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“You’re late,” Elias chided mildly, not looking up as Martin stepped into the conservatory.
“You deal with Simon next time,” Martin muttered.
“I dealt with him. For more than two centuries.”
Martin rolled his eyes, barely suppressing the urge to call Elias a rambling old man who always used the same arguments. Elias must have still been lurking in his mind though, because he straightened up, brushing the dirt off his gardening gloves, and looked at him with a deeply unimpressed expression. Martin was aghast to realize he’d become oddly fond of that face in the last few years.
“He was very impressed by everything we’ve done to stop Nikola,” he settled on saying instead. “Said he’d try to join Peter for us. Aaaand he left us this.”
He waved the frankly egregious check Simon had written him before jumping from the window of his office with a gleeful cackle. Elias’ lips curled up ever so slightly. “Excellent job as always, then,” he said, and Martin’s insides twisted just a little too pleasantly.
“Yes, well. He’s easy once you’ve figured him out, right?”
“I assume so, though I can’t say he’s ever tried so hard to seduce me.”
Martin snorted. “What, you’re jealous or something?”
“Mm.” Elias turned back to the garden. “I merely think Simon should learn that some things are not meant to be his. Most others understand, by now.”
The eye carved in the glass ceiling above their heads burned the back of Martin’s neck. It made him waver a little—the bonds binding him to the Institute filled with memories and secrets that were almost too heavy for his body—but he breathed through it and embraced it all, like always. He reveled in the thrill of being so thoroughly seen; it made him feel beloved and safe, and in turn it reminded him of the only reason he’d come to the conservatory at all. Not for Simon, not for Elias, but for Jon.
Martin stepped into the soft dirt and grass without a thought, ignoring Elias’ annoyed little sound; he didn’t care about his shoes so much as being close enough to see Jon. Although he and Elias diligently took turns trimming the myriad of blooming plants growing all around him, the greenery still enveloped him tightly, petals and leaves brushing over the thick, coarse layer of wood that had been steadily growing over his skin. Maybe it was skin now, although his neck and the tops of his shoulders were still naturally brown and soft.
Martin had argued at first against letting the thorny rose vine curl around the delicate flesh of Jon’s throat, uneasy over the endless droplets of blood falling to the ground, but he knew better than to think Jon could be properly hurt anymore. And from the blood grew such pretty, scarlet flowers—Martin assumed Jon could only appreciate it, how many beautiful things came from him. The red made such a gorgeous contrast with the silver flowers blooming all year long between his long, loose, thick curls.
Jon’s eyes fluttered softly when Martin reached him; he’d stopped moving his head so much in the past year or so, but he could still lean up into Martin’s hand. Martin and Elias had wondered, before, if one day Jon would truly freeze, forever rooted into the loving garden they’d built for him, safe from the outside world and his own impulsive instincts. They both agreed that if he did, he should be just like this: eyes looking up to those who cherished him, cheek leaning towards the fingers that worshiped him. His gaze was as endless as the eye on the ceiling, and made Martin just as dizzy. He bent over carefully, trying not to crush any other plants as he did so, and brushed his lips over Jon’s mouth.
Jon exhaled, as if releasing a long held breath.
“Martin,” he murmured, voice low and soft.
“Hey,” Martin murmured back, utterly besotted. He kissed him again, unable to resist, before glancing back behind him with a frown. “He’s dry,” he told Elias disapprovingly.
“I was just about to water him,” Elias sighed. “Mind the roses, please. ”
Mind the roses, Martin mouthed at Jon mockingly, and was satisfied to see the tremor of a smile cross Jon’s lips. They were too cracked, though, and it just wouldn’t do. They’d promised Jon they’d take care of everything, after all, and him foremost. He brushed a gentle hand over Jon’s forehead, and waved at Elias:
“Just give me the water.”
He could feel Elias’ irritation, but on the matter of Jon, at least, they never argued. The garden was the most beautiful thing they’d created; a natural shield against the harshness of a world that was never meant for someone like Jon. The flower he’d grown into was fragile and delicate, no matter how sturdy the roots appeared to be. So Elias handed over the heavy bucket of cold water, and Martin settled it at his feet with renewed tenderness and determination.
Jon’s beautiful eyes darted to the ground, his breathing quickening ever so slightly. He was still so shy about this part, as if embarrassed of being cared for so thoroughly.
Martin grabbed the glass submerged in the bucket first, filled it with water, and cupped Jon’s cheek, raising it to his lips. He had to nudge Jon’s chin ever so slightly to make him start to drink, but once he did, he swallowed it all so fast, as if starving for it. Poor darling flower. He would probably drown in it, left to his own desires. Martin took the glass away once Jon had drunk half of it, and Jon’s mouth stayed open in a soft plea that didn't come. His throat was probably still too tight for more words.
The rest of the water Martin dripped slowly over Jon’s hair. Jon shivered, silver petals glistening happily on his head. Martin could feel Elias’ piercing gaze on them both, but it was as comforting as this whole ritual, nowadays. He knew Elias didn’t keep watch out of mistrust for Martin, or out of envy.
He watched because he loved them. Because taking care of Jon was a skill close to high art, and because Jon wished for them to, deep down. Beholding’s flower, meant to be admired by all who could handle the secret nature of it (and to devour the story of those who could not).
Once Jon’s hair was thoroughly wet, Martin filled the glass and pressed it against his mouth once more. Jon drank slower this time, and Martin smiled proudly, dipping to kiss his brow.
“You’re so lovely,” he told him, because praises were as important as water to Jon. “You’re doing so well, sweetheart.”
He gently wiped the single tear that fell from Jon’s downcast eyes and let Jon have the entire glass this time. Once it was empty, he put it back in the water and grabbed the cloth that was draped on the side of the bucket instead. He wet it thoroughly, and carefully knelt to the ground before starting to stroke it over Jon’s arms and chest.
“Martin,” Jon said again. His lips formed other words, but they didn't make a sound. Idly, Martin wondered if it was being rooted that had made Jon quieter and quieter over the years, or merely the inner peace that came with all of it. Martin couldn’t quite imagine it, of course, but he thought Jon realized it by now. How tranquil he must be, now that there was nowhere to go and no one to be but this—their eternal flower, tended to with the utmost personal care in the world.
He wet Jon’s chest thoroughly, fingertips brushing over the patch of moss that had started to grow at his sides, near where his navel used to be, and took the time to check Jon’s palms, almost flat against the dirt since his fingers had taken root beautifully, disappearing into the earth and keeping him in place. Sometimes, Martin almost missed his hands, before remembering how Jon had almost hurt himself with them at first, trying to dig himself out of the garden. Now it would take weeks for someone to carefully extract him from where he’d been planted, and Elias and Martin had no intention of letting anyone get close enough to try.
Once he was done, Martin got up, patted off his knees, and looked at Jon critically.
“You can go for one more, I think,” Elias said behind him. “It’s been hot lately.”
“But I already gave him several glasses this morning,” Martin said, doubtfully.
“Still, look at the roses. If they’re faltering, imagine how it must be for him.”
A deep flush crept along Jon’s cheeks under their combined stares. Martin shook his head, and filled the glass one last time. He passed the wet cloth over Jon’s face, mindful of his fluttering eyes, and once it was all done something warm and satisfied settled back into him. He’d done well. He knew he had. Jon was wet and shivering and glowing under the evening sun, the picture of perfect health.
This time when he kissed him, it was longer. Martin wished he could put into words how much he adored Jon, but when, after a few seconds, Jon kissed him back, he had no doubt Jon understood. Around them, the whole garden quivered with power, and the eye above shone brightly.
Martin basked in the moment for a while, moving to press small kisses onto Jon’s cheeks, his nose, his forehead, inhaling the delicate and natural perfume of his skin, before regretfully getting up again.
“You’ve done the rest of the garden?” he asked Elias, playing gently with one of Jon’s curls.
“Just before,” Elias said. “I also changed the hour of our reservation at the restaurant.”
“So you knew Simon was going to be an ass and make me late—”
“I had an inkling— ”
“God, you’re infuriating— ”
“So I’ve been told. Still. It is our anniversary. I’m sure you’d like it to end on a better note than your meeting with Simon, mmh?”
Martin bit down a smile. It never did well to show Elias how happy he was with him, it made him somehow even more arrogant. “I guess, ” he said, trying to sound as casual as possible.
“Splendid. Then I suggest we both go change into something more suitable and go.”
“Don’t see what’s wrong with what we’re wearing.”
“We are not going to the Ritz in gardening clothes, Martin.”
Posh prick, Martin thought too fondly, and grinned when Elias scoffed. Idly, he brushed his thumb over Jon’s nose.
“Goodnight, flower,” he told him tenderly, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his eye. “Grow well. We love you.”
Jon made a small, quiet noise. Martin waited, patiently, until the noise turned into a hoarse, “You too.” Gentle and sweet.
It made Martin beam and, impulsively, despite knowing Elias would judge him for his romanticism (while still being touched, his facade did not fool Martin anymore), he plucked a silver flower out of Jon’s hair. Then, with one last caress, he turned away from him and stepped back out of the garden to join Elias. Without a word, he tucked the flower into Elias’ breast pocket, and let his hand linger here, right where Elias’ heart beat steadily.
Elias, predictably, said, “You are ridiculous.”
But he also glanced with tender pride at their flower, and raised his own fingers to squeeze Martin’s. They could leave without fear, now; part of Jon’s power and love was going to be with them tonight. As for the rest of Jon, well. They knew that come tomorrow morning he’d be rooted exactly where he was right then, ready for another day of frozen terror and beauty.