light coming between the curtains and a note from Arthur saying he was popping downstairs to the deli on the corner and would bring back breakfast. He was fairly certain it was the sound of the bedroom door softly closing that had woken him.
He sat up then leaned slowly forward, trying to touch his toes. In the past, he had not put much thought into his physical strength or flexibility beyond what was required to pass annual checks to maintain his various levels within the Agency.
His physical therapist had encouraged him to try to gain muscle in his legs as it would help support the twisted joints that would likely take several years to fully heal. He hoped his legs were strong enough for his upcoming plans.
He heard a crack in the distance. The sun was barely up and people were already setting off fireworks.
He took more long breaths and tried to continue through basic stretches. It had been a while since he'd had a day as mentally draining as the one before. Somehow, they always left his body aching, as if he'd been running like a mad thing for too long.
He heard the elevator door open and the sound of soft and steady footfalls. Arthur popped his head into the bedroom. "Hey, you're awake."
"Yes."
"I've got breakfast when you feel like getting up. Or, if you like, you can have breakfast in bed."
Martin shook his head. He mostly associated eating in bed with being sick or injured.
Arthur had gone a little overboard at the deli, bringing back four different types of bagels as well as a couple of breakfast sandwiches he eagerly tucked into.
Martin picked out a plain bagel and a small container of salmon spread.
"How are you feeling today?" Arthur asked as he sipped coffee from a paper cup, despite the high end, in-room coffee maker five feet away.
Martin did a quick appraisal of himself, head to toe, then took a mental step back and scanned over his emotional state as well. That had been a hard but necessary skill to learn. "I'm… well. I'm better."
"Good."
"I think I should contact the woman who sent that letter."
Arthur froze, his coffee halfway to his lips. "Okay." He dragged out the word. "And what is the plan for that?"
"I think it would be best if I made the call from my lawyer’s office, in case his counsel is needed. I would like you there as well."
"Of course. Absolutely."
"Thank you." Martin wasn't sure when he'd fully decided to make the call. Probably sometime the day before in between panic attacks and emotional truths, but he didn't want it hanging over his head, an unanswered question mark in his life.
"It's already getting a bit crowded out there. Do you think you'll be up for going out today?" Arthur asked.
"Yes." He knew Arthur wanted to introduce him to a classic film. He'd actually heard of Casablanca, and even had a vague idea of the plot. Something about French resistance fighters trying to escape North Africa during World War II and using a bar as their base. Maybe?
They dressed warmly as they headed out. The streets were getting crowded, even miles from Times Square and moving in the opposite direction. He never understood why people came to New York in the middle of winter to stand around in the cold and watch a lit-up ball get slowly lowered. But there were a lot of things he still didn't understand.
Even as a grown and arguably successful adult, he still found himself trying to work out things from context clues. He hadn't been aware of how much he didn't know or understand on the farm, but that was the point of the place.
The family he was temporarily placed with for two months had been nice enough, but they didn't understand why he didn't talk beyond the prayers over meals. He remembered hearing the word trauma a lot. They didn't understand that he didn't understand any of it, from electricity, to eggs in a carton, to milk in cardboard. He had no frame of reference for even starting to ask the questions.
In retrospect, he was lucky the raid came at the beginning of summer. He would have never managed school when he was still scared of lamps that lit themselves at the touch of a button. Not to mention cars. At least that family had a garden. Over two months, he methodically removed every slug, snail, and pest by hand and was only annoyed there were no chickens to feed the slugs to.
And if those days had been a nightmare of confusion, the city was hell. There were moments in the first few days when he thought that maybe he had died without the Time of Confession and the social worker had transported his soul to hell. He still cringed internally at the sound of his classmates’ laughter when he didn't know who the president was. Luckily, the question had been phrased in such a way that he didn't have to reveal that he didn't know what a president was.
He'd spent those first few school years yanking books from the library shelves a dozen at a time, desperately trying to fill in the gaps, but it never fully helped. There was always something new. Television he didn't watch, movies he wasn't taken to and didn't know to take himself, music he didn't listen to, fresh layers of culture and media created and blended at a rate he could never keep up with. When the Agency's recruiter made it very clear that they did not care that he had never seen Titanic, it had been a relief beyond measure. He stopped trying to fill in those gaps and allowed himself to settle into the comfortable acquisition of well-researched knowledge for his own pleasure and at his own pace.
Until a man who loved old movies, pulp novels, and food from everywhere sat across from him at lunch. He never told Arthur that Gilda was only the 23rd film he'd ever seen (not that he could remember most of it, his head and heart had felt so broken that night). The rest were from Movie Days at school or the occasional movie night in university where an enthusiastic RA drove him down to sit with dorm mates.
Arthur pressed close to him to make space for a group of already intoxicated women coming towards them. They were covered in glitter and passing a bottle of champagne between them.
"Happy New Year!" one of them screamed in Arthur's general direction.
"Happy New Year," Arthur replied with a smile before they turned to descend into the subway. They took the same route as Arthur's first night in the city. The train rattled and the cars were packed to capacity, but they would never get there in time trying to drive. He squeezed himself tightly against Arthur as they held the same pole and grabbed his hand as they were jostled by other passengers onto the platform at their stop.
A gust of crisp air across his face managed to pull in his focus.
"I think you'll like this," Arthur said as they stood in line for tickets. "There's a bit of a MacGuffin, but really it's a study of character in times of stress or crisis."
"What's a MacGuffin?"
"It's an apparatus for trapping lions in the Scottish Highlands," the man standing in line behind them said.
Martin turned. "But—"
Arthur put a hand on his shoulder and waved the other man away. "I'll explain later, it's just a film term, not important." Arthur ordered two tickets and one popcorn. Martin had never warmed up to popcorn. The crunch and salt and butter would be fine, and then one piece would squeak on his teeth in just the wrong way and it would make him feel as if his whole skeleton was getting an electric shock.
The lights dimmed and the projector sprang to life. He knew Arthur owned this movie. He had seen it on a shelf in his apartment tucked in with dozens of others, but there were some that Arthur insisted were better 'in a proper theater.’
Around him he could hear people whispering along to the dialogue, having obviously memorized every word. He tried to focus on the plot and how Arthur was holding his hand.
He'd been wrong about the plot. So wrong. It wasn't about resistance fighters; it was about broken hearts and people convincing themselves that alone was better than risking showing who they truly were to anyone else.
He turned his head briefly towards the end to catch Arthur wiping his eyes as a plane took off into an improbably foggy night.
When Rick and Louis walked away side-by-side and the final title card came up with the swell of La Marseillaise, he wondered what the first audience was supposed to believe happened next. The US had not even entered the war when the film was being made. There was the drumbeat of patriotism, but no guaranteed victory. The disillusioned American taking up the fight and the Frenchman throwing off his loyalty to the Vichy government was an obvious metaphor, but what of Rick and Louis? Of the beautiful friendship? Was the audience meant to think that their friendship would last through the war? Would it go beyond? Would they reign over some post-war Paris or New York nightclub together? Rick and Louis Place with Sam still at the piano?
The lights rose and people stood around them. Martin turned to Arthur. "Were Rick and Louis in love?"
Arthur smiled brightly. "I think Louis was very in love with Rick, in his own way, and they telegraphed it as much as the censors at the time would allow. I also think Rick was too damaged to notice if someone gave a shit about him, and Louis knew that, but that didn't mean he didn't try."
"Round up the usual suspects?"
"I think that might be when Rick started getting a clue." Arthur stood and Martin followed. "There's a diner that looks really good a couple of blocks over. Want to grab something to eat before heading back to the hotel?"
"Sure." He did not actually feel particularly hungry, but he had no desire to deny Arthur these simple pleasures, especially when they would be eating dinner in to avoid the New Year’s crowd.
There was a table for two available. Arthur ordered a thick tuna melt and a slice of pie. Martin ordered the chicken salad sandwich. He knew the smile Arthur sent his way was one of pride. Being proud of him.
Martin could remember staring at a similar menu before their first movie. The words had swirled and his eyes hadn't been able to focus on anything. The only decision he had made that day was to skip work and buy alcohol, which he hadn't drunk. Being asked to choose food? He had worried for a second that he was perhaps having a stroke or neurological incident. Arthur had taken the menu from his hands and ordered for both of them, but it hadn't felt like an act of dismissal or frustration, rather one of kindness, doing the thinking for both of them on a day when he simply couldn't.
Perhaps that night was the start of their Beautiful Friendship. Arthur had already shown him kindnesses the way few others had, but something had changed that night when Arthur came looking for him, found him so deep in grief and pain he could barely form words. He had somehow known what Martin needed even if Martin couldn't work it out himself. He had given him the right combination of kindness and strength, protection and freedom.
It was later, almost too long later, when he realized what the combination of feelings that swirled in him must mean. He knew he would have to talk to Arthur about who he was and what he felt and what he could and could not give. Then that damned assignment had come around and he hadn't had time to find the right words. Just a few sentences in the Agency hallway that he wasn't even sure Arthur understood.
All his time away, trapped in a nightmare, he had hoped Arthur understood.
"Do you have a copy of Gilda?" Martin asked as their food arrived.
Arthur looked at the ceiling, thinking. "I think so. I think it's part of a Rita Hayworth box set I have. If it's not, I can easily get it."
"I would like to see it again. I can't seem to remember pieces of it, so the plot doesn't fully make sense when I think about it."
Arthur's smile was a gentle one. "You had other things on your mind. When we get home, we can curl up on the couch and watch it one evening."
"That sounds nice."
The chicken sandwich was good, and he had half of Arthur's pie.