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go-to-the-mirror · 1 year

Text

Seasons in the Archives thing for @cypresskey

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Relationship: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Ghost Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, They/Them Pronouns for Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, POV Martin Blackwood, Some Humor, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Villain Character Death, Past Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, (lightly implied), No beta we kayak like Tim, this was so fun to write, Happy Valentines Day!!, Well - Freeform, happy 3 days after valentine's day!!, Title from Poetry

Summary:

After his mother moves into a care home, Martin starts looking after Elias Bouchard's semi-abandoned house until he can find a place to live. Unbeknownst to him there is something else that also resides there.

Martin reaches for the ghost’s hand. It’s cold as ice, and clammy. “Martin,” he says. “My name’s Martin.” “Jon.”

Content Warnings & Notes:

Content Warnings: - homelessness - knife violence - murder - implied suicide

oh also fair warning! i'm like a teenager! i don't live in the UK! i don't know what i'm talking about!

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ

The situation Martin found himself in, outside of Elias Bouchard’s townhouse is easy enough to understand. It’s nearing winter, he’s more terrified of other people than the cold, and he’s T minus 5 days till he’s homeless, with no solution in sight.

The advert had been rotting on a traffic light near his usual bus stop for years, and he’s desperate for a place to live, even if it’s seriously shady and disrepair, it’s a roof over his head, and he can’t afford to keep renting the flat he lived in with his mum now that she’s moving to a care home.

It's a stupid decision, even in the moment he knows that, but if there’s any chance that Elias was still looking for someone to live in and take care of his old family manor on the outskirts of London – coincidentally quite close to where he worked – then Martin was going to grab onto that chance like a starving dog with a bit of meat and never let go.

He calls the number and is answered by a voice with a Manx accent, asking him why he’s calling.

“I’m wondering if Mr. Bouchard still wanted someone to live in his house.” Martin responds, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. The rain is chilling him to his bones, but his voice is steady, his voice is always steady.

“Oh! I’ll call Elias and ask him to come to the phone. Do you mind holding for a moment?”

Martin responds the affirmative, and stands on the side of the road, shivering from the cold, listening to their footsteps fade away.

Please, he thinks – prays. Please, let this be a lifeline.

He’s wearing the best clothes he had washed, including an umbrella this time. He doesn’t want to look like he’s been standing alone outside in the rain. He’s hesitating, he’ll admit it, it’s just… this is his chance, his lifeline, his one shot, and if he blows it he’ll have to find somewhere to live in barely any time.

He rings the doorbell, a bright sound that echoes through the house. It’s dry, but his fingers are wet, and that is what they make all they touch.

“Ah, Martin, was it?” the man Martin now knows as Peter Lukas says.

“Yes,”

“Elias is waiting for you. He’s in his study just down the hall.”

Martin nods. “Thank you, Peter.”

“It’s really my pleasure, Martin. That old house is driving him up the walls. I’d be glad to have it become somebody else’s problem.”

Martin nods and smiles, then heads towards Elias’ office. It’s awkward, but Peter hardly seems better than him in that regard.

He knocks twice against the door, then lets himself in at Elias’ word.

“Martin,” Elias smiles. “Come, take a seat.”

Martin obliges.

“Hello, Mr. Bouchard. Thank you-“ He lets out a puff of air. “-For even considering me for this.”

“Elias is fine, please. Now, shall we begin?”

Martin swallows, his mouth suddenly dry, then nods.

It’s raining again, when Martin gets to the house. The clouds are so thick and dark that Martin can’t tell what the time is, or even if it’s day or night.

He has a few suitcases packed with all the objects that held sentimental value that he deigned to keep. Family pictures, with just the two of them. His first scrapbook, filled with drawings on serviettes, tickets, receipts, photographs, memories. Novelty mugs that he used to love collecting. The only soft toy he’d kept – a ratty old bear that he’d had since he was 3.

Keepsakes. The rest is sold or put in storage. He’ll pay for a mover once he finds somewhere to actually live. Not a temporary thing like this.

See, he doesn’t want to live in the house forever. It’s old, hundreds of years old, and it’s falling apart already. This is just the place he needs to stay for the time being, while he gets his bearings. If he doesn’t need to spend money on rent, he can afford to put some in savings, and spend the rest on food and the bills for his mum’s care home. And with less time being spent caring for his mum, he can get another job. Hell, he might even be able to take night courses, finish high school, so that lying on his CV becomes a little less of a necessity.

He's not going to stay. And if it is dangerous, if the walls start crumbling around him, then he’ll leave. He’ll find another place to stay, he’ll call Tim and Sasha, or even Melanie and he’ll couch surf until he can find a cheap place to live. Never mind that he hasn’t talked to them in months. Never mind that his finger can’t hover over their contacts without him wanting to throw up.

He grits his teeth and pushes open the door.

It’s dark inside. And empty. There’s some furniture, covered in dusty white sheets, and the moth eaten remains of a carpet. There’s a fireplace filled only with ash, but he’s seen some wood outside, so once it dries out, he’ll be able to use it.

For what seems like the first time in a month, he breathes out.

The house is cold when Martin wakes up, not the icy lashing of harsh rain, but the coldness of a morning. Of fog seeping inside you. Mist that you only realise was there when you come inside and realise you’re soaked.

A coldness that feels more heavy than icy.

Martin takes out his battery powered kettle from his bag, and pours the bottle of water into it. It’s the kind of morning for sugary rooibos tea, and one look at his phone confirms that he has enough time. Martin shrugs on his favourite hoodie – a baggy, even for him, blue-grey one – and starts rifling through his bag for the mugs. He finds the one he bought for his mum first. It has a picture of two bears on the front of it, just like his favourite childhood picture book. Before mum got sick, he’d badger her to read it for him all the time. And then when she started getting bad, and his life became a blur of hospital waiting rooms and the broken glass of picture frames on the wall.

He puts the mug back in the bag and pulls out a different one.

Moving is difficult, when he and his mum moved to London it was especially so, she wasn’t happy at all about the move, and he was so stressed, that even though he felt like he could collapse when his head hit the pillow, he couldn’t go to sleep for all the worrying. So, it isn’t too odd that he’s dwelling on things from years ago. His emotions are frazzled, and he could do with a little more sleep.

The kettle goes off with a click, startling Martin out of his thought spiral. He carefully pours the boiling water into his mug and adds a few teaspoons of sugar. He doesn’t have milk, but Martin doesn’t mind too much. Rooibos isn’t that strong of a tea, and Martin could do with the extra warmth.

The heat of the tea does nothing to heat up Martin’s hands, as he waits a few minutes for it to cool, but he doesn’t pay it much mind, instead distracting himself with the news. It’s going to be a cold winter, and someone is dead.

The news isn’t a good distraction. He takes a sip of his tea to find it cold, not even lukewarm, not icy, just cold, as if he’s left it for too long, and it’s just cooled down on its own, and for all he knows, it might have. He tends to get too distracted by his distractions, and zone out. The tea still tastes good, so he drinks the rest of the mug, and places it in the Tupperware housing the dirty dishes. It’s a Sunday, so he has time to look around the rest of the house, check things out, make sure nothing falls apart on him and he doesn’t get chucked out of the only place he can live for breaking the two-hundred-year-old balustrades or something.

The house is cold. In temperature, but also just in how it feels. Nothing is bright – not that Martin would be expecting brightness from a house over 200 years old. It’s soft, and quiet, and subdued. The furniture is broken, and moth eaten, and no effort seems to have ever been made to clean it up.

Abandoned. Like a shadow of what it once was. Upstairs is more of the same, though there are a few unbroken items lying on the ground that Martin takes special care to avoid. Not for the first time, he wonders why Elias let him move in. He’s not a… historian, or someone who’s actually capable of looking after this ancient building that clearly has items of historical value in it. Though, Elias isn’t paying, so Martin supposes he just went with the first person who wouldn’t be too put off by that.

Someone desperate. Someone desperately alone.

He shivers. There’s a broken window in one of the bedrooms, a bare one, with only a penknife that looks like it’s covered in dried blood on the floor.

Martin pulls his jumper sleeve over his arm, and reaches down to pick it up, but as his fingers brush the handle, he’s struck with a sudden and intense panic. He tries to pull away, but something in him insists that he need to grab it. Something’s there, something just outside the door, and if he doesn’t have the knife, he’s going to go back there – wherever “back there” is.

Martin forces himself to take a deep breath in. There’s no-one there. He would have heard them enter, and walk up the creaky staircase, he would have seen them, for Christ’s sake, the door is open. But that doesn’t stop his mind from screaming at him the opposite. He sits down on the floor, and slowly unclenches his hand from the knife.

As soon as it drops back onto the floor all the fear is gone. The room gets colder, and Martin gets to his feet.

He’s not going to touch anything. That seems the wisest course of action.

He closes the door of the room behind him as he leaves.

Martin decides not to continue exploring the house. If they didn’t want the creepy old stuff upstairs to break, they should have gotten someone who actually knew what they were doing to live there. It’s not his responsibility to actively try to preserve stuff in this creepy mansion. It’s survived for over two hundred years without his help, it can last a couple weeks with him breathing the same bloody air as it.

He needs to leave. As soon as he finds a cheap flat, he’s going to leave.

T minus who fucking knows days until something in this creepy house kills him.

Monday morning comes, and Martin is exhausted. Living in a creepy manor with knives that give him panic attacks, is terrible for one’s sleeping. Especially if they already have sleeping problems, and can’t rely on warm , black tea to keep them awake.

He’s almost surprised at how easily he believes it. That something in this house is causing his tea to grow cold, and that knife to give him a feeling of such utter dread . But he’s heard weirder stuff, back when he and Melanie were still friends, and she’d ramble for hours about the weirdest stuff she’d found on ghost hunts. Turns out, being friends with a ghost hunter is a pretty good way to either start believing in the supernatural or become a sceptic.

He's come up with a plan to last at least a month in this house. He’ll stay downstairs, and only go upstairs or into the basement if it’s an emergency. With enough luck it’ll all be completely normal happenstance, or at the very least not affect him too much.

The second full day of living at the house is normal, or as normal as it can be with that gnawing worry in the back of his mind, about what’s going to happen to him while he’s living in that house. He’s always been anxious at work, pretty much always been anxious in general, so it really isn’t that big of a change.

Still, when he gets home, he collapses into bed immediately, though he doesn’t fall asleep for quite some time.

The third day is worse. His anxiety is back with a vengeance, but in that way where it constantly feels like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. He’s dizzy, and shaky and on his break he goes to the backroom and lies down on the ground, and stares at the ceiling for the whole 20 minutes.

There’s a simple solution, he knows this. He had friends, he could text them, ask them for a place to stay. Then at least his anxiety would be over if his friends’ hated him or not, rather than if he was going to get murdered by a ghost.

But… it’s not actually hurting him. Not having a place to stay would hurt him. His friends’ letting him stay for a while but then kicking him out would hurt him. Being homeless in the winter could kill him.

He hadn’t really thought it was a possibility when he was younger. They were struggling, sure, but they could make ends meet. They’d always be able to make ends meet. But that illusion had shattered a long time ago.

The fourth day is agony. He’s sweaty, his brain is fuzzy, he’s making a conscious effort to keep his eyes open.

He’s been sleeping normally; he doesn’t understand why he feels this bad. Sure, his normal isn’t good, but it sure as hell isn’t this.

When he gets home, mentally adding “book a doctor’s appointment” to the list of things he can do when he has time, there’s someone inside.

Their back is turned to him.

The sensible thing would be to turn and run. The sensible thing would have been to turn and run days ago, when he touched the bloody penknife.

It’s snowing.

It’s so cold outside.

“Hello,” Martin calls. The figure turns around, movement almost blurry, like bad greenscreen. Martin almost takes a step back.

“You.” They’re glaring at him. Martin nods, swallows.

“Me.”

They tilt their head, wincing involuntarily. They have a fresh looking wound on their neck, in contrast to the few faded scars visible on their face.

“Why are you still here?” their voice is low, dangerous. Every instinct in Martin tells him to leave, or at least back away.

“I-“ Martin clenches his fists. “I needed a place to stay.”

“There are plenty of other places to stay.”

“Why are you here?” Martin shoots back, tilting his chin up. “I live here.”

“I died here.”

That makes Martin startle. He takes a step back. They- it- the ghost smiles.

“Now, are you going to leave,” the ghost leans in, drops into a stage whisper. “Or do I have to make you?”

For some ungodly reason, Martin bristles at his words instead of doing the sensible thing of running for the hills. “Why?”

The ghost looks taken aback for a second, opening and closing his mouth, looking for words. “Why? I- Because I could kill you, because I told you to, and if you don’t-“

“Would you, though?”

He’s going to get himself killed. This is how he’s going to die, having an argument with a bloody ghost because he can’t phone his friends and ask for a place to stay.

“Yes!”

“You know what would also kill me,” Martin crosses his arms, somehow putting on an air of confidence he does not feel in the slightest. “The cold. The cold would kill me.”

“Have you been enjoying the last couple days?”

“What?”

“I said, have you been enjoying the last couple of days. Headaches, sweating, dizzy spells, exhaustion. It hasn’t been pleasant, has it?” The ghost smiles. Martin knows that smile. It’s like a shark’s. Like Elias’.

Martin swallows, his throat is dry. “How did you-“

“How do you think?” The ghost steps closer towards him.

His fear isn’t gone, but it’s funnelled towards this ever-growing pit of anger inside of him. “I don’t fucking care what you can do to me,” he says, he’s lying through his teeth, and the ghost can tell, with how it lets out a short laugh. “Get off your high horse and let me stay in your enormous bloody mansion, you arsehole.”

“Or what.”

Martin’s eyes flick to the wound in their neck. He keeps a Swiss army knife in his coat pocket, one of the only things he still has left from his dad – and one of the only things he kept in the move. It’s practical, and it’s small. Something easily overlooked by his mum when she was throwing all his things out.

“Or I carve another hole in your neck.” Martin pulls out the knife.

The ghost looks at the knife, then at him, and then promptly vanishes.

The fifth day is better. It’s warmer inside the house. His tea is warm. He feels… lighter, the exhaustion is gone, so’s the fuzziness and dizziness. Then the regular anxiety is lessened as well. All he needs to do is keep threatening a literal ghost with a knife.

If he thinks about it too hard it feels ridiculous. It is ridiculous. He can’t seriously believe that this’ll work.

It’s only for the winter. It’s only until he can afford a flat.

It’s only until the ghost gets over their fear and kills him like it threatened.

It’s a full week since he’s gotten to the house when the ghost comes back. It’s late at night, but he can’t sleep – as usual – so he’s reading The Colour of Magic by the light of his phone and eating Weetabix. The ghost appears suddenly just in the corner of his eye. Martin drops his phone and fumbles for his knife.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” The ghost says.

“Forgive me if I have a hard time believing that,” Martin snaps.

“I want to make a deal.”

Martin moves his bowl to the floor and stands up, still pointing the knife at the ghost.

“What do you want?”

“I want you not to stab me. And I want you to leave.”

Martin can hear the wind howling outside.

“But… I understand that isn’t an option for you. So, we’ll make a deal.”

“What are your terms?”

“You don’t stab me, and you stay on this floor. In return, I won’t kill you.”

Martin thinks on it for a moment, then nods. “Fine, shake on it.”

“Put the knife down.”

Martin obliges, and reaches for the ghost’s hand. It’s cold as ice, and clammy.

“Martin,” he says. “My name’s Martin.”

“Jon.”

Martin’s making tea when their first actual interaction happens. It’s rooibos, and Martin makes it like he usually does. With copious amounts of sugar, and however much milk feels right in the moment.

Martin appears right as he’s pouring the water in the mug. “What are you making?” Jon asks.

Martin startles, and splashes boiling water through Jon and onto the floor. He’s a translucent blue this time, instead of solid but blurry.

“Jesus Christ!” Martin pulls out the knife, and Jon floats backwards.

“What are you making?” Jon repeats, surlier this time.

“Tea!”

“What kind of tea?”

“Rooibos.”

“Rooibos?” Jon repeats, confused.

“Yeah, it’s a type of tea.”

“I presumed.” Jon raises his shoulders, then asks, sounding like he’s forcing out every word “Can you… tell me more about it?”

“Alright?” Martin puts the kettle down, but still holds the knife out as he talks. “It’s from South Africa, from the fynbos area, in the… Western Cape I believe.”

Jon nods at him to keep going.

“Uh, well, it’s not even technically tea, just hot leaf water, which I��guess you could say about all teas, but regardless. It’s got no caffeine, so I like to drink it before I go to bed. It’s also low in tannin. And I get migraines.”

“What are migraines?”

“They’re, uh, they’re really bad headaches. Sometimes they make you sensitive to light and stuff. When I was a teenager I’d just sit in the shower with the lights turned off when I got them. Now I take meds. Medication. Drugs to help with that.”

“And… caffeine?”

“How do you-“ Martin cuts himself off. “It’s a stimulant. It makes you more awake. Found in coffee and most teas.”

“Thank you for the clarification,” Jon says.

“Wait, Jon.”

“What?” Jon turns around. Even though they’re translucent, their gaze is still piercing. “Do you want some?”

He’s offering tea, to a ghost, to a ghost who has tried to kill him, who’s only not killing him because he’s threatening them with a knife.

Jon glances at the knife, then back at Martin. “Put the knife down.”

“You’ll kill me.”

“Then step away after it’s done.”

Martin pours the boiling water into another mug. He’s not stupid enough to tell the ghost who could and would kill him that he’s not going to hurt them, even if he is stupid enough to immediately jump into making tea for said ghost.

“Sure,” he says. “Would you like sugar with that?”

Jon shrugs, so Martin adds sugar and milk, then steps away, for Jon to grab it. As their fingers curl around the mug, they become solid, and land softly on the ground.

“Thank you,” Jon says, stiffly. “It’s… interesting to speak with you.”

“Thought you wanted me gone?” Martin takes a sip of his tea.

“I do,” Jon snaps. Then, softer “But you’re here, now, and I can’t exactly get rid of you yet-“ Outside, the wind still howls, and the snow still falls. But it’s warm inside. “-So, I might as well use the resources I have to learn how things have changed since I’ve been gone.”

“How did you die?”

Jon sips at their tea.

“You don’t have to answer,” Martin adds on.

“Thank you for the tea, Martin.” Jon says, and then they turn and walk away.

Martin’s not an extremely curious person, but when he’s living in a house with a literal ghost, who can blame him for doing a little digging on the history of the place.

On the next weekend, Martin goes to the library, and looks through the old newspapers, looking for any mention of Jon or the house. There’s a record of it being bought by someone called Jonah Magnus, who Martin’s never heard of before, but appears in the newspapers fairly frequently. He was suspected of grave robbery but there was no substantial evidence for it, which while interesting , really has nothing to do with what Martin’s looking for. He finds records of a Jonathan Sims, reportedly a close friend of Jonah’s who went missing around 1816, and that piques Martin’s interest. There’s only one picture, and it’s hard to make out if it’s Jon, but Martin jumps on it. Before long, he’s amassed any references to Jonathan Sims that he can find. There’s a few duds in there – he doesn’t think the ghost was born in Kentucky – but he thinks he’s pieced together a relatively thorough history of what might be Jon Sims.

They were born in 1787 in what is now Bournemouth, and moved to London after their parents died in frustratingly ambiguous ways at a frustratingly vague time. The only news reports he can find from his childhood was from 1795, when someone – who’s name was obscured by a printing error on the only newspaper he can find – went missing, and Jon was the last person who’d seen him.

Around the early 1810s, their grandmother died, and Jon appeared more and more in local newspapers due to his involvement with Jonah Magnus. Then, around 1816, they went missing. But as far as Martin can tell from the news reports, no one even noticed for what might have been years.

That’s where it ends. Black text on white paper, stating that Jon’s disappearance was barely even noticed, that they probably died alone in that house.

Martin puts it all back and leaves, ignoring the steadily growing pit in his stomach.

Fuck their deal, if Jon’s death wasn’t noticed by anyone in his time, Martin’s going to have to be the one to keep his memory alive.

“What are you doing up here?” the ghost asks, startling Martin so badly that he drops his torch. In hindsight it was stupid to think that coming up at night would do anything to avoid being found.

“Uh...” Martin reaches for the knife in his pocket, only to find that it’s not there. Fuck.

“I asked you a question.” Jon’s voice is quiet, but all of Martin’s instincts are screaming danger.

“Just, um... looking around,” Martin responded. Jon raised his eyebrows, and smiled coldly.

“What are you actually here for?”

Martin takes a deep breath in. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I want to know how you died.”

Jon’s voice is ice. “Isn’t that an interesting question?”

“They don’t know how you died.”

“Who’s “they”?”

“The- the library? The general populace, anyone!”

Jon is silent for a moment. “Just go.”

“I’m trying to help-“

“ Just go!”

Martin flinches backwards. “Ok,” he said, voice barely a whisper.

“ Don’t come up here again.”

Martin nods, and hurries down the stairs. When he turns around Jon is gone.

Jon’s tea is left undrunk. Martin drinks it himself. It’s gone cold.

The next few weeks are spent apart. Martin never sees Jon in the brief glimpses of upstairs he gets. It’s familiar to be alone. Martin’s good at convincing himself that he doesn’t mind.

He calls his mum every week, and she answers cordially enough. There’s always been a distance there, a coldness that never fully dissipated. With her gone it’s freezing, but not cold enough to become numb. It just hurts.

He... spends a lot of time at the library, fulfilling his lifelong goal of finally reading the Lord of the Rings. It’s fine, he’s always preferred to be alone when he has free time. He’s always preferred to-

The problem is he has nothing to distract himself with. His motivation to read comes and goes, but is more gone than not. He doesn’t have to take care of his mum, and he doesn’t want to make her irritated by calling too much, so he’s just sitting in the library, staring at these words and being unable to convert them into meaning, because all he can do is think about how badly he fucked up everything, and how only he would be this torn up about upsetting a ghost.

It’s during one of these times where he gets the message. From Elias Bouchard, saying that he’ll be visiting to check up on how Martin’s handling things next week Friday.

Martin hastily puts the books back in their proper shelf and runs back home. Does Elias know that his house is haunted? Should Martin tell him his house is haunted? If Elias finds out his house is haunted, will Martin get kicked out?

He responds with “OK 👍” and tries not to panic too much. He can ask Jon to stay out of the way for an afternoon and not kill the person whose house he’s living in. Jon’ll understand, probably.”

“Jon!” he yells, as soon as he enters the house and slams the door behind him.

“Yes?” comes the answer, from behind him. Martin spins around, whipping out the knife. Jon flinches, and step’s back, so he’s against the wall.”

“Do you know who owns this house?”

“Not in the current year.” Jon spits out every word.

“Alright, so, the owner of this house, Elias Bouchard?” Martin pauses for Jon to respond, but they do not. “Well, Elias’ coming to the house on Friday.”

“Alright.”

“And...”

“And can you stay out of the way?”

“I don’t know, can you stay on this floor?”

Martin glared at them.

“Fine, I’ll stay out of your way.”

“ Thank you.”

Jon doesn’t dissipate, but instead stands there, fidgeting with their fingers.

“Jon?”

Jon’s head jerks up. “Uh... yes?”

“Do you... need something?”

“No?” Jon starts to walk past him and upstairs.

“Wait,” Martin says. “Do you... want some tea?”

Jon looks back at him. “Sure, that’d be... that’d be great.”

The next few days are the friendliest they’ve ever been. Martin steers clear of any discussion of Jon’s past, but slowly but surely, they actually start to be... friendly. Jon hates poetry, they’ll jump at any opportunity to mock it relentlessly. Martin loves poetry, and will take every opportunity to read his favourites aloud, much to Jon’s mock irritation, but Jon still sits, enraptured at the sound of Martin’s voice.

Martin likes Jon’s voice, or more so just likes the way Jon speaks. They tilt their head to the side when they make a joke or sarcastic comment, they open their mouth as if to say something when they’re speaking.

And when they’re talking to Martin, the smile in their voice is audible.

No, Martin is not falling in love with a ghost, that would be absurd.

But... if his plans were to fall through and he had to spend more time in the house... it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Martin arrives home earlier than he usually does on Friday, choosing to take the bus instead of walking like he usually does. Jon left a note on the counter, saying that he’d stay out of the way the whole time, just like he promised. He signed off with a heart, and Martin neatly folds it up, and tucks it into his shirt pocket, just above his heart.

There’s two swift knocks on the door, and Martin unlocks it to see Elias standing there, dressed all prim and proper, in contrast to Martin’s jumper and jeans.

“Uh, please, come in,” Martin steps aside to allow Elias entry, but as soon as Elias steps past the threshold, the temperature in the house seems to drop.

“It’s chilly in here,” Elias remarks.

“Yeah, it’s... not got any heating.” Martin rocks back and forth on his feet. “But I have a lot of blankets. And... jumpers.”

“Lovely,” Elias says. “Well, the downstairs doesn’t seem to be in any disrepair, let’s see upstairs, shall we?”

The steps to go upstairs creak, Martin clenches his fists and takes a deep breath in.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” he whispers, under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, it was nothing.”

Nothing happens when they head upstairs. They look through the rooms without anything out of the ordinary happening, and if Elias notices that Martin’s heart is beating out of his chest, he doesn’t say a thing.

Until, of course, they reach the final room. Empty of all but a penknife, or at least it was empty. Now Jon stands there, clutching the knife in his right hand.

“You know... this was my father’s, before it was mine,” Jon says.

“Jon, what are you-”

“It’s the only thing I had left of him.”

Elias scoffs. “Really, Jon, you’re still-”

“And somehow it was one of the only things that you didn’t rip away from me, and I wonder sometimes if you knew it would be my anchor.”

“Jon, can you explain-”

“This knife has killed me, has kept me tethered to this mortal plane, and now I will use it to kill you ,” Jon turns around. “Jonah Magnus.” His voice is tight with fury.

Elias just laughs. “Come now, Jon, we both know you don’t have it you to follow through. Let’s stop with this melodrama already-”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish, because Jon’s already stabbed him through the throat with his knife.

Elias falls to the floor. Jon’s breathing hard, still clutching the blood covered knife. Martin doesn’t – can’t – move.

“I’m, uh...” Jon barely whispers. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Martin.”

“Do we need to hide a body?”

“Sorry, what?”

“I mean, we’ve just... killed him? We’re going to need to hide the body, clean the floor, I bet he told Peter Lukas-”

“Lukas?”

“Yeah, his husband.”

“Husband?”

“We can dwell on the individual words when I’m not going to get done for murder, did you have a place in mind, do you want to just bury it outside, do you want to do it The Tell-Tale Heart style?”

“Are you-” Jon’s expression morphs into that of fondness. “Martin, are you... suggesting places to hide the body?”

“Yes, yes I am, keep up, Jon.”

Jon laughs, a combination of bewildered and delighted.

“How are you so calm about this?”

“I love me a man that can commit a murder? I’m, I’m, I’m really not, but we should probably focus on the practicalities of how we’re – I’m – not going to get arrested for murder? That would be -” Martin barked out a laugh. “Bad!”

Jon leans his head against Martin’s shoulder. “I love you, Martin,” he manages amidst the silent laughter.

“Do you want to, like, kiss?”

“I- alright??”

Jon’s breath is warm, Martin can’t remember any part of Jon being warm before.

“Kissing over a corpse is a completely normal thing to do with a ghost you met a few weeks ago,” Jon deadpans.

“Oh, Christ, the corpse!”

“What were you saying about The Tell-Tale Heart?”

“So,” Jon says. Disposing of Elias’ – Jonah Magnus’? Martin still isn’t completely sure’s – body was a fairly simple process, all things considered, even though they had to go by literary references and gut feeling, because Martin did not think it was a good idea to Google it. But once the hysteria at finding himself in the situation where he needed to hide a body with his ghost crush – ghost partner? – had worn off, the actual situation he was in fully started to set in.

“So.”

“He deserved it?” Jon suggests.

“What’d he even do? Who even is he?”

“He wanted to live forever. Hurt a lot of people trying to achieve that. Now he’s dead.”

“I know he’s dead.”

Martin sits down on the floor, and Jon follows suit.

“Did he kill you?” Jon’s hand is warm in his. “You don’t have to answer.”

“I died because of him,” Jon responds. “But... he wasn’t the one who killed me.”

The penknife lies in front of them, but they couldn’t wipe the blood clean.

Martin squeezes Jon’s hand. “I’m sorry you had to... kill him.”

“It was... quite cathartic, actually.”

“Maybe that’s not a good thing?”

“You’re the one who immediately jumped to body hiding and kissing.”

“It’s got the right ambiance.”

Jon laughs shortly, and leaned into Martin.

“I’m glad I didn’t have to do it alone,” they say, voice more sombre.

“I’m glad I don’t have to be alone, not with... you.”

Jon stands up and stretches, picking up the penknife, then holds out their arm for Martin to use to get up.

“Come on, let’s make some tea. It’s been a busy day.”

“You can say that again.”

They make two steaming cups of Rooibos tea, and sit outside the window, huddled up in blankets, but never cold. Not anymore.

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