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romance and horror share many symptoms. the most prominent being fear.
falling in love is terrifying.
jon knows this because the first wet dream he has in years is a nightmare.
it starts out with a softness. a lightness. like laying on a cloud that’s enveloping you from all sides. like he's laying on the world’s plushest mattress. it’s solid though; the thought of falling through this cloud-like material never crosses his mind. maybe he can relax here, like this.
and then he feels a heavy warmth on his front. starting on his chest and spreading over his body.
and then, hands. hot hands over his body. starting at his shoulders, then dragging down his chest, then sides. hot, hot, hot. not enough to burn and scar him. but hot enough to create sparks.
what’s going on, he thinks, what’s happening . his eyes are open, but everything is hazy. all the edges are rounded and feathered, and the silhouette above him is large and blocking his view.
“martin,” he says in his dream without really thinking, like it suddenly all makes sense now, which is funny because none of it makes sense. because martin always keeps a polite distance from him. because there’s no way he’d ever be this relaxed in real life, even if he was really on a magic cloud. it doesn’t make sense because he doesn’t dream anymore.
firm fingers find jon’s jaw and hold his head still. fleeting kisses that also sparkle and crack on his face. and it’s fine, it’s fine but the silhouette-- martin leans closer and suddenly everything feels a bit claustrophobic. the beat of jon’s own monster heart is the only thing he can hear now, and when he tries to open his eyes, all he can see is darkness.
darkness, when all he wants to see is martin.
“this isn’t right.” he says. and the silhouette doesn’t answer.
the more jon looks, the less right it becomes.
he isn’t looking at martin’s silhouette. because a silhouette is all there is. deep blackness, just a void. jon turns his head just so, to look at the hand right beside his own head. no skin. just emptiness. to test this, jon reaches out. trying to grab onto the figure in front of him.
his hand goes through it.
his hand goes through it, but this martin-shaped figure is still grabbing him.
the figure straddles him, and he’s trapped, and he’s warm all over, and he’s buzzing inside, and he’s trembling, and he’s yearning, and his head hurts, and he wants to cry.
its arms slither around jon’s torso and pull him close. he feels the solidness of what should be martin’s chest, but looking into it… it gives him vertigo.
he feels a hand on his back, and fingers being spread wide and splayed flat. that’s when jon realizes he’s being pulled in a sitting up position. still, he can’t move his head, not with this “martin” firmly gripping the base of his neck. jon is forced to watch in silent horror as this twisted version of his own fantasy swallows him whole.
he falls through.
and he falls, and he falls, and he falls, and he can’t breathe.
like the vast and the buried are pushing at opposite sides of his brain until they stab through and meet each other in the center.
and hands.
millions and millions of hands gripping and grasping at him.
and jon grasps back.
he wakes up out of breath with a mess in his sleep trousers.
another thing horror has in common with romance is delusion.
the only difference between having butterflies in your stomach and having an anxiety attack is the stimuli. at least, that’s what jon has always thought. elevated heart rate, loss of breath, and heat in the face is what you feel when you’re nervous and want to leave the area as soon as possible. it means danger. it means embarrassment. it means discomfort.
when jon goes to work the next morning, he expects to see martin and feel disgust, or that gnawing anxiety, the “butterflies” in his stomach.
he doesn’t.
he watches martin put away a folder in his desk, blink and look up. he watches martin’s eyelashes flutter, and as a curl bounces on martin’s forehead. and he watches martin’s lips twitch as he offers a warm smile.
jon’s shoulder untense and he feels relief . and maybe a bit of guilt.
but all he can really focus on is the feeling of his chest blooming.
scotland is quiet. the safehouse is nice, if a bit bare. the walk to and from the nearest village is pleasant and martin’s attempt at dinner is surprisingly appetizing. they don’t have a lot of money, and their options are limited, but as martin says, it’s hard to mess up spaghetti.
it’s surprisingly domestic too, when he thinks about it. sure, they’re hiding from the police, from elias, from the hunters. it’s frightening and exhausting pain in the arse.
but when jon looks at martin’s face, he’s content. it’s worth it.
and yet, there’s still a bubble of anxiety in the back of his throat, where flem would normally build up.
there’s one bed in the safehouse. and it’s not difficult to maneuver the small space afforded to them, and martin is very generous with personal space. maybe he’s too gentle; he’s always been gentle, but it’s not like jon is allergic to human touch.
they both know their feelings towards each other. they flirt relentlessly now. their arms touch when they lay down to sleep. they’ve hugged once before, back in The Lonely, for heaven's sake.
it just feels like there should be more to this. something more, and martin is too shy or polite or nervous to ask for it.
jon first gets that impression the time they both reached for a suitcase before arriving at the safehouse. the feeling of skin on skin contact that sent a jolt of surprise up jon’s arm. martin pulled his hand away quickly and it was followed by an awkward laugh and apology, but jon’s mind chewed the thought of holding his hand for hours.
martin loves him. and jon loves martin. he trusts him.
so why was this even a big deal? couples touch all the time.
(jon tries not to get flustered when he regards martin and himself a couple and fails.)
but it does make him notice more and more of martin's assets. the fixation starts with martin’s capable hands. then his round face, and full lips, and soft eyes, and large arms, and wide shoulders, and jon thinks, yes i am attracted to my boyfriend .
martin catches him staring and gets nervous, and jon remembers that he doesn’t exactly have the friendliest resting face and apologizes.
is this my fault, he thinks? jon is jumpy. he’s a ball of nerves. maybe martin is treating him like glass as to not break him.
jon will just have to take the initiative, then. it can’t be too hard. he’s read countless books and has caught a movie or two. he’s seen people out in the world. how hard could it be?
he looks up from the current book he’s been pretending to read and regards martin. his curly chestnut hair. the freckles scattered across his dark brown skin. brown eyes focused on dinner. and his hands preparing the carrots for a soup.
martin looks up and catches his gaze. brows knitted, he gives a small smile. (his lips are probably soft too) “is there something on my face?”
desperation is another similarity between love and fear.
“it’s quite cold in here.”
“hmm?”
“i said it’s cold in here.” jon rubs his hands together as he looks at martin, who sits on the couch, fixing up a button that fell lose off a shirt he wears often. “i’m freezing-- my hands are freezing.” and it wasn’t a lie, his hands were cold. they normally were. cold and clammy with a slight tremble.
martin blinks before standing to attention. “oh! right! just a moment!”
jon’s sense of victory is short-lived as he sees martin pick up a pair of gloves. he walks over to the bed, where jon is sitting. and for a moment, jon is too dumbfounded to really say or do anything besides accept the gloves. but as martin turns away, jon manages to speak up.
“wait.”
“hm?”
“i’m not actually that cold.”
martin just looks at him, trying to comprehend what he’s trying to say. “huh?”
“i lied.”
“yeah, i uh. got that bit. why?”
jon sucks in a breath and goes to speak, but the words can’t leave his mouth. discarding the gloves, he looks down at his hands. he could easily reach over and take martin’s hand. it could be that simple. it probably is that simple.
but he can’t do it.
martin senses something wrong and moves to sit on the bed beside jon. “what’s on your mind, jon?”
“i’m trying.”
“what?”
“ i’m trying . aren’t you frustrated with me?”
martin is taken aback. almost speechless, by the looks of it. but he recovers. “i… why would i be frustrated with you?”
maybe jon is just frustrated with himself, he can’t look at martin now, he’s ashamed and embarrassed. he fidgets with his hands and nervously looks away. “because i’m-- slow. and i’m not like how i should be. and we-- i mean, we ah. like each other, but we barely touch, and you deserve that. someone who can… hold you, and touch you, and love you. a-and i want to, i do- but i’m too…”
“jon...”
“i mean, i think about it. constantly. i’ve had dreams about it. especially lately, it’s all i…” jon intertwines his fingers and keeps his gaze off the other. “and i’d like nothing more than to--”
“jon, hey.”
“at least kiss you, for chrissakes.”
there’s a slight flush in martin’s face, but he focuses on jon. so much so, that it’s hard not to look back at him. jon looks up at martin and swallows hard.
suddenly, they’re close enough that jon can hear the sound of martin’s breath over his own heartbeat.
“did you lie about your hands being cold so i could hold them for you?”
“er… uh.”
martin smiles bashfully and rubs his neck. “why didn’t you just ask me straight out?”
“i, ah. well… it all seems a little daunting, you know?”
“yeah… are you sure you want to… ehm… i mean, if you’re not ready--”
“i do. i am. i--” jon takes a breath and exhales. “i want to touch you. and i want you to touch me. hold hands, hug, and hold each other, and k--” jon stumbles on his words a bit, and chuckles embarrassingly before trying again, ”kiss. i would like to kiss you. a-and i don’t think i can go as far as to-- you know, but i’d like to be able to… feel you. the way that. people who love each other do.”
they sit together on the bed towards each other, still barely touching. their knees are a centimeter apart.
martin clears his throat. “do you know what you’re comfortable with?”
jon thinks about his nightmares. “i’m not sure.”
“do you know what you want?”
jon thinks about his fantasies, which may or may not also be his nightmares. “ehm…”
“do you want to… play it by ear? you can tell me whether you want me to stop or to keep doing what i’m doing?”
“like…”
“like.” martin extends his hand, palm upwards. “we can start with the hand holding. and then i could…” he pauses, trying to figure out how to phrase what’s on his mind. it takes a lot of effort for jon not to just peek inside his mind, but he’ll make that effort. martin trusts him.
and he trusts martin.
before martin can finish his thought, jon is already nodding and taking martin’s hand, determined and tired of his own hesitation. martin is surprised, but he doesn’t pull away.
they sit there on the bed, holding hands.
it’s weird. the texture of martin’s hands is different than he’s always imagined. not soft, like martin’s demeanor or voice. it’s the kind of calloused one would get by crafting or learning an instrument, or doing some light physical work. not rough per se… not like jon’s. he looks up at martin’s face because he’s self-conscious and isn’t sure if he’s doing this right (because if anyone could mess this up it would be jonathan fucking sims) but martin is smiling. he looks happy. and that means the world to him.
“can i?” martin asks as he reaches to take jon’s other hand. when jon nods, martin takes it. both in each of his large hands. running his thumbs over the cracked knuckles.
well this isn’t so bad , jon thinks. honestly, he doesn’t know why he made such a big deal out of holding his own boyfriend’s hands. it’s so simple, really.
and then, martin brings one of those hands up to his face, and god, the madman kisses the back of his hand.
“is this okay?”
what a question. how does that make jon feel? light as feathers, mostly. more notably: martin’s lips are a bit dry. soft, but slightly chapped. and definitely doesn’t burn or spark on contact. which is reassuring. “yes.” he decides. “i think i quite like that.”
and so it continues. to jon’s relief, martin goes slowly. enough for jon to process each feeling and decide whether or not he likes it. martin kisses each joint and knuckle in jon’s hand, and lifts the other one up to repeat the same process. predictably, martin is taking care to be thoughtful and considerate for jon. reassuringly, he seems to be just as shy and flustered as he is. it’s nice to know that jon’s not the only one fumbling in his mind.
after a while, jon starts to grow impatient after martin drags out a dry, open-mouthed kiss on his wrist. so he decidedly takes his hand, not pulling it away, but repositioning it to cup martin’s cheek.
it surprises both of them, to say the least.
martin’s deep brown eyes are open wide, and jon can see the freckles a lot more clearly. his eyelashes too; who knew they were so long? what he likes most is the warmth in martin’s face. it radiates, and suddenly jon’s not cold anymore.
martin looks at jon fondly and does the same to him, reaching up and cupping jon’s cheek. and jon leans into that. nuzzling his own scarred cheek into the gentle texture of martin’s palm.
“can i kiss you?”
“i-- huh?”
jon realizes he’s been holding his eyes shut as he’s been processing this position. and by the judge of the ache in his arm, they’ve been shut for a while.
“do you want me to kiss you?”
want. want is a word, a word that means a lot right now. i want you to kiss me. i want you to swallow me whole. i want to go back to how it was a long time ago when i wasn’t a monster. i want us to both be monsters. i want you to touch me, hold me, dream of me.
“yes.”
and he does. martin leans forward and places his lips on jon’s. it’s chaste, and that’s sweet. it’s a lot, and it’s nothing at all. and jon tentatively kisses back, once, twice, and then he bites off more than he can chew and aims for a deeper kiss, and scares himself while doing so. perhaps not with the kiss itself, but the noise he makes during it.
martin pulls back with an expression of utter bewilderment and absolute adoration. eyes half-lidded and cheeks dusted with red. and he laughs breathlessly, and says, “i love you.”
jon feels his heart ready to leap out of his chest. “i have dreams about you.”
“i-- oh. yeah?”
“of you holding me, and me falling into your chest.”
“huh? like… my rib cage? or…”
they stare at each other for a few seconds before they both burst into laughter. small rumbles in their chests at first, that turns into heavy roars as they infect each other with giggles. they laugh so hard that they fall back into bed to take the strain off their aching sides.
when the laughter dies down, they’re both on their backs. their arms are touching like they normally do when they lay in bed. and they’re smiling at each other.
“did you want me to? hold you, i mean.”
jon thinks about his dream. thinks about the vast nothingness and the fear and the shame and disgust and the panic that came with it.
he looks at martin. and he sees martin.
“yes.”
he trusts martin blackwood.
“yes, i’d like that very much.”
martin stays where he is and he opens his arms. jon tests the waters and lays on martin’s arm, and presses against his side. it’s a lot all at once, but martin lets jon decide how close they lay together. enough distance where he doesn’t feel that claustrophobia, but close enough that he can still feel martin’s body heat. he rests his cheek against martin’s shoulder and looks up at him.
“what happens if i get restless in my sleep and have to move?”
“you can move. i won’t be offended. i promise.” martin offers his other hand, the one jon isn’t laying on. and he takes it, holds it, and their fingers fold together nicely. they’re both sweaty now.
“will i wake you up?”
“maybe. if you start jumping or kicking.”
“will you be mad if i start jumping on the bed in my sleep?”
martin laughs, and jon wants to chase that laughter to the end of the world. “i don’t think i could stay mad at you. but uh, don’t think that means you can start trying.”
“i won’t… ah. and um, thank you. for indulging me in this.”
martin grins and tilts his head a bit. places a kiss on jon’s cheek that make his fingers tingle. “thank you for trusting me.” he says in a small voice, almost like a secret. and martin closes his eyes.
a dim lamp is still on, and neither of them have put away their things for the night. but jon doesn’t intend to move any time soon. instead, he follows suit and closes his eyes as well. sleep comes easy.
the nightmares don’t stop, of course, because it’s impossible to tell the brain to stop doing anything, like fear or love. but that night, with martin’s safe warmth by his side, jon sleeps like the dead.