Indian Jokes

Skit #1

High School kid:

“Hey, what are you doing right now?”

High School Sonia:

“Just chillin’, watching a Bollywood movie.”

High School kid:

“Whooooaa I forget you are Indian, you damn coconut!”

 College kids:

“So are you dot or feather?!”

“Your English is so good! How long have you been here?”

“Do you celebrate Christmas? Do you eat turkey on Thanksgiving?”

“So uh, Jasmine or Pocahontas?”

“Have you seen that Youtube video “Shit Indian Girls Say”?! Are you like that?”

 College Sonia:

“Cool it buddy, I’m from Nebraska.”

[bluejayblueskies]

agape

n. selfless, sacrificial, and unconditional love; love that motivates action, often for the sake or care of others 

Words: 2.3k Relationship: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood Tags: AU - Tea Shop/Bookstore, Fluff, Asexual Jonathan Sims Warnings: internalized acephobia/biphobia (minor,), fear of homo/ace/transphobia (brief, unfounded)

|| Ao3 ||

.

Martin remembers, with crystal clarity, the first time that he saw Jonathan Sims. Martin’s tea shop opens at seven in the morning to accommodate the morning commuter crowd, but they’re really busiest in the afternoon, which is when most people deign to take a break from whatever work they’ve got for the day.

 Jonathan Sims is not most people. At promptly seven, the jingle of the little bell that Tim had hung over the door once as a joke but that had lingered out of sheer practicality had cut through the gentle humming of the kettle, the small one that Martin preferred in the morning as it took no time at all to heat and the small volume of customers generally didn’t warrant the larger, stainless steel water heaters that sat along the back wall. Martin had had a box of loose-leaf English breakfast in his hand as he turned; he remembers the way the bitter smell of the leaves had mingled with the cool blast of winter air that swept through the door, carrying with it the scent of something acrid and ashy.

 Cigarette smoke, his mind helpfully supplied. Then, Martin’s eyes found the man who had entered the shop, his mouth forming the automatic greeting the bell always elicited from him, a well-trained habit that made him feel not dissimilar to Pavlov’s dog.

 “Welcome to Blackwood Blends! What can I get started for you?”

The man—and the likely source of the burnt smell still lingering in the air—startled slightly at the sound of Martin’s voice, like he hadn’t been expecting to be addressed directly. He was wrapped in a comically large scarf, knit from chunky yarn and laced with warm yellow and midnight black, and he looked like the kind of person who might blow away in the wind if he wasn’t careful. His hair, long and brown, was streaked through with grey and seemed to be fighting a losing battle with the hat that was currently struggling to keep it contained. There were at least two jumpers of startlingly different colors peeking out from underneath a heavy black pea coat that was missing a button near the bottom.

 He was also quite possibly the most beautiful person Martin had ever seen.

 He was there and gone before Martin quite knew what was happening, cradling a steaming travel mug of Ceylon close to his chest like it alone could drive away the January chill, and Martin found himself watching him through the café window as he crossed the street with barely more than a cursory glance in each direction, fumbled with something in his pockets for a moment, and finally vanished into the building across the street.

 Beholding Books & Antiquities, the sign above the door said in curling calligraphy, barely visible from this distance.

 Martin wondered, briefly, if they had poetry.

 Martin knows now that they do, but that the man—whose name, he’d learned on the man’s next visit to the tea shop, is Jon—wrinkles his nose when people purchase them like they’ve caused him some great offense. He knows that Jon never gets the same tea twice in a row, and though he’s cycled through every possible blend that Martin’s shop carries, he’s not a fan of herbals and finds himself returning to earthy greens and floral blacks. (Which, unfortunately, includes oolong, which may be the only kind of tea that Martin can’t stand.) He knows that the bookshop opens at ten in the morning (but that Jon never arrives later than eight) and that unlike the surge of afternoon customers Martin’s shop gets, the bookshop receives a steady trickle of local customers and curious tourists throughout the day.

 He knows that Jon smiles like it’s a secret he can’t quite decide if he wants to share and that Jon’s fingers are warm and soft when they brush against Martin’s as he hands Martin his new purchase and that he might be just a little bit in love with Jon.

 He spends quite a lot of time browsing for books nowadays, to Tim and Sasha’s eternal amusement. But he can’t bring himself to mind.

 Now, the nip of winter air is far behind them, and the lovely warmth of June seeps in through the cracks in the windows and in bursts as the door opens and closes. He always gets more business in winter, when the promised warmth of a cup of tea lures customers in from the cold, but it’s steady enough in the summer. And though Martin’s always been a lover of bulky jumpers and drinks that warm you from the inside out and breath that fogs in winter air, he can’t help but love the onset of summer, because it brings with it June and his favorite yearly tradition: Pride month tea blends.

 Martin finishes scrawling the various specialty drinks onto the chalkboard he keeps propped up on the counter, feeling a little burst of pride at the new tea blends he’s selected for this year. He creates them all himself, making little changes from year to year and brewing cup after cup for Tim and Sasha to try until he thinks they must be sick of tasting ten different versions of fruity Earl Greys. It just feels nice, to put a piece of himself into each cup he makes, and beyond that, the shyly excited looks some customers get when they order a certain blend fills him with a warmth that tingles in his veins for hours after.

 It feels nice, to take care of people this way. To let people find themselves in his tea and to share a bit of himself in kind.

 So when the bell jingles and Martin glances up from the blackboard to see Jon standing just inside the doorway, blinking as his eyes adjust to the dimness of the café, the thrum of affection that always overtakes him when he sees Jon is magnified tenfold, accompanied in equal part by a bite of nervousness. Because, he realizes, for all that he and Jon have talked about their jobs and favorites and hobbies and everything in between, they’ve never talked about this.

 Martin’s never been shy about it. His jacket is plastered with rainbow-striped patches, his bag adorned with enamel pins in purple-black-white-greys and in blue-pink-whites. He knows Jon’s seen them. Jon has to have seen them. He’s just… never mentioned it. And Martin gets the brief, terrifying, and completely unfounded worry that it’s because Jon is bothered by it.

 He shakes the thought off as quickly as it had come. No, he knows Jon. He knows that behind the prickly exterior, Jon is kind—so, so kind, and that he cares more about other people than he lets on. With a small, anxious laugh that Martin barely keeps contained beyond a brief exhalation, Martin realizes that he also knows that Jon is possibly also the most oblivious person Martin knows. It’s infinitely more likely that Jon hasn’t noticed—or has noticed and has decided not to say anything—than that Jon is somehow a completely different person than the one Martin’s gotten to know over the past five months.

 “Are you all right?”

 Martin startles so badly that he drops the chalk. It rolls dangerously close to the edge of the counter before a thin-fingered hand captures it mid-motion and holds it out toward Martin, the dusty white stark against his brown skin. Martin takes the chalk with a sheepish smile and says, “Ah, sorry—got a bit, er. Distracted.” Then, in a quasi-professional voice, because he is at work: “What can I get for you, Jon?”

 Jon doesn’t even glance at the menu; Martin’s almost certain that he has it memorized by now. He taps a finger on the counter, and as he thinks, his eyes wander downward, landing on the chalkboard that’s still laid flat against the counter, the bottom left corner slightly smudged. “Are these new blends?” Jon asks, eyes bright and curious. He tilts his head, trying to see the words better, and Martin quickly stands the chalkboard up on its wooden feet and returns it to its spot on the counter so that it’s easier to read.

 Well, no time like the present, I suppose.

 “They’re, ah, my seasonal blends!” Martin says with a smile he hopes doesn’t look as nervous as it feels. “I always do them in June.” He lets out a little, disarming laugh. “My own way of celebrating Pride month, you know?”

 Jon’s eyes are scanning the chalkboard with an intensity that makes Martin shift from one foot to the other at a pace far too quick to be casual, his hands finding the edge of the counter and gripping it like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. He can’t read Jon’s face; there’s something there, just below the surface, but he can’t get a handle on it. It keeps slipping away like wet bar soap when he tries too hard to get a grip on it, and eventually, he just gives up, waiting for Jon to finish with his heartbeat sitting high in his throat.

 Finally, after a period of time that feels just shy of an eternity and certainly too long to have been simply considering the merits of one tea blend over another, Jon looks at Martin with an expression that feels strangely vulnerable. “I… I can’t decide,” he says quietly, like this decision carries the weight of the entire world. He points a thin finger at the middle of the board, where bisexual berry is scrawled in spiraling letters that constitute Martin’s attempt at calligraphy. It’s an herbal blend, with bits of freeze-dried blueberries, raspberries, and strawberries. “I like most of this blend,” he says, “but er. Not on its own?” His finger moves down, nearly smudging the words asexual almond as it comes to rest atop the ingredients below them—Assam tea, almond flavoring, cinnamon sticks, and little white blossoms that Martin includes purely for the visual effect. “Some people think that black tea wouldn’t go well with herbal,” Jon says, studying the board like it has the secret to life itself scrawled upon the dusty black, “but they’re really not that different at all. It’s all tea, and- and liking one kind of tea doesn’t preclude you from liking another kind, right? So asking me to- to decide between one kind of tea and another is—well, it’s just ridiculous. There’s tea that I like and tea that I don’t and I don’t have to pick just one.”

 Jon’s still staring at the blackboard, his forehead creased in what could be concentration but could also be irritation. It’s still early enough that the tea shop is empty save for them; Tim and Sasha don’t come in until after noon as usually, Martin can handle the morning crowds by himself. And Martin is really quite sure that this isn’t about his tea at all. So, in the gentlest tone he can muster, Martin says, “You can order more than one kind of tea, you know.”

 Jon jerks his hand back, almost like he’d forgotten Martin was there. “I—what?”

 Feeling significantly less nervous than before, Martin adjusts the sign so that he can see it better and says, “These are all just suggestions, Jon. Blends that I like and ones that I’ve found that other people like too, but they’re not set in stone—people have all kinds of preferences, and when it comes down to it, it- it’s all just tea.” Then, because apparently he’s feeling bold today: “I- I can make a new blend if you’d like? One that, er.” Just say it, Martin. “One that’s for you, specifically. Whatever you’d like.”

 Jon’s eyes are as wide as saucers as he stares up at Martin, and Martin can’t help but shift nervously under his gaze. Fuck, I shouldn’t have said that, that was weird, what a weird thing to say when someone’s coming out to you with bad tea metaphors, fuck fuck—

 “If- if you’d like,” Jon says quietly, slamming Martin’s thought spiral headfirst into a brick wall and nearly knocking him off his feet as he registers that Jon just said yes. “I’d like that. Though I- I do enjoy the flavors of berries and almonds together.” He smiles then, a wry thing that sends Martin’s pulse into the stratosphere and his stomach aflutter with butterflies whose wings gleam an iridescent rainbow against the backs of his eyes. (Not his best bit of poetic imagery, to be true, but he’s a little too busy being utterly in love with Jonathan Sims to think about much else.)

 Martin makes the tea, choosing the black over the herbal because elaborate metaphor or not, Jon really isn’t a fan of herbal teas. Blueberry is a strong enough taste to pair with the bitterness of the black tea and it couples well with almond and cinnamon, creating a flavor profile not unlike that of a blueberry muffin. And because Martin can’t help but think of Jon every time he smells it, he switches out the Assam for a Lapsang Souchong and Earl Grey blend—smoky and floral, smooth enough that it won’t overbalance the other flavors but robust enough to stand out.

 When Jon accepts the mug and takes his first hesitant sip, his face lights up in a way that Martin wants to see all day, every day for the rest of his life. And when Jon smiles at him, says, achingly soft, “Thank you, Martin. I love it,” and cautiously, gently places his hand over Martin’s where it sits on the counter, Martin thinks, for the first time, that maybe he can.

 Wouldn’t that be nice, he thinks. And the smile he gives Jon in return feels like a blank-paged book, waiting to be filled.