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Jon never really liked birthdays. His grandma used to give him a book as a present, but act like it’s a special occasion and not something that happens all the time anyway, and allowed him to stay up late but made snarky comments that made him feel small.
He didn’t use to throw parties, as obviously nobody would’ve shown up had he thrown one. Better save the trouble. His grandma didn’t like the idea anyway, said she’s too old to organize something like that, to host twenty screaming kids. Not that twenty kids would've come. Doesn’t matter. He didn’t throw parties.
As a teen, his distaste stayed firm. He didn’t need his grandma’s approval to stay up late well into the wee hours if he desired so, and the books she brought him rarely answered his (fairly said, extremely hard to nail down) taste, so their tradition was now that she offers Jon to go to the beach - a gesture she only invested half of her heart in, and it was plain to see she doesn’t really want to and doesn’t expect him to want to either; cut the cake she bought two days earlier and never ate herself; and kiss his cheek.
It was a sad sight, and Jon wasn’t moved by it.
At school they rarely remembered the date. Only a few times he was wished a happy birthday.
The first birthday he celebrated properly was when he was nineteen, less than two months into uni. He had just started dating Georgie, who was his first girlfriend, the best thing that had happened to him, and an earthquake that shook his world every morning.
Georgie found out by accident that his birthday was coming up and insisted they’d do something. “You can’t not celebrate,” she said, “this is your first birthday out of the house.” And then she put an arm around his shoulder and said: “let’s get drunk and be happy. We’re young and alive and it’s only the beginning.” And then she made him wear his nicest shirt and dragged him out to the pumpkins and fake ghosts decorating the street and said: “you can be anything you want tonight. This calls for a celebration.” And then she brought her face closer to his and smiled and raised her eyebrow in amusement and mumbled: “so close to Halloween. Fitting, ain’t it, Mr. Spooky Shit? Should’ve guessed. That’s why you like the supernatural so much, huh?” And then it started raining and they ran together, like kids, and then they found shelter at the nearest club and they downed a shot after shot of cheap vodka, and Georgie's lips smelled like rain and alcohol when she kissed him-
But apart from that, he didn’t like his birthday. Or anyone’s, really. No point in noting the fact we’ve gotten old. It doesn’t happen only once a year; we’re getting old every fucking day, every damn hour. He just didn’t see the point in birthdays, that’s all.
...It didn’t make the little sting in his heart, when he realized he missed his thirty birthday, hurt any less.
Thirty. Huh. That… that for sure was an age. Thirty was the age they used to look up to, as kids, and think it represents the whole ordeal of “being a grown up”. The age that represents financial stability and two kids on the way and a garden and an office job and a bald spot. The age that represents the end of the world. Thirty was old. Fuck, Jon was old. Jon was so young. Wasn’t he supposed to feel smart and big and knowing all the answers now?
Well, huh, actually, he was pretty close to getting the last criteria down. Maybe not all the answers, but certainly fucking most of them.
But that wasn’t the issue. The issue was that thirty was supposed to be the age he would finally feel in control. Feel this life isn’t too much for him after all. That he can do this. Whatever this was. Even if this was, well… this.
And Jon definitely didn’t feel able. Or smart or old or in control. He felt lost and alone and miserable and like a monster and not worthy of love and that it’s better if he just-
Yeah. Um. He didn’t feel thirty.
Would he be feeling different had he been awake for it? Had he seen the seconds pass, watched the clock strike midnight? Would it feel more real? Make him able to reply the right answer when people ask him how old he is?
Not that it was a problem. Nobody asked him how old he is.
No, the real problem was that his birthday wasn’t the only one that had passed during his long coma months.
Martin’s birthday was in September.
Jon knew it, because he planned on doing something special for the day. Assuming he’d survive the Unknowing, of course, he never had delusions about that… he just didn’t think he’d miss it, if he would survive. Should have counted the option of a coma into the equation, huh? Oh well, learning for next time.
He planned to do something for the day, because he felt guilty. Last September he didn’t do anything, didn’t even congratulate Martin. It was so close to Prentiss… everything was too fresh. He was terrified and scarred and didn’t think rationally and was pretty sure Martin is trying to kill him, so you can’t really blame him for not putting birthdays and politeness very high in his priorities.
But he wasn’t all that anymore - well, he still was scarred. He’ll always be scarred. That was kinda the whole point in scars - and he and Martin were friends, and Jon owed him so much, more than he could ever repay, really, but he could at least celebrate his birthday, show him that he cares, that he appreciates what Martin does for him, that he loves-
That he sees how hard Martin is trying. That he can (occasionally) be grateful. That he can be the person Martin thinks he is, that he can be someone good, someone human, someone worth fighting for, someone Martin shouldn’t give up on, mustn’t give up on, someone worth the trouble, someone who wouldn’t let him down-
Well, Jon did let him down, eventually. Should’ve figured. Letting people down was kind of his expertise, after all. Letting down and being afraid. And turning into a monster. An impressive set of skills, all in all. He should put it in his CV.
Was that why Martin avoided him? Because he didn’t celebrate his birthday? No, of course not. Jon knew it wasn’t. Why must he always be so self-centered? There are other things beside you in the world, Sims. But maybe it was a factor. Maybe Martin expected Jon to do something for his birthday. Or worse - perhaps he expected nothing. Perhaps he knew exactly who Jon was. Took him a bit longer than the others to realize it but eventually he too got the massage.
February came and went and Jon did nothing. Only let the month slip between his fingers, like he let all important things. All the things that kept him human and hanging on. Fuck. God. He just needed something to hold on to. Anything. And Martin abandoned him.
That son of a bitch. That fucking son of a b-
No. No, that wasn’t true, Jon couldn’t think that way, it was unfair, it was unfair in every way, Martin was wonderful and only tried to protect them, he had explained that to him, Jon needs to trust him like he promised himself he would-
Fuck. He slammed his fist at the desk. Fuck! Everything felt like too much for him. Everything's been so awful since he woke up. Sometimes he regretted even waking up. Sometimes he wondered if it wasn’t better if he had just stayed in a coma.
But then he would remember the dreams. Remember it’s actually really good that he woke up.
Too bad he was the only one feeling that way.
March had arrived, and Jon felt like he has no air.
And Jon without air - that he knew since the old miserable high school days - was a Jon filled with adrenaline. He was never one to freeze; panic always made him move, get back to work. And what could he possibly work on?
So much. Nothing at all.
The apocalypse had come and gone, Elias had been arrested, Jon turned into a monster; now what? Seriously, now what? He’s supposed to just sit in his office and read statements? Seems like his entire life since he agreed to this bloody job was a hunt for answers, but there they were; all the answers he wanted, right here in his hands. Nobody promised he’d like them. And now what?
Jon didn’t know. Most days, he read statements.
Not today. Today he woke up and decided he doesn’t care about shame, and has zero shreds of self-respect left to defend anyway. Today he is going to start a conversation with Martin Blackwood.
No, it was too ambitious a target. Start small, Jon, don’t be arrogant. Remember Oedipus.
Today - today he is going to leave Martin Blackwood a letter.
Or better yet - he’s going to leave him a birthday card. A bit late, maybe, but if you consider his circumstances, he didn’t think you can really hold it against him. Though, technically you can also count it as a (very very late) birthday card for last year, and then he really doesn’t have an excuse.
Whatever. Better late than never.
He bought a box of tea bags, the kind Martin used to make for him back then, before the coma, before the Unknowing. And then, even though it felt silly, he bought flowers. Martin liked flowers, right? Jon wasn’t sure why he thought so. He never saw flowers on Martin’s desk when they worked together, never once heard him talking about flowers. But something tickled in the back of his mind. For some reason, he was certain.
So he bought flowers. And tea, also tea. That is, tea bags, but tea bags that would become tea. Not by themselves, of course, they wouldn’t just turn into tea, they haven’t invented that kind of tea bags yet, heh. Dammit, get a hold of yourself Sims, rambling in your head again. Where was all that eloquence that gripped him while reading statements now?
He sat down at his desk, a pen in his hand and a fancy paper he bought with the flowers in front of him (they sold papers too, that flower shop. Small, delicate, perfect for cards. They knew what they’re doing there).
He breathed deep- no, deeper than that, c’mon- a little bit more, hold it inside a bit more- there you go, well done Sims, you breathed properly. You see you can when you want to? Oh, to hell with his brain today, to hell with everything. Why can’t even his own head not be cruel to him?
Focus. Breathe. Focus. Write.
...He stared at the card in front of him.
What’s his matter? He’s read so many statements, so many books, he has a master in literature for god’s sake! You’d expect he’d be able to write one birthday card without spraining something, right? He’s good with words, usually. Or at least, was. Now it feels so far away.
How do people usually start birthday cards?
“Dear Martin,” wrote Jon, and then erased, and then realized that now Martin will know he erased something and cursed. God forbid his powers be, among else, erasing ink of any paper he would like. No, he’s stuck with knowing dates of wars that nobody who’s still alive has even heard of, and with pulling the truth out of people like he’s fishing goldfish out of their lungs.
...Well, that one he kinda liked, to be honest. But he could do without the random trivia facts.
And he definitely could do without the dreams.
Jon shook himself. Not the time for self-pity. He could also definitely do with the ability to erase ink scribbles and start anew, start the page anew, start everything anew with a fresh page and from the beginning and no mistakes this time and no worms and no clowns and no hunters and evil bosses and kidnappings and hot wax and moisturizers and yellow doors and knives and identity thefts and murders and tunnels and lies and fear and spiders and cursed books and friendships falling apart and dreams and no fucking statements.
Or at least no typos.
Or at least not alone.
Jon went and bought a pile of papers.
“Dear Martin,”
“Dear dear dear Martin, please come back to me,”
"Martin,”
Erase. Start over.
"Beloved Martin,”
“Best tea maker in all of London Martin,”
“Best tea maker in all of Britain Martin,”
“My Martin,”
“Martin that was once mine but not anymore,”
“Martin that was never mine in the first place,”
“I'm sorry, Martin,”
“I forgive you, Martin,”
“God, Martin, please,”
“You can’t leave me like that,”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s for the whole world, you can’t leave me like that,”
“Martin I miss you,”
“I think of you every day,”
Erase. Start over.
“Dear Martin,
Have a happy birthday. I mean have had a happy birthday. I know it already past, I know when your birthday is, I haven’t forgotten,”
“I'll never forget, I promise, I'll always remember,”
Erase. Start over.
“Remember when we went out for ice cream on your birthday, back at the start? I didn’t remember, afterwards, but I remember now. You were so beautiful then, your eyes shone, I couldn’t stop staring at your smile,”
“Remember when we talked in the sealed room, when Prentiss attacked? Remember you saved my life? I hope this is how you remember it. This is how I remember it,”
“Remember when I thought you were capable of murder? I'm so sorry,”
“Remember I disappeared on you for six months when Tim died and your mother died? I'm so sorry,”
“Remember you disappeared on me when I needed you more than ever? Where are you, Martin? Where are you? Where are-”
“Remember, Martin? I remember. I will never forget.”
Jon wrote and wrote and wrote, and erased and erased and erased.
It took hours. He destroyed paper after paper, leaving aggressive erasing marks and a pile of used up pens behind.
Eventually he managed to write something he was satisfied with.
He snuck into Lukas’ office and left it there, Knowing that Martin was supposed to get back from his lunch break in five minutes.
Flowers, and tea bags, and a letter. In tiny handwrite that looked like it can’t contain itself, contain his hope- so big that it filled every corner in his heart and would leave nothing behind if gone. So small you could hold it in one hand.
“Dear Martin,
I apologize for not celebrating to you on your last birthday. Hopefully you won’t hold against me this oversight. They say better late than never, so here. Hope I wasn’t too late.
I'm hoping I could celebrate you properly on your next birthday. Maybe we can go out together for ice cream again, like back then. What do you say?
I hope you’ll like the flowers and the tea. Hope you make yourself tea with the same dedication you used to make it for me with. It’s good, your tea. And you deserve good things.
I'm always here for you. Any time. Really. Okay, Martin? For anything.
Yours,
Jon.”