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The ocean laps by their feet. Jon reaches out, and his fingers slip right through, fog lingering on his fingertips as he tries desperately to grab onto Martin's shoulder.
"Listen- I know you think you want to be here, I know you think it's safer, and well-" Jon pauses for the briefest moment, looking out past Martin, at the endless ocean that rises around them with every aching second, "Well, maybe it is."
Jon steels himself, looks back at Martin and wills the Lonely to recede, forces the Eye to See and burn away the clouds and cold that clings to Martin's skin.
"But we need you. I need you."
Martin closes his eyes, fading into the mist around them, "No you don't," His voice, empty, echoes around them, "Not really. Everyone's alone but we all survive."
"I don't just want to survive!" Jon snaps, stepping closer.
"I'm sorry." Martin says, like a reflex, and Jon's heart steadily breaks.
"Martin? Martin, look at me," Jon reaches out again, steadies his shaking hands and gathers the Ceaseless Watcher behind him, opens his eyes around them, and grabs Martin's face between his palms, finally solid beneath him, and turns his head to face him, "Look at me, and tell me what you see."
Martin looks through him, eyes unfocusing and refocusing, before managing to stick on Jon's face.
"I see…" Slowly, the haze shrouding Martin's eyes lifts, breath picking up and face regaining color, moment by moment, "I see you, Jon. I see you."
"Oh, Martin," Jon breathes, watching as Martin's face flushes back with color all at once, its warmth flooding back between Jon's hands, his eyes regaining their shine finally, finally. The ocean tides lower and pull back from their ankles, and the breeze passes by, gently tousling Martin's white streaked hair. Jon slides his hands back and wraps around Martin's wide shoulders, pulling him down tightly against him. Martin's arms wind around him immediately, fingers curling into the back of Jon's sweater, and Jon can feel his heart beat against his chest.
Martin gasps, wet and quickly leading to repressed cries, and tucks his face down against Jon's shoulder, tears pooling and dampening his sweater, and Jon feels his own eyes start to sting in relief, "I- I was on my own. I was all on my own."
"Not anymore."
Jon pulls just the farthest amount away to look at Martin's, categorizes his expression, burns this moment into his memory.
"Come on. Let's go home."
"How?" Martin sounds so lost, but Jon has finally found him.
"Don't worry," He says softly, bumping their foreheads together, "I know the way."
---
They go to stop by Martin's flat first, on their way out of town. Martin leads the way, hand securely tucked into Jon's, pulling him along. He shivers when they step onto the tube, trying his best to lean away from the crowds of seated people as subtly as possible, But Jon notices. It would be hard for Jon not to notice, from how intently he's kept his attention on Martin from the corners of his eyes.
Jon is not a large man, he is aware of this. He knows he has a thin frame, ribs peeking out easily, from his knobby wrists to his delicate ankles. Martin has a good foot of height on him, with large shoulders and a soft middle. He could wrap his arms around Jon and easily surround him on all sides if he wanted to. Jon certainly wouldn't be opposed. Martin always seems to be trying to make himself smaller, though. Always hunching his shoulders and slouching, hanging his head and keeping his arms folded in front of him, trying to take up as little space as possible. That's no different now, standing awkwardly among strangers. The cabin sways and Martin does his best to cringe away from anyone who accidentally leans into his space, save from Jon who keeps a steady hold on his hand.
Jon lets his gaze wander amongst the people for a brief moment to assess the situation, trying to determine what would be best for Martin. While they're not too far from Martin's flat, they will be here for a little time, and after everything Jon just wants Martin to feel as comfortable as he possibly can in a happenstance as this. He looks off his shoulder and notes the empty corner behind him, tucked behind some of the seating, and hopes this won't backfire. Jon peers back up at Martin and at the anxious expression clearly plastered across his face, makes his decision.
He gives a tug at Martin's hand and urges him to switch places with him. It's an odd little dance, squeezing past each other, trying their best not to get squished into the wall or the other people surrounding them, but they get there eventually. Martin offers a quizzical turn of his brows, seems to get ready to say something, but Jon crowds into his space, forcing the two of them towards the empty corner. Jon positions himself between Martin and the compact of people behind him.
With his back to the people behind him, one hand still caught in Martin's, he chances a look up at him. Martin is looking down at him with something like awe on his face, some color returning to his cheeks. The sight makes Jon's ears burn.
He clears his throat and glances away, "You just. Looked uncomfortable."
He catches the warm smile slipping onto Martin's face in his peripheral, and the slow squeeze of Martin's fingers in his.
"Thank you, Jon."
The walk from the station to Martin's flat is a brisk one, and Jon finds himself shivering as Martin fumbles with his front door with one hand, but whether it's from the cold or his waning adrenaline he doesn't have the energy to discern. Martin might have an easier time unlocking his door with both his hands, Jon thinks, but neither of them are very inclined to let go of each other. Jon tells himself it's for Martin's comfort, to be an anchor for Martin to keep one foot in this reality and not the next. (He can almost convince himself it's really for selfish reasons, to hold on simply because it's Martin, and not because he's wanted him this near for so long. He holds on as tightly as he can in the hopes that Martin can't slip away from him again )
There's a faint click, and finally Martin is pushing through his door with Jon in tow. With a flick, the lights blink on, shedding muted light down on every surface.
"It's not much, but.. you know," He gives a weak gesture with his hand, and Jon does know. His flat is (was, he lost his flat when he fell into his coma months ago) in a similar state the last time he saw it.
Martin's space is a scarce little thing, the odd plant here and there steadily wilting, a small loveseat with a quilt thrown over the back of it sat in front of a tiny tv. Jon notes the small dining table off the side of the kitchen, with a single chair tucked underneath it, and wills himself to look away from the lonesome display.
"It's nice, Martin."
Martin hums in disagreement, but past that he doesn't argue. He tugs Jon through his living room and idles in front of the couch, eyes flicking from place to place around his home before landing squarely on Jon. He sweats under the scrutiny.
"I should, um. I need to grab some things. Pack a bag."
"Right. Yes. Of course."
"Yeah. Uh." He looks down at where their hands are still clasped together, but neither of them go to move. They're under a short time frame, they need to get out of London as quickly as they can, but here they stand, hesitating in Martin's cold flat. Jon can't bring himself to let go, for fear of Martin fading away the moment they're no longer in contact. It's irrational. He's aware it's irrational, but after coming so close to losing him forever, Jon's allowed some leeway. So he'll hold on as long as Martin does.
Martin keeps looking at their hands, runs a thumb over Jon's skin, before raising his head to Jon's again.
"Okay," Martin gives Jon's hand one last tight squeeze before pulling away completely. Jon's hand feels a few degrees colder. He grasps it in his other hand, but it doesn't feel the same.
"Right. I'll, uh, I'll be right out here."
Martin smiles, a relieved little thing, like maybe he worried that Jon was going to slink away the second he left Martin's sight. Jon understands the feeling. Martin nods to himself before stepping around Jon and heading into what Jon assumes is his bedroom. Jon loiters in front of the couch, unsure if he should sit down while he waits or if it'd be better to stay standing, before deciding standing here until Martin gets back is a ridiculous notion. He takes a seat and slumps down, his body releasing all the pent up tension he was holding onto. He hasn't had a moment to breathe, or really think this entire time. Too focused on Martin, and running, and escaping. Not enough time to really let the situation that they've landed into really sink in.
This.. This really is a mess, isn't it? Here Jon is, on the run from the cops (once again, really Jon how do you manage this?) and hunters, only this time he's managed to drag Martin into it as well. Jon leans forward, elbows coming to rest on his knees, and his hands come up to cover his face, fingertips meeting at the bridge of his nose, slightly obscuring his glasses. He heaves out a noisy sigh and lets his eyes fall shut.
There's.. there's too much to think about right now. They don't have time. Jon doesn't have the luxury to fall apart right now, so for Martin's sake, he takes a deep breath, counts to ten, and lowers his hands back down. Instead, he gives another cursory look around Martin's flat.
He's eyeing a dying spider plant when he notices it, a small picture frame tucked away on the mantle of the fireplace. He stands up and shuffles over, sliding the potted plant out of the way. He takes the frame into his hands, gazing down at the photo inside.
It's.. It's them. Martin, him, and Tim. Jon reaches up and covers his mouth, an unwanted emotion bubbling to the surface. A photo, only taken a few years prior. Tim and Martin are crowded together in frame, Tim holding up the camera to fit the both of them in it. He's got an arm wrapped around Martin's hunched shoulders, and is beaming broadly up at the camera. Martin is leaned down to fit neatly under Tim's arm, a shy little smile pulling at his mouth, and he's looking up over the top of his glasses. Jon is there, in the back, looking over at the two of them with some sort of wistful expression, holding a stack of files closely to his chest. He must've not realized he was in frame.
Jon doesn't remember this. Doesn't remember Tim sliding up to Martin, hand already poised in the air to snap a photo. Doesn't remember Tim trying to coax Jon to join in the photo, with Martin stammering the whole while. Doesn't remember the fondness he felt watching his two friends make a memory together.
He wishes he did.
When Martin reappears out from his room, Jon has already safely tucked the photograph away into his bag. He hopes Martin won't mind.
---
They arrive at the safehouse with little fanfare, both past the point of physical and emotional exhaustion from their escape out of London. Bags clutched in hands, they stand just before the threshold, Jon nervously shifting his weight side to side.
"This looks…" Jon peters off, scanning up and down the little cottage. There are plants and foliage taking their slow climb up the exterior walls, the door in front of them a worn, rich colored wood. The scattering path of cobblestone leading to the entrance has a fair share of moss growing around and underneath them, and the odd patch of wild flowers grow amongst them. The staggering road that led up to the small home was gated fields, yielding crops and (to Martin's amazement,) farm animals, including but not limited to very fluffy cows.
Martin clears his throat, "Cozy."
Jon chances a glance at him, and can't help the small smile, before turning back to the door.
"Right."
Steeling his nerves, he bends down to fish out the key from the small cluster of potted, wilting flowers to the right of the door. He digs around the soil for a moment with a grimace, before finally curling his fingers around the metal object. He straightens back up and shakes the bits of dirt clinging to his hand off, and with a shaky sigh, unlocks the door. It swings open, the gust of wind stirring up the layer of dust that has collected on the floor.
With a nervous look, Martin peers inside, taking stock. Jon watches as Martin leans in, head swiveling from side to side, before he seemingly decides it's safe, and takes Jon by the arm to lead him inside. Jon feels the tension drop from his shoulders at the contact. They come to stand in the middle of the entrance, the door closing behind them with a finalising click. There are spots and particles floating through the air, illuminated by the slowly waning light from the sunsetting. The living room is scarce, a worn down couch with a rough looking coffee table in front of it, and a meager looking radio sat atop it. There's a pathetic bookcase pushed off into a corner, with only the odd book or so decorating it.
Jon turns and tries the light switch, idly flipping it on and off to no avail.
"Mm.. no power."
Martin drops his hold on Jon's arm and makes his way further inside, rounding around an open archway into what Jon assumes is the kitchen. The vacant spot left on Jon's arm feels much colder without the warmth from Martin's palm, and when Jon replaces the spot with his own hand, it doesn't feel the same.
"Maybe there's a generator out back?" He offers as Jon silently follows him into the next room.
The kitchen is just as sad as the last room, counters blank and cabinets empty. Martin braves the fridge, and lets out a sigh of relief when he finds nothing inside.
"Good thing we had the mind to pack a little food, huh?" Martin goes to nudge Jon a bit with his elbow, and Jon smiles back at him.
"Yes, I suppose so."
"We'll have to walk to the store soon, probably tomorrow." Martin leads further into the house, Jon following along.
"Mm."
Martin opens the next door, the swing displacing the settled dust on the surfaces, and sneezes, startling Jon.
"Oh, uh, bless you."
Red faced, Martin waves a hand in his direction, the crook of his elbow lowering from his face. This door seems to open to the bedroom. There's a rather large looking window with dusty drapes hanging over it, blocking out most of the light. The bed in the center of the room, headboard pushed up against the back wall. It doesn't look too small, but maybe a bit short. Jon hopes Martin isn't too tall for it. There are two shaky looking end tables on either side, one with an adorning analog clock. There's a door off to the side which Jon makes an educated guess that it must be the bathroom. Jon leaves Martin standing in the middle of the bedroom to investigate.
The bathroom doesn't look too disgusting, in fact it looks rather unused. It's a bit cramped, with the toilet, sink, and tub all crammed together in the small room, but it'll hopefully be enough. Jon tries the sink, and is pleased to see water rush out of the spout.
"The plumbing seems to be working!" He says out loudly, watching as the murky looking water slowly turns clear.
"O-oh, good. Good!" Martin sounds.. strained.
Jon exits the bathroom and retreats back to Martin's side, eyeing him up and down. He's tensed up to his shoulders, face red and hands clenched into fists. Jon immediately worries.
"Are you alright? Is there something wrong?" Jon gives another look around the room, searching for anything that might be off. This is Daisy's property afterall, there's no telling what might be lurking. Jon's mind is supplied with the knowledge of the loose floorboard right to the side of the bed, hiding a rather large hunting knife underneath. He tries not to acknowledge any other weapons that might be hidden around the cabin.
Jon turns his gaze back in time to see Martin shaking his head.
"No, no, nothing wrong, per se. Just," Martin gives a weak gesture of his hand, "There's only one bed."
Jon looks to said bed. "..Yyyes, that is the normal layout of a bedroom, the last time I was aware?"
A strangled sigh, "Jon, there is only one bedroom."
"..Yes?"
Martin gives Jon the most blank look, only disrupted slightly by the red on his cheeks. Jon suddenly gets it.
"Oh. Oh. Right. Yes. Um." Jon reaches up to run a hand through his own hair, turning back to the bed. He drops his hand.
"Right, well, I can take the couch." Jon offers, leaning down to retrieve his bag from the floor. Jon hesitates when he feels Martin's hand rest on his shoulder.
"Are you kidding? That thing does not look comfortable in the slightest."
"I don't, I don't mind. I mean, I've slept on worse." It's true, the brief stints of couch surfing in college, the hard desk in his office, the rickety cot tucked in the archive storage room. He's had his fair share of uncomfortable sleeping arrangements.
"That doesn't mean you should be uncomfortable again."
"Well, I'm shorter than you anyway, I don't think you'd fit very well, uh, sideways."
Martin gives a frustrated little sigh, a hand running down his face, before squeezing Jon's shoulder.
"No, Jon, just. We can share, alright?"
Jon blinks. "I.. don't think we'll both fit on the couch..?"
That startles a laugh out of Martin, and Jon realizes it's the first time he's heard it in longer than he can count. It warms his insides, his stomach twisting pleasantly, and Jon watches as the smile stretches across Martin's features, the corners of his eyes crinkling, his round cheeks flushed.
"No, you daft man, I meant the bed. Share the bed with me."
"Oh," Jon flushes himself, his hand coming back up to rub sheepishly at the back of his neck, "Right. Of course."
The smile stays on Martin's face as he picks up both their bags to deposit on the edge of the bed.
"Come on then, I'm exhausted." He unzips his bag and starts rummaging through, and Jon takes his cue to do the same.
He takes out his worn, soft What The Ghost! t-shirt he had stolen from Georgie that brings a dull kind of ache in his chest when he looks down at it, and a pair of sleep sweats, along with his toothbrush and a small tub of toothpaste. Jon loiters awkwardly while he waits for Martin to pull out his clothing, shifting restlessly. He doesn't quite know what he's waiting for while he watches Martin dig around his bag, he just knows he's tracking his movements with an anxious eye, wary to let him out of his sight.
What if Martin just.. fades away while he isn't looking? Escapes through the fog, easily slipping through Jon's grasp the moment he turns his back? The Lonely taunts him, the smell of sea salt still clinging to Martin in the air. He doesn't think it will give up without a fight, another fight. Jon doesn't want to give it the opportunity to pounce again, and the idea itself makes Jon's stomach roll unpleasantly.
"Jon?" Martin's hesitant call brings Jon with a jump out of his thoughts, and when he focuses back in, Martin is standing there with a bundle of clothes in his arms, and is much closer to Jon than he had realized. "Are you okay?"
"Yes, sorry. Yes."
He gives Martin a crooked looking smile and a weak thumbs up, shifting his clothes off to one arm to free up his hand. Martin smiles right back, looking a little relieved, before pointing over to the bathroom with his thumb.
"I'll- I'll be right back." He says.
"I'll be right here." Jon returns, backing up a few paces and lowering himself onto the edge of the bed, clothes cradled up to his chest. Martin does a brief little nod, and turns on his heel, heading for the bathroom. There's a slight hesitation as he goes to close the door behind him, the subtle swing back and forth of the door, before he leaves the tiniest crack in the door, and Jon feels his heart ache. It's the smallest gesture, the smallest sign of weak comfort, and Jon wants to give Martin the entire world.
Jon sets his clothes down beside him and sighs, eyes closing and posture sagging. As it has become often for his brain to do, his thoughts circle on Martin, hands coming up to finger brush through his knotted hair. Basira hadn't had the mind to pack a brush or a comb for him in her haste to throw together his bag, but Jon doesn't fault her for it. He'll have to run down to the shops to get one. He thinks about walking down the quiet dirt road, looking on at the green scenery, Martin by his side. He would probably point out the odd flower, every little animal to cross their path, and Jon smiles fondly at the thought. He imagines perusing through the aisles of a grocery store, the idle banter back and forth between the two of them as they argue the difference in brands. Jon would notice Martin eyeing some particular food, a favorite of his, something Martin would be too shy to ask for, or too cautious to buy, and Jon would happily sneak it into their basket while Martin is turned away.
The sound of the faucet running brings him out of his day dreams, and Jon's face heats up considerably at how utterly domestic all that was. He drops his hair to slap his hands against his face, covering his shame. Here they are, on the run, hiding out from supernatural entities, and Jon is fantasizing about grocery shopping. How pathetic.
Jon has barely composed himself by the time Martin steps out of the bathroom, dressed in a worn soft shirt and faded plaid sleep pants. Martin smiles his sweet, heart melting smile at him, and Jon wonders how in the hell he deserves to be on the receiving end of such a sight. Jon shuffles past him, shoulders brushing, as he slips into the restroom. Giving Martin the reassurance he hopes comes across, he leaves the door cracked.
It's when he's brushing his teeth, mouth all foamy, that it hits him, what he's about to get himself into.
He's going to be sleeping next to Martin. They're going to share a bed. Through the night. Together. Jon braces against the sink, suddenly dizzy. Oh god, what has Jon agreed to? He's going to be so close to him, so close to Martin, who he pulled out of the Lonely with the raw love he feels in his heart, who he isn't quite sure that loves him back anymore.
Jon knows he's a glutton for punishment, but this is a new low.
It's fine, he tells himself as he spits into the sink. They're friends, there's nothing awkward about sharing a bed with the person you're escaping the soon to be disaster of a reckoning when Jonah finds them, he tells himself as he cups his hands under the running water and rinses out his mouth.
Jon looks himself in the mirror. God, he's so screwed.
He loiters in the bathroom, giving himself the saddest pep talk, before bracing himself and stepping back into the room.
Martin has already claimed one side of the bed, laid out on his back, duvet tucked up to his chest and staring up at the ceiling, a slight pinched expression on his face. Jon makes a beeline towards his bag and haphazardly stuffs his clothes into it, uncaring about the state it will leave them in. He hesitates by the bed and clears his throat, before climbing under the blankets in next to him. The bed dips under him, and the stale smell of the covers has his nose wrinkling. Martin's head turns to him and he quirks a sympathetic smile.
"Yeah. S'not the best, but it's better than nothing."
"Yes, no kidding."
There's a beat of silence, the two of them simply looking at each other, and Jon watches as Martin's expression softens, the held up tensions releasing from his body. Then, quiet as can be, Martin whispers, "Goodnight, Jon."
His throat feels dry when he swallows.
"Goodnight, Martin." Jon whispers back.
With one final smile, Martin looks back to the ceiling and closes his eyes, hands linking together over his stomach. Jon can't bring himself to stop looking at him, as he shifts onto his side facing Martin, and curls up, hand coming up to rest against his mouth.
There's no tension, per se, but there's certainly… something. As they lay there, Martin doesn't fall asleep. His chest rises and falls in a rhythm too controlled, his posture too still to be sleeping. There's silence, save for the cabin settling around them, the crickets outside chirping and the wind shifting just beyond the glass pane window. Jon can't sleep either, eyes too busy tracing Martin's profile like he means to memorize it. He can feel the warmth emanating from Martin, the subtle dip in the mattress that tilts Jon closer from where he lays.
"You know, you can't exactly sleep if you don't stop staring at me," Martin eventually speaks up, startling Jon. He immediately flushes, caught red handed.
He means to defend himself, stammer out excuses, but what comes out instead is, "Can I come closer?"
Martin's eyes snap open, a surprised look that surely matches Jon's, and now it's his turn to stare it would seem.
"Wh-what?"
Embarrassment mounting, Jon lowers his head and covers the lower half of his face more in disbelief. He.. he actually can't believe he said that. Where did that come from? The absolute lack of self control has Jon baffled. He can't believe this.
"I. I would," He mutters into his hand, face hot, "I would like to come closer. If that's alright with you."
A pregnant pause, and Jon feels his regret growing. Dear lord, it wasn't awkward before, why did he do this? He shattered the peaceful atmosphere between them, and he has no idea how to recover. Jon is readying himself to backtrack, to stutter out his apologies, when Martin responds, his voice a sound of wonder.
"Yes, yeah, of- of course. Of course you can."
Martin then lifts his arm, an open invitation, and Jon promptly shifts closer, relief flooding him. He reaches out, arm coming to rest across Martin's waist, brings his head down to pillow against Martin's shoulder. His arm curls around Jon's shoulders, bringing him even closer, warmth seeping in at every point of contact. Jon releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding, and melts against Martin's side. Jon's hand makes a loose fist in Martin's shirt, and he nuzzles his face neatly into his shoulder. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, and Martin completely fills his senses, the smell of sea salt still impossibly clinging to his skin, but underneath that, his favorite tea, the faded remnants of his cologne. And he feels so, so safe, he realizes. It's been so long since he's felt this kind of security, and he knows it cannot last, so he basks in it while he can, clinging to the feeling.
Their bodies rise and fall with each breath, unintentionally in sync, and every moment that passes Jon feels himself relax more.
"..I'm so glad you're with me. I- I missed you. I missed you a lot, Martin." His sentence peters off into a hushed mumble, a quiet confession.
The smallest tremble begins from Martin underneath Jon, a shaking breath that he feels from where he's pressed against him, and he tightens his grip around him. Jon feels the shift in the pillow as Martin turns his face into Jon's hair, lips brushing delicately across his hairline.
"I missed you too. So much more than I could ever say," His voice is thick with emotion, and Jon dares to let himself hope.
---
Light spilling in from the window brings Jon to wakefulness slowly. His eyes squeeze shut tight in the attempt to block it out, but to no use. His senses come to him one at a time. He registers the line of warmth pressed against his torso, the tickle of curly hair up against his forehead, a hand loosely twined with his, a thumb running back and forth along the back of his hand. He's practically plastered himself to Martin's back, legs tucked in behind his, arm thrown across Martin's waist and clinging like he's afraid he might disappear.
He wants to stay here, suspended in this serene piece of time held between the two of them. He feigns sleep, not ready to be pulled away from this, not yet.
Carefully, slowly, he noses along the back of Martin's neck, revels in the small shiver it produces. His breath fans out across his skin, soft and intimate. Jon wants to be here forever. Wants to wake up, every morning just like this.
He sighs sleepily, and Martin's hand retreats from his. Jon feels a pang at the loss. His time is up, it would seem. Sheepishly, he peels himself away from Martin's back and extracts his arm off of him.
"Sorry, Martin. I didn't mean to, ah, octopus trap you."
The rumble of a chuckle, Martin shifts onto his back to look at Jon, his hair wonderfully sleep ruffled, glasses absent from his face, eye bags faded and warm smile on slightly chapped lips. He doesn't answer, just breathes out a content sounding breath.
"Good morning, Jon."
Heart in his throat, and as boldly as he dares, Jon slowly reaches out, giving Martin ample time to pull away or swat his hand back, Jon caresses his fingertips across Martin's cheekbone, reverent, and settles his palm against his cheek.
"Good morning, Martin."
---
Jon does know that recovery is not linear. He knows that healing takes time, that dragging Martin out of the Lonely with pure determination itself isn't going to dispel it's hold on him. He knows that Martin is thoroughly marked, that he'll never be truly free from the Lonely's grasp. It's just… He had hoped a bit more time before it tried to take him again.
It's Jon's fault. It always is, in the end. He is foolish and doesn't take a moment to think through his impulses, he just.. acts.
They were running a bit low on food, and it was still so early, and Martin was still sleeping, and Jon had thought… Thought it might be nice for Martin; to wake up to a full pantry and breakfast already served onto the table in front of him.
So as silently as he can, with a lingering touch to Martin's hair, he slides out from the covers and closes the bedroom door behind him. Light is peeking through the windows, the sun taking its slow climb across the sky. It is barely six in the morning, but Jon knows if he leaves now he'll be able to arrive at the shops as soon as they open, leaving the residents of the small town safe from Jon's unending ache for their terrors.
He slips on his shoes, and takes a moment hesitating by their two coats hung up on the wall. Martin's jacket is much larger than his own, thicker and comfier too. He glances outside and notes the rolling dark clouds that hang above their little cottage, before turning back to the coats. He nods a bit to himself before tugging Martin's jacket on over his shoulders. It encompasses his small frame, swallowing him easily. It hangs down to the middle of his thighs, the sleeves hanging loosely off his hands. Martin's aftershave hits his senses immediately, and Jon tries to convince himself this is purely for warmth and nothing else.
He quickly snatches the keys and his wallet off the kitchen table and stuffs them into his (Martin's) pockets, and sets off towards the town, shutting the door solidly behind him.
He tries not to linger in the store after he's arrived, eager to get back home to Martin as soon as he's able. He traverses through the empty aisles, and his brain supplies him with the fact that the cashier has something, something Jon is hungry for. He's especially eager to leave then, and he speeds through grabbing what they need, throwing some essentials into the small basket he carries at his hip. He doesn't make eye contact as the cashier (Bryan MacMillan, he's twenty four, he has three siblings, he's been marked by the vast, he has something to say, a statement, he has a statement-) rings him up, and he tosses a wad of cash at him, mutters a quick "Keep the change," before he dashes out of the building with the groceries in hand.
By the time he's made it back to the safe house, he's so focused on the fact that his heart rate has finally slowed down that he doesn't notice the house is much colder than when he left. He shucks off Martin's coat and lays it across the back of the couch before dropping the bags onto the kitchen counters. It's when he's rifling through the groceries, considering what to cook for Martin's breakfast, that Jon finally notices. When a shiver suddenly wracks down his spine at the drop in temperature. He swivels around and takes in his surroundings, and is filled with instant dread when he sees the fog drifting about just past the windows. Martin.
Jon almost slips in his haste to the bedroom, and doesn't try to stifle his noises as he bursts into the room.
Martin is sat there, still in bed. His legs are swung over the side of the bed, hands folded loosely in his lap, and his eyes are staring blankly at the farside window. When he breathes, the faintest puff of fog fans out in front of him.
Jon scrambles onto the bed and crouches down on his knees besides Martin, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. He's pulled Martin out of the Lonely once, and simply prays he can do it again. Prays he isn't too late.
He takes Martin's face in his hands and turns Martin's head to face him. Martin doesn't even give the smallest flash of recognition, simply looks past Jon towards the open doorway behind him, and Jon's heart breaks.
"Martin, Martin it's okay," Jon pets at his frozen cheeks a bit frantically, urging the warmth from his palms to seep into Martin's skin, before raking his fingers back through his hair, clutching at the back of it.
"You- you are not alone, I'm right here, I'm- I'm never going to leave you alone," Jon flicks his gaze back and forth between Martin's eyes, and curses himself for doing this to him.
He should've seen this coming, stupid, stupid Jon. Never thinks things through, should have considered the fact Martin would wake up without him here, would panic at the thought of Jon abandoning him, leaving him all alone once again. Even when Jon is trying so hard to do something nice, to be considerate, he screws that up fantastically as well.
Tears burn at his eyes and he slides closer, his hands tightening their hold in Martin's hair. You can't have him, Jon thinks into existence, projects into the Lonely, He's not yours to take anymore.
"Martin, come back to me," He barely manages to not choke on his words, coming out cracked and broken, "Stay here, with me."
Martin comes to with a gasp, his skin flushing and warming between Jon's hands, and relief floods through him so quickly it almost hurts. Martin's hands come up immediately to grasp at the back of Jon's shirt, and Jon crushes Martin into a hug, firmly sliding his arms around his shoulders and squeezes.
"J-Jon," Martin's voice comes out in a wheeze, and Jon is so, so relieved to hear it.
"I'm so sorry Martin, I didn't mean to, I, I didn't think-" He shakes his head a bit before pressing his face into Martin's shoulder. He can feel Martin tremble in his hold, his body shuddering as he takes in deep breaths.
"I-I woke up and it, it was so cold, and you weren't next to me, you weren't here and I, I thought that maybe I had just-" He lets out a manic like laugh, lets go of Jon's shirt to wind his arms around Jon's waist to press the two of them even more tightly together, "I thought that maybe I imagined it, this was all the Lonely at work, giving me what I wanted before ripping it away entirely, so it could- could keep me forever."
Jon decides then, to shift in Martin's hold and climb into his lap, aligning himself carefully to give them as much physical contact as he possibly can, to assure the both of them that they were here, present together, with each other. Martin holds onto him easily, and presses his eyes into the front of Jon's shoulder. Jon drops a quick kiss to Martin's temple before resting his head against the side of his head.
"I'm so sorry Martin, I just left for the shops, we were-- running low on food, and I had thought I could run there and back quickly enough so you wouldn't notice I was gone," He shakes his head again and slides a hand from the nape of Martin neck up into his hair, smoothing through the thick curls there, and his voice breaks a bit, "I'd never let the Lonely take you again, I'm, I'm never going to leave you. I'm staying here with you for as long as you'll have me."
Martin nods against Jon's shoulder, his tears soaking down through the fabric of Jon's shirt, and Jon loves him so much.
"Don't.. don't leave me," Martin whispers weakly, "Stay with me."
"Always, Martin. Always." He vows.
---
It was bound to come to a head eventually. Even for someone as oblivious as Jon, the tension between the two of them was palpable. Sleeping together every night curled in each others arms, legs twisted together and hands clasped tightly. Fingertips lingering, catching on shoulders and elbows and waists. Sitting flush together on the couch, huddled underneath a blanket, Martin's arm resting on the back of the couch, just barely grazing Jon's shoulder. Dancing around each other in the kitchen, Martin leaning over Jon to reach something on the highest shelf, Jon crowding into Martin's space to peer into the pan on the stove.
He knew this would happen eventually, there could only be so much that Martin could take. He knew they couldn't stay in this odd limbo they had placed themselves into. He wishes they could, so he wouldn't have to face the truth, wouldn't have to face Martin not wanting him, after he knew about Jon.
Jon is splayed across Martin's side, legs neatly folded under him and tucked comfortablely under Martin's arm, a book settled on his lap. It's a usual sight. It's warm, always having Martin right next to him, always in contact or in close enough range to be. Jon wouldn't want it any other way.
Martin is idly drawing thoughtless figures into the side of Jon's arm, gaze focused down at his own book clutched in his free hand. Jon can't help but sneak a peek towards him frequently, taking in his profile nervously. He's just… So nice to look at. His ginger hair curling gently around his ears and the nape of his neck, his round freckled cheeks always taking on a subtle flush. The slight crease in his brow when he focuses, and the absolutely endearing way the tip of his tongue peeks past his teeth on the side of his mouth while he's working. Jon is busy admiring the way his glasses are perched on his nose when he realizes Martin is looking at him. Oh. Jon heats up at being caught staring.
"Hi." Jon says a bit dumbly.
"Hi, Jon," His eyes crinkle at the corners when a knowing smile stretched across those rosy lips, "What're you looking at? Something on my face?"
"No, just," He clears his throat, "Just you. Just looking at you."
"Oh." Martin's face flushes a darker shade than usual, his smile taking on a bit of a flustered edge to it. Jon thinks Martin looks just as about surprised as Jon feels about how easily he admits to it. He silently marvels at his ability to turn Martin a lovely pink when Martin speaks again, his eye contact nonwavering.
"Why- why's that?"
Jon takes him in, the blues of his eyes and the flash of teeth that peeks out, the freckles that dot across the bridge of his nose, and nervously wets his lips.
"Because I want to. Rather, I, I like to. Look at you."
Martin lets out another faint, "Oh," his book falling from his hand into his lap. Jon's heart beats a crescendo in his chest as Martin slowly leans towards him, as though worried Jon might startle and bristle at any sudden movement. His newly freed hand hesitates, before coming up to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind Jon's ear. Jon breaths out shakily, lungs seizing in his chest, and tracks the movement of Martin's eyes, his gaze drooping down to Jon's lips. Martin's hand hovers in the air briefly before lowering to take Jon's jaw into his palm, his other arm carefully sliding away from Jon's shoulder to follow suit on the other side of Jon's head. His palms are like a brand against Jon's skin, searing and overwhelming and wonderful all at the same time, and it sends something like moths alight low in Jon's stomach. Jon reaches up to cover one of Martin's hand with his own, and watches the way Martin's mouth moves when he whispers between them,
"Jon.." He breaths it like a prayer, like the name alone is something to worship.
"M-Martin," Their noses bump together slightly, leaning so closely together as if magnetized, the pull to be near each other so strong it feels like Jon might be consumed by it all.
There's blood rushing in his ears, his hand tingles where it clutches Martin's to his face. Their breath mingles between them, light and quiet. Their lips slightly brush, barely there, hovering, like a feathers touch. There's hesitation, they find themselves at a crossroads, once they cross this threshold, the both of them know they can't reverse this. Impossible for Jon to go back after this, not after knowing what it would feel like to have Martin's lips pressed against his, the warmth of his breath fanning out across his cheek, Martin solid and soft underneath his touch.
Martin makes the decision for them, gives him lidded eye contact, a silent question, a quiet request, and seems to read something Jon didn't know he was projecting. Jon is able to let out one last breath of air before Martin closes the small gap. Jon gives a small intake through his nose, his free arm shooting out to fist the fabric at Martin's shirt between his fingers, and feels the building tension snap, releasing a wave of pure relief at the touch of their lips together.
His lips are so soft, Is Jon's first thought. Though a little chapped from the chill of the room, still impossibly warm, and heart stoppingly wonderful. How did I go so long without this? Is Jon's second thought, mourning the years wasted, washed away from indifference and mistrust and poor timing.
Jon doesn't really have a third thought.
It's a chaste little thing, a simple press of lips, gentle and full of adoration. The purest expression of love. And then Martin tilts his head to the side, moves his lips against Jon's and coaxes him to do the same. Jon shudders in his grasp, moves and presses their mouths together more firmly, and basks in the small sound Martin makes. They shift, their books sliding out of their laps and falling to the floor with a faint thud thud that doesn't register to either of them, as Martin turns and folds a single leg underneath himself, his knee wedging securely between Jon's.
There's a brief moment when they break away, a loose exhale from their lips, a gentle bump of their foreheads, before they come together again, a desperate push and pull.
Jon's lips tingle from the catch and press of Martin's against him, feels dizzy with the feeling of Martin surrounding him. His hands feel like a hot brand against his skin, the clutching of fabric in Jon's palm a grounding point of contact as the heat threatens to cloud his head.
Jon has wanted this for longer than he can admit, wanted to know the feel of the tremble in Martin's bones as he clutched onto Jon unsteadily, the feel of Martin's lips between his, the slight graze of teeth and the shudder that proceeds it. He marvels at it, files it away for safekeeping, is going to let himself get completely lost in it as Martin crowds his senses but, then the coiling snake of guilt curls around his gut, slithers up and curls around his lungs.
What has Jon done? It was safe before, when it was ambiguous, when it was a vague shape between them. When they pretended it was transparent, refused to acknowledge it. When Jon would pretend he could have this, like he could deserve to have this.
But he can't, can he? Because he can't give Martin what he deserves. Because he can't be normal, because he's broken.
Jon jerks away from him then, a loud smack of lips as they part. Martin looks as surprised as Jon feels terrible. He puts space between the two of them, brings his hands up to extract Martin's from his face to hold them between the two, tilts his face down to shield it from view.
"I-I'm sorry, Jon, was, was that too much?" Martin sounds so worried, so guilty, and Jon hates himself so much.
"I, I shouldn't have done that," It's almost physically painful, getting the words out. He doesn't want to say them, doesn't want to believe them, but he doesn't want to lose Martin even more. Jon doesn't dare look up, he wouldn't be able to bear the devastation that he knows is written across Martin's face, so, like the coward he is, keeps his eyes trained firmly down to where the two of their hands are clasped tightly together. He takes the sight in, knowing that this might be the last time he'll be able to feel the warmth of Martin's hands in his, the smoothness of his skin, the contrast between the back of Martin's pale, freckled hand, and Jon's dark, marred and mangled one. He traces the seam where their hands meet with his eyes, and watches as his vision blurs with the threat of tears, the image of hands clasped together obscuring.
But Martin, brave, wonderful Martin, tightens his hold on Jon and leans forward, knees pressing in against Jon's. He can feel the weight of Martin's gaze on him, it burns into his skin and makes him feel even more guilty.
"I haven't read this wrong, have I? I was sure, that maybe you did feel this, the way I do." Martin's tone is another nail worming its way sharply into Jon's heart.
"No, no Martin, I- of course I do, but this, us, I-- we can't."
"Why? Why not? After everything we've been through, don't we- dont we deserve this? Deserve us?" It's not accusing, not threatening or aggressive, but desperate. A plea, a question, a need for an answer, because Martin knows, he must know just how much Jon feels for him. How much Jon wishes he could say yes, wishes he could climb into his arms and stay there for all eternity, until the world ends.
"I-" And he chokes on it, the words getting tangled in his throat, refusing to come out. He squeezes his eyes shut, the force of it causing colors to bloom behind his eyelids, "Because I'll, I'll break your heart, and then- then you'll break mine,"
"Jon-"
Jon shakes his head, his hair falling forward, and plows on, forces the words out before he shuts down,
"Because I- I can't give you what you want, because I'm awful and broken, and- and I'm selfish. I wouldn't- I can't handle the fact that you'll realize how much you won't want me. I don't want to be something you regret, or wishing that you- you never met me, never loved me."
Jon wants to run, to hide away and shelter away his heart. He wishes they could've stayed together, in this ambiguous bubble they had created, feigned ignorance as they held each other at night, the subtle brush of their fingers as Martin passed the cup of tea into his hands. The meaningful glances and the lingering touches. He wishes he could be everything Martin deserves, that he could provide what's wanted and needed in a relationship. That he could be everything Martin had thought he could be. So he holds on as tightly as he can, for as long as he is able to until he isn't allowed to anymore.
Martin lets out such a distraught noise, holds steadfast in his grip, and Jon feels the way he vehemently shakes his head in response.
"Jon, Jon that could never happen, I wouldn't, I'm not-"
Jon cuts him off by the sharp upturn of his head, finally meeting Martin's eyes, and he's filled with instant regret for doing so. He feels gutted, seeing the absolute look of grief carved into his features, the shine of unshed tears gathering on his lashes. And he loathes himself, absolutely despises himself, for being the person to make Martin look like this, for making Martin feel like this.
"You can say that now, Martin. Before everything, before seeing how difficult it is being with me, before you come to- come to resent me for being unable to provide what you deserve."
"What is it then? What's so terrible about yourself that you're so sure would turn years of me loving you sour?" The look of defiance and pure determination that settles deep onto Martin's face and posture almost gives Jon pause, the way he squares his shoulders, the lovely crease between his brows that Jon has always so deeply adored, wishes he could smooth away with his thumb. It's all so Martin, and Jon loves him so much that he aches.
"I, we-" Jon wants to look away then, but he knows he owes Martin this much, owes him to look him in his eyes as he tears the two of them apart, "I, I don't want you in the right way, I've never wanted anyone in the right way. We'll never share the kind of intimacy that normal people crave, the kind that every relationship needs. I can never- never give myself to you the way I'm supposed to,"
Jon watches as Martin's expression flickers rapidly through different emotions as he speaks, and Jon is determined to get everything he needs to say out before disgust etches it's way into Martin's eyes.
"I don't like sex, I don't want sex. I want to, god, I wish I could, I-I thought, I hoped that it was just the wrong people, that I just had to find the right person, and I'd be cured. That once I found them I could love the correct way." Jon shakes his head again, hot tears rolling freely down his cheeks and blurring his vision, "But I did find them, I found you, and- and even now I am still broken and wrong, and I- I wish so, so desperately that I could love you in the right way-"
He feels like he's choking, the lump in his throat tight and painful, gasping through his cries, through his confession. Martin is openly crying now too, and as he pulls his hands away from Jon's, he feels himself shatter down into millions of pieces, feels the devastation and loss coil deep, deep into his chest, and he curls down at the blow, ready to stay here and wilt away into the couch when Martin leaves him here. But Martin doesn't turn from him, doesn't move away, doesn't yell at him or tell him that Jon is right. He throws his arms around Jon's shoulders and pulls him tightly against him, effectively crushing their bodies together. It's pity, Jon's mind immediately provides, but even so, Jon has always considered himself a weak, selfish man. So he winds himself firmly around Martin, his hands coming up to twist into the back of Martin's sweater, pathetically folding himself into his lap.
"You are not broken, Jon," He says meaningfully into Jon's hair, "You- you love me in your way, you love me in the perfect way, there's no wrong way to love me, not with you, not with this,"
He sounds so sure, unyielding and strong, like it's right, like it's true. Any hope of calming down, of his tears slowing and catching his breath is destroyed, and the force of the sob that chokes past his lips rocks their bodies back and forth.
"But I'll, I'll never- we'll never-"
"I love you, Jon. Not what you think you should give me, not what you think I want. I don't care about any of that, all I want is you, I don't need- or want to have sex with you to love you, to always continue to love you,"
It's all too much then, the words wash over him and Jon feels so overwhelmed by the emotions that bubble up and threaten to drown him, that it leaves him gasping and heaving for air. So he shuts his eyes and presses his face into Martin's shoulder, holding onto him so hard that he feels his bones ache with the strength of it. Martin's hand slides up to cradle Jon's head, and he keeps a steady grip around Jon's frame as he continues to whisper reassuring platitudes into his ear.
He cries, and he cries, so hard and so long that distantly, in the back of his head, he knew this was a long time coming, because he hasn't cried like this at all in recent history, possibly in his life. He's so use to hiding these moments away, shoving them deep down and refusing to acknowledge them, that he isn't surprised that he finally reached his limit.
Jon feels raw, feels like he's been cracked open and spilled over by the time his sobs lead way to quiet sniffling. He's suddenly so exhausted, his head is pounding, the skin around his eyes and down his cheeks feeling so tender and sore. It's silent for a while, the only sound cutting through is the soft sounds of the countryside blowing outside, and the occasional snivel from Jon as he lays there limp against Martin, who holds his weight easily and steadily.
He feels the need to give Martin one last out, give him one last chance to run before he dares to let himself hope.
"I," His voice is hoarse as it leaves his throat, wrecked and broken as he speaks, "I'll never want to, Martin. I won't… change my mind suddenly, one day. And I'm… I'm so afraid that some day, some day you'll realize how much time you've wasted on me, how much more you'd get if you were with anyone else."
They stay there for a moment, quiet and wrapped around each other, before Martin pulls back enough to look at Jon's face. He reaches for Jon's face with both his hands, delicately pushing away the strands of hair clinging to Jon's face with his tears. He stares intently, his eyes flickering back and forth between Jon's, his expression intense, before speaking,
"I never have, and never will love anyone as much as I've loved you. There's nothing anyone else could give me that I'd want. The only thing I want is you, and whatever you want to give me. I don't care about the details, I only care that you're here, with me. And that you love me. That's all I need, Jon."
"I.."
"You have me, all of me. I'm not going anywhere. You can't scare me away, Jonathan Sims."
Martin gives Jon a small, tentative smile, and despite feeling completely cried out, somehow Jon feels the familiar sting in his eyes again. He takes a deep, shaky breath, and tries to find it within him to believe everything Martin is saying. It's hard to think past the rejection he's gotten in the past, the disappointment and anger he was met with, the words broken and wrong spat at him so viciously. Being told that he must not truly love them, because he doesn't want to be with them in the way they wanted. He remembers the way Georgie held his hand and looked at him so sadly, and the way her lips moved around the words, "I need more than this." He's been burned and hurt enough it feels almost impossible to listen to the words Martin is trying to press into his heart, but… But this is Martin.
Looking in at him, taking in the splotchy pink that paints across his cheeks, the red rimmed eyes that accentuates the vast blue of his iris'. Jon has a choice, and he makes it.
He decides, with his whole heart, to believe him.
"I love you." Jon whispers, lets the words settle in between them, a secret just for the two of them to hear. The smile that blooms so sweetly across Martin's lips is the beginning of his heart healing back together.
Martin tucks Jon's unruly hair behind both his ears, before tilting Jon's head down to press a lingering, tender kiss onto Jon's forehead. He gently cups Jon's jaw in his palms, and murmurs against him,
"I love you."
---
It's a little later; when their tears have all but dried up and their hearts have quieted down. They lay there on their borrowed bed facing each other, legs entangled and hands folded together. Martin leans his forehead in to touch Jon's, and Jon lets out a content little hum at the contact, eyes falling shut and pressing back. Jon releases one of Martin's hands in favor of trailing up to hold Martin's head, fingertips grazing his cheekbone with a featherlight touch, and is in awe of him when he feels Martin lean into the touch.
"..Jon?" His voice is soft, hesitant. Like he was reluctant to break the easy silence that was held between them.
Jon cracks his eyes back open and looks at him, tucks his fingers into the back of Martin's tufts of hair.
"Yes, Martin?"
"Could you tell me?" His grip tightens on Jon's hand, while his free one goes to sit solidly on Jon's waist, "Tell me what your boundaries are? I don't.. I never want to make you uncomfortable, or make you feel unsafe."
Jon's heart can't help but twinge in his chest, the question itself meaning so much more to him than Martin could possibly know. For so long, the only contact Jon has known has been so far from safe. It has been unkind, cruel and brutal, leaving him with marks and scars that may never fade. It's been so long since someone has wanted to touch him simply to touch him, and not inflict pain upon him. It shouldn't surprise him, it's Martin afterall. Sweet, kind Martin, who cares for Jon more than he probably should.
"I.." Jon gives a short nod, "Yes. Yes, alright. Thank you."
Martin gives him a small, grateful little smile and Jon smiles right back, basking in the small glow in his chest at the sight. Jon isn't quite sure where to start, how to begin to lay out the map of what he's okay with, things he's uncomfortable with, and the things he might be willing to try. Martin seems to sense Jon's turmoil, and gives his hand an affectionate squeeze.
"So, I'm guessing anything below the belt is a no?" Martin prompts, and Jon is once again grateful for him, giving Jon a place to start. Jon's head jerks in a quick nod, and he squeezes Martin's hand back.
"I don't really like being touched, or- or touching other people, like that. I don't want to be touched down- down there, and I, I'd rather not touch anyone else there either," Martin is nodding along, face set in understanding, which just makes Jon adore him even more. Jon clears his throat and frees his hand out of Martin's hair to trail the tips of his fingers along Martin's jaw, and feels a small prick of satisfaction at the small shiver it produces.
"There are some things that I do like, however," Jon keeps his fingers going at that gentle caress against Martin's jaw, down towards his chin and then back up again, and watches in fascination as Martin tries to swallow as subtly as he can, pink daring to smudge across his face.
"O-oh?" Martin's voice gives a lovely crack, and Jon feels himself smile in response.
"Hm, yes, I do enjoy some kissing," He punctuates this by bringing the pads of his fingers down to delicately trace the cupid's bow of Martin's lips, his gaze dropping down to follow the movement, "Quite a bit, actually."
"Oh. Well." Martin's breath fans out against Jon's fingers, his voice coming out in a faint little whisper. Jon raises his gaze just in time to see Martin's drop down to his mouth, and he can't hold back the amused smirk that quirks his lips.
"Good to know," Martin says, pulling his eyes back up to meet Jon's. Jon lets out a faint chuckle, eyes closing shut for a moment before opening again with a little spark fondness.
"Good to know," He echos back, dropping his hand down between them. Martin looks like he needs to cough, a nervous little thing to cover up his flusteredness, but with how close their faces are, Martin thinks better of himself and settles on clearing his throat instead. Jon finds so endearing, so Martin, that he can't help but close the inch of distance and give him a sweet, brief kiss.
Martin's eyes flutter back open when Jon leans away, eyelashes delicately brushing against his cheeks, Jon has to resist just going back in for another one.
"Um. So, ah, what else?"
Jon smiles, and takes a moment to give it some thought. Martin lays there patiently, flickering his gaze along Jon's face, which he finds the tiniest bit distracting, but finds it much more flattering than anything else. When his sights land briefly on his collarbone, Jon finds the what else. Now it's Jon's turn to clear his throat and look away, heat rising to his face.
"Ah, well, um. You see, I have some. Uh. Let's say, sensitive? Spots? I suppose?"
When Jon chances a glance back towards Martin, he's met with a face of singular focused interest, cheeks rosy and eyes glittering, and Jon finds him embarrassment mounting.
"Oh?" Smug bastard.
"Yes, ah, well," There's no need to beat around the bush, with Martin looking at him with such intent, and Jon concedes, "My neck is rather, ahem, sensitive, as it were. And I do find it.. uh, enjoyable, I- I suppose, if someone were to. Kiss me there. Perhaps."
Jon's going to explode, confession like pulling teeth. Is it possible to die from all the blood in your body rushing to your face? Martin's eyes alight, mouth slightly parted, he breaths out a sigh much steadier than Jon feels.
"Yeah?"
Rather than respond verbally, afraid he might squeak, undignified, Jon simply does a short, jerky sort of nod. Martin bites at his bottom lip, and Jon immediately tracks the movement.
"Any-anything else?"
Unbelievable. Communication is good, Jon reminds himself, but vows to pry such details out of Martin sooner rather than later. Jon pulls his eyes back up to meet Martin's, and he is clearly trying to mask his amusement. Unbelievable. The cretin.
"This is so embarrassing," Jon mutters. Martin laughs, light and airy, and Jon could never be mad at Martin long, even pretending.
"No, it's lovely. You're lovely, and I love learning about you. About what you like, what you don't like. I want to know you."
And, god, who could refuse that? Something so earnest, so mindful and kind, how on earth could Jon deny that?
"My back," Jon adds, and elaborates, "It's nice when someone runs their fingers against it. I like it a lot."
Martin's hand then does the lightest squeeze against Jon's waist, fingers caressing just the edge of his back, and Jon shivers.
"That's, um, that's pretty much it."
"Thank you. For telling me."
---
Jon ends the world. His eyes shine a sickly, stark green, statement, ritual, clutched in one shaking hand, neck openly weeping a steady pour of blood, the other hand with red staining across his fingers, caked under his nails. Words that are not his own flow from his throat, sick and vile and thick on his tongue, and he cannot stop it. Sharp static is ringing in his ears, tears an endless stream down his face as he's forced to do the one, single thing he was born for, the thing that has been planned since the beginning.
Jon opens the Door.
--
Jon's laughter is vicious and manic and broken, tearing at his vocal cords as he stares up, wide eyed at the sky, blinks tears out of his eyes and watches as the sky blinks back. He can See and is Seen, eyes appearing and opening and staring down at him, staring up and meeting the sky's gaze, and he cannot pinpoint the moment his laughter turns to sobbing, cannot tell when words start spilling out of his mouth, wounded and frantic.
"I didn't want to- I tried to stop, I tried- I tried- please, believe me, I didn't want to, but I- I couldn't stop, fuck, what have I done-"
Jon's eyes can see everything and all and the world is so bright and so dark and so broken and he can't look away, can't close his eyes, can taste fear thick on his tongue, can smell the terror sharp in the air.
There are hands on his face, insistent, begging him to look away from the hellscape that grew from his hands, spiralled from his voice, and Jon Knows Martin is trying to speak to him, but he can't hear him over the screams of agony and despair blaring in his ears, reaching out and pleading to be heard, and Jon hears. Hears the world collectively cry out in sorrow and The Archivist sits there, low in his stomach, pleased.
Until Martin forces his head to face him, until all his eyes snap to look at him, until the only thing Jon can see is him, see the horror written across his face, the tears streaming down his face, his hands shaking where they grasp the side of Jon's head, his knees dug into the gravel beneath them, (Jon hadn't even registered that he had collapsed onto the ground outside the front door,) and his gaze is searching frantically across Jon's, and his lips are moving and moving and moving.
"Look, look at me Jon! Look at me! Look at me, and tell me what you see!" He's yelling, screaming over the roaring in Jon's ears, screaming over the combined fears of everyone in the world, over The Watcher and The Eye and Jonah and everything until that is the only thing Jon can hear. The only thing Jon can see. Until there is quiet. The Eyes close, and Jon's are the only ones left to look at Martin kneeled in front of him.
"You, only- only you."
Martin takes a gasping breath, and if Jon hadn't just ended the world, he would have thought maybe a relieved one. He immediately rocks forwards, folding Jon into his chest, and Jon falls into it, grasps tightly to the back of Martin's sweater, presses his face into Martin's shoulder, trembles in his grip and cries and cries. Martin anchors him in reality, whatever is left is it. They sway with the force of it, and Martin holds him through it, holds him together, cradles the back of his head with his hand, whispers empty assurances in his ear.
"It's okay, Jon, it's- it's going to be okay, just breathe, keep breathing for me Jon-"
And it's not okay, it will never be okay again, and it's his fault, he spoke into existence the beginning of the end.
Martin pulls away enough to look Jon in the eyes, and reaches up to clumsily wipe away the tears pouring down Jon's face, and it doesn't do much of anything when the tears continue to flow, but Jon's empty chest gives the smallest tug at the gesture.
"We- we need to go inside, Jon. Come on, I've got you."
And then Martin is pulling him up to his feet, and practically drags him inside when Jon can't even stand on his shaking legs. He barely registers the sound of the door slamming close behind them, simply clings to Martin's shoulders, and just goes completely limp when Martin hooks his arm under Jon's knees and lifts him up against his chest. One of his hands slide down until it can curl tightly into the fabric of Martin's sweater, and he can feel how hard Martin's heart is beating.
Martin walks them over to the couch, and lands heavily into the worn seats. He doesn't even bother with easing Jon onto the cushion beside him, just readjusts his grip around him and holds him in a steady and grounding embrace, rocks them slowly back and forth.
"Martin-" It's a hoarse, broken call that's muffled into Martin's shoulder, and his arms tighten around him.
"It's okay, love, it's okay." Martin shushes him, and Jon desperately wants to believe him, hangs on every empty platitude Martin gives him. And he knows it's selfish, in light of everything he's done, knows he doesn't deserve to be held and comforted and loved, but he needs this, needs Martin, needs him with every ounce of his being. Martin tells him it's okay, and Jon wants to believe him, but they both know it isn't.
He doesn't know, just how long they're sat there, Jon clutched between Martin's arms, folded into his lap. They sit there until Jon's heaving sobs turn to shuddering cries, until they lead way to quiet stuttering breaths. He turns his face away from the wet spot he's soaked into Martin's shoulder, keeps his eyes closed as he presses his forehead against the side of Martin's neck instead.
"Martin.." He whispers, his breath fanning out across Martin's collarbone, because he can't trust his voice not to break.
"Yeah… yeah, I know."
Martin rests his cheek against Jon's head, and he leans into his touch, tries to focus on the heat from Martin's body, the long comforting strokes that Martin is trailing across his back, instead of the information that is threatening to split his head apart.
"It's," Jon takes a deep, wavering breath, "it's all my fault, Martin."
"Jon, no-"
"I- I didn't want to, I tried so hard to stop," Jon lowers his hand from Martin's shoulder then, to graze across his own throat, where the raw nail marks have already healed, the only evidence left from the pitiful attempt at clawing his own throat out is the small smattering of blood, "I'm- I'm so sorry, Martin, please believe me-"
Martin makes a wounded sound before sliding Jon away from him just enough to look at him, to bump their foreheads together. His eyebrows are all scrunched up, his face blotchy and his eyes are red, but he sets his features into a determined expression.
"No, Jon, no. You did not do this, none of this is your fault. You were just, just a pawn in his game, you didn't do this - Jonah did."
Jon can't bare to look Martin head on, the overwhelming trust and care in his gaze threatens to drown him.
"But he used me. I'm the one who spoke it, who- who completed the ritual, he used my voice-"
He takes another heaving gulp of air, his throat constricting and chest pulling, when Martin's arms unwind around him to cradle Jon's head by his jaw.
"With his words, Jon. He controlled you, you didn't want this, you couldn't stop him, and that is not your fault." Martin's voice doesn't waver for a second, sounding so sure, so confident in his words, and he wants to take it to heart, he does, but how can he? Martin uses his hold on Jon's head to tilt it down, and presses a warm lingering kiss on his forehead, and Jon hiccups on his renewed tears.
"I, I know that you can't believe me right now, but I need you to trust me. Trust me to not lie to you, trust me to be telling you the truth."
And he does, trusts Martin with his entire life, has for a long time and always will, and he knows that this is what Martin believes, that Jon is just a puppet being controlled by Jonah's strings, that Jon is innocent. But Martin sees the best in people, sees the best in him, to his own detriment. He can't see the monster he's turned into, only sees the shell of a man he is.
But Jon is tired, he is exhausted, and he doesn't want to talk about this anymore, doesn't have the strength to argue, so he squeezes his eyes shut and gives Martin a tiny nod. Martin releases a small sigh and kisses his forehead again.
"Good.. good."
Martin wraps his arms back around Jon and presses another kiss to his forehead, then to his temple and down to his still wet cheeks, before leaning his head against Jon's. Jon slides his arms about Martin's shoulders, smoothing a hand up through his hair, and lets out a trembling sigh.
"Please, tell me what I can do for you." Martin's voice finally wavers as he pushes his face down onto Jon's shoulder, his hands a solid weight against his back. And God, Jon loves him. Loves him so much he feels like he might fall apart then, but knows Martin will keep him together.
"Just," His fingers twist slightly in Martin's hair, and if it's too tight Martin doesn't say anything, "Just stay with me. Please."
Martin drops a kiss onto Jon's shoulder.
"Of course I will. Always."
And Jon believes him.