Chapter Text
Jon wakes slowly, sensations coming to him in pieces:
The soft weight of the blankets, piled one on top of the other to ward off the chill of the Scottish autumn,
The glare of sun coming through the bedroom window, bright even through his closed eyelids,
The solid, comforting warmth of Martin next to him. His quiet, even breathing, still deep in sleep. The gentle, clean scent of his shampoo, the top of his head close enough to Jon's face that Jon would only have to turn his head a little to plant a soft kiss amongst his curls.
He doesn't, of course.
He and Martin agreed to share the bed after spending far too long in a circular argument over who needed it more, each insisting that the other should have it, that they were fine with the cramped little sofa downstairs. But they have kept carefully to their own sides, never allowing more than the occasional hand to cross over that invisible line.
They have not discussed what was said--and not said--in the Lonely.
Jon wouldn't have known, then or now, how to put his feelings into words, even for himself. The closest he could get was I need you and Look at me and Let's go home, and the firm grip of his hand as they left the Lonely, trying to tell Martin without words that he was here for him, would always be here for him, however and whenever Martin needed him. That following Martin into the Lonely wasn't so much a choice as an inevitability, the only thing he could have done and still lived with himself afterward. That he was Martin's, wholly and completely, for as long as Martin would have him.
Martin, on the other hand, had found words.
I really loved you, you know, he had said.
Loved.
Jon has run those words over and over in his head. Martin loved him before, and now he doesn't, and that is just the way it is. He was too slow, just like he was too slow to find Sasha and too slow to save Tim--too slow to realize, to slow to believe, too slow to act.
He is always too slow.
And now it's too late.
Jon looks over at Martin, who is slightly curled in on himself, as though he is trying to take up as little space as possible, even in sleep. His face is relaxed, almost peaceful, the small furrow of worry between his brows smoothed for once. Jon could look at him all day, learning every detail of his face, the curve of his cheeks and the set of his mouth, the constellations of his freckles.
Some days, he lets himself dream of more. Some days it feels like his chest might implode with the force of the wanting. But Martin was clear, and Jon would never want to do anything to make him uncomfortable, to make him feel like he has to reciprocate in a way that he just doesn't feel. The most important thing is that Martin is happy, and safe. Everything else is secondary.
This--waking up next to Martin in the quiet morning light, sharing this little sanctuary with him--this is enough. More than enough--more than he ever thought he would have, more than he deserves.
He can be content with this. He can.
Jon curls up under the covers next to Martin, closes his eyes, and lets Martin’s soft breathing lull him back to sleep.