Chapter Text
Jon had fretted a little that Martin would want to start honeymoon activities as soon as the innkeeper showed them to their modest room, but no. They relax in bed, still travelwarn, until a more reasonable hour, then have breakfast and take a walk around the farm they are staying at. Martin is very curious about the dairy cows, which brings a hearty smile to Jon’s face.
‘You must have seen cows before?’
‘Not as big as these! Christ, look at her poor udders.’
Martin points, and the cow’s udders are indeed massive and stretched like a heavy, pink ball with milk. They both laugh in sympathy. They watch the creatures chew cud round and round for nearly an hour, leant into one another’s shoulders at the fence.
Jon promises, ‘There are even better ones in Scotland.’ Then he curses silently.
Martin stares at him, eyes wide with shock, then glee. ‘Scotland?!’
They dine at the inn that night. Martin wears a becoming gown and the sweet lacy cap he’s taken to donning in public now that they’re married. Their hair is beginning to be long enough to curl out from underneath the brim in little wisps. Their accent gets stronger to match the ones that surround them. Jon leans into his palm and watches them across the table with a wistful sigh. He finds this feeling even more exquisite than the longing that used to encompass these dining out experiences with Martin. True endearment is a most beautiful thing to know. Without a drop, Jon could be drunk enough to see two moons.
Once the evening gets late and a couple of guests get drunk enough to enquire about Martin’s dress and his ring when he goes to the bar, they retire to bed. Once again, there is no honeymoon activity as they settle down, only snuffling into one another’s necks and shoulders and armpits as the cold settles in and Jon is very grateful.
He is not entirely sure why he is grateful. For some reason, since planning for this trip, he has gotten nervous again about intimacy. He and Martin have only made half-baked, sleepy attempts that dissolve back into mere kissing since they broke in their marriage bed.
There's nothing wrong, Jon insists to himself, nothing wrong. Martin is probably waiting for him to lead after their conversation on the matter. Why he doesn't want to... well that's the question he's been asking himself since he began growing out of boyhood. It's nothing new. It's... slightly new with Martin.
Intercouse, or more accurately the trimmings and notions surrounding intercourse that they largely stuck to, since the act itself is too intense to be performed regularly, was initially the only way they could spend time together. Now, it is entirely unnecessary but for their own pleasure, and there are so many more ways they can be intimate whilst cohabiting. Cohabiting in and of itself is already fulfilling a significant portion of Jon’s requirement for intimacy.
Despite Martin's reassurances on their wedding night, he worries that it won't be enough for them. ‘Lost the spark’, that's what people say happens in a marriage isn't it? But not to newlyweds. Not on their honeymoons.
It’s frustration, Jon realises, that he’s feeling. He’s frustrated that he doesn’t seem to want what he ought to. Even when it’s brought him great pleasure. Even with the person he loves most in the world. There just isn’t that excitement in him, that drive towards pursuing getting a leg over. It isn’t fair, he grouses to himself miserably. When he so diligently wants to give Martin all they deserve.
Perhaps he just needs to get comfortable. Yes. He couldn’t count on his hands the number of times Martin’s comforting presence and easy touch has relaxed him into a state of wanting. Has conjured need and even sensuality from his undesirous depths. Jon believes, with Martin, he has experienced as close to the desire he’s heard others describe as he might ever. Manifested as a wanton need for closeness, for the other’s delight. Hopefully, in Scotland he will be able to cease fretting about providing perfection and can have more chance of entering that relaxed state.
They commence travel to Edinburgh the next day, once again arriving late at an inn, though this time is easier without the logistical pressure and the weight of the secret. Martin was always more of a natural planner than Jon anyway. Jon notices with amusement (and a good deal of pride) that the Scottish seem more used to someone they perceive as matronly telling them what to put where; they snap to it when Martin oversees unloading, hands on hips.
They spend the following day in Edinburgh, exploring the markets, puffing up hills, and touring the castle. Neither of them have visited before, so there is much ooh and aah-ing to be done. Martin’s journey of expressions on listening to the bagpipes brings Jon a disproportionate amount of joy.
After dinner and a pub stop or two, they wind their way back to the inn through tight lanes, soot-brick alleys, and treacherous stairways. The town is a maze of these close, slimy tracks, smelling of smoke and fish and piss and sometimes sex.
‘Aw,’ Martin joshes, ‘doesn’t it make you nostalgic? It’s just like the night we met.’
Jon shudders and pulls Martin’s cloak tightly around his neck. ‘Doesn’t it make you nostalgic?’ he cuts back. ‘You’re the expert.’
‘No.’ Martin smiles. The touring, the dinner, and the ale have them in too merry a mood to be put off by Jon’s prudish pouting. ‘I don’t miss alley flyers. I have a husband now and a bed.’ He grins, and pinches Jon’s cheek until his hand is flapped away. ‘My sweet husband...’
‘Yes, yes. Martin, watch your step.’
‘I love you.’
‘I love you too. Very much.’
‘I’d have you right here again if you wanted.’
‘I-’
‘If you missed it.’
Jon falters on the steps. ‘No I-’ he stammers, ‘no- I don't miss...’ Martin is looking at him as he struggles and time seems to slow painfully. Jon swallows. ‘I-I like what we have now. Love. I- I love you.’
He draws a needed breath. He finds he doesn't have anymore in him to explain the knot that's tangling up in his stomach, even with Martin’s curious, ever generously receptive face.
‘W-we ought to go,’ Jon says. ‘Our coach is at nine o’clock.’
‘Alright. Let’s go then.’
He pecks Martin on the cheek, feeling hot and chastened and guilty. ‘Be careful,’ he mutters as they start off again, ‘it’s slippery.’
They drive through the night, battered into strangers by coach, then bruised by rural roadways once their journey takes them away from city, then town, then village. Sleep is only caught in snatches, and entirely impossible on the last leg.
‘Are you sure this is the right way?’ Martin whispers into Jon’s neck, as if fearing kidnap.
Despite booking their lodgings, Jon has no way of answering that question. He can see nothing and no one from their windows. But their isolation brings him no fear; it is exactly to plan.
They arrive in lilac-black dawn. The heavy horses clob to a standstill and Martin’s cheek slips off Jon’s shoulder with the jolt. The jostle and wearing orders from outside are almost routine now, but, Jon smiles, they won’t need to be again for weeks. The journey is complete.
‘Are we here?’ asks Martin.
Jon knows that he knows they are. He is asking with a child’s hope and a beaten child’s caution. Jon takes their hand. He pushes open the carriage and steps down to the heather. It crunches with frost under his feet.
Before them is a short, squat cottage, one story, in heavy blocks of grey stone. Twin dormers poke out from the mossy roofline like sleepy eyes, blinking back at their new, sleepy occupants.
‘Yes, we’re here.’
With a held breath, as if each creak of the carriage, each swish of skirt, will disturb the crystal-lake reflection of their cottage, Martin steps out into the Scottish air. Their arms press from wrist to shoulder.
‘Jon, it's perfect,’ he whispers. ‘It's the sweetest house I've ever seen.’
Jon is in real danger of crying when they are interrupted by the huffing of their driver.
‘D’you want your things inside, sir?’
Jon blinks. ‘Uh, y-’
But Martin cuts in: ‘No!’ Everyone looks at him. ‘No,’ he repeats, quieter, more sure. ‘Just by the door there is perfect. Thank you.’
The driver and his coachman shug to one another but follow Martin's directions nevertheless.
Jon leans in as they watch the cases pile up. ‘I think you might be overestimating my strength, darling.’
But Martin kisses his shoulder and murmurs, ‘I want to be alone.’
The carriage leaves with a slow thumping of hooves on grass... and then they are. They look at each other, and then, with all the hysteria and relief of a long journey, and the incredulity of a dream made solid, they laugh and they cry.
Jon begs forgiveness for not being able to carry Martin over the threshold. Martin knocks his elbow, calls him cheeky, and kisses him against the door when he stammers protests that he never meant to comment on-!
Martin insists on setting a kettle to boil before they even bring the cases in. Before knocking dust off any surface. Then they call for Jon’s help with their laces and groan in relief as their stays come off.
Domesticity is the same in any domicile, it seems.
With just enough energy between them, they watch the sun come up over the hills with hot tea in their hands. Wind sets the long grasses rippling like waves.
‘This is so beautiful,’ Martin sighs. ‘I’ve never been somewhere so beautiful. Or so quiet.’
Jon turns to them. The orange glow of the sunrise bathes their lips and half their freckled nose. Soon it will make its way up to their eyes and rust the black-brown to amber. And Jon will be there to see it. Wrapped in a blanket, drinking tea. On his honeymoon.
‘I’m happy,’ he says.
Martin looks at him. His ears and cheeks go orange as well. The sun backlights his fuzzy jaw, creating a soft, radiant halo around his face. Jon has never been anywhere as beautiful either.
‘I’m happy too,’ says Martin.