Chapter Text
Jon wakes up and Martin is gone. He panics for a moment before he hears a familiar voice wafting over from the kitchen. Martin is humming to himself; a melody that Jon had composed ages ago for the band he was in at uni. It's not actually that good of a song, but hearing it in Martin's voice feels almost as warm as the morning sun. Jon closes his eyes again, just for a moment, and lets it wash over him before swinging his legs off of the bed and getting dressed. He takes his time, savoring the feeling of a good night’s sleep. It’s something he could get used to- something he will get used to.
Jon strides over to the bedroom door, hand poised and ready to open it, when he pauses. Something is wrong- just a faint, creeping sensation in the back of his mind that he can't seem to place. It takes him a moment to realize that it’s Martin’s voice. It’s not necessarily a bad sort of different, but it sounds… off, somehow. Jon’s hand drops to his side as he listens closer, his brow furrowed in concentration. He can't quite discern what’s making Martin’s voice so strange, and he holds back the urge to simply Know what it is. He remembers promising everyone not to use his abilities unless it was absolutely necessary. And he remembers promising himself not to Know things about Martin, ever. The Lonely had been… there's no way Jon is going to make Martin relive that. There's no way he-
Jon is abruptly wrenched from his train of thought when Martin's humming stops. It cuts off sharply in the middle of a note that should have kept going, and Jon feels the first stirrings of fear deep in the pit of his stomach. The house is silent except for Jon's breathing.
His eyes grow wide as the note starts up again, repeating over and over again like a scratched vinyl. It's a terrible, grating noise, and to hear it in Martin's voice is like falling into ice-cold water. It's only now that he realises: there's no way for Martin to know this song. He hasn't heard it himself in years. It's impossible. It's impossible and Jon wants to turn around and collapse into bed and pretend this isn't happening. But he has to know. Painfully slowly, Jon opens the bedroom door. His view of the kitchen is still obscured by the short corridor leading to it. The broken sound of Martin’s voice still leaks out of the kitchen, all of its warmth and affection long gone. Jon shuffles hesitantly down the corridor, mind racing, searching for an explanation like a mouse running frantically through a maze. But the only things he finds are dead ends- he can’t think; he can’t See anything. He can feel the hunger now, the overwhelming compulsion to Know. Martin's voice drones on, faster and faster in time with Jon's pounding heart. He can't bear it anymore; the urge is too great. His human instincts scream to stop, to consider self-preservation, but they are not the only instincts Jon has and they are not powerful enough to control him anymore. He rounds the corner into the kitchen- and stops dead in his tracks.
Martin is not there. Martin was never there. There is an object on the counter, slightly damaged, emitting a tinny mockery of his voice. It is a tape player, and Jon feels all his panic being pulled back into him, gathering and collecting deep in the place where his ribs meet. There’s a moment of shock before he really starts to feel it, the awful realisation of something you can't un-know. The dread swells and consumes him and he can feel, in the very marrow of his bones, that he is alone. He is standing, eyes locked on the player, and then he is on his knees. Tears stream from his eyes, but his vision does not go blurry. The tape regurgitates its terrible, unending note, and Jon can see it with perfect clarity and he cannot look away. The single note writhes and twists itself into words that Jon can't seem to decipher. He is certain he will stay here forever, in this terrible amalgam of forsaken and watching. He knows, in his bones, that this staticky, echoing voice will be the last thing he hears.
But it isn’t. There’s something else. It’s distant, muffled, and Jon doesn’t pay it any mind until he recognises what it is.
“Jon? Jon, are you alright?” Martin’s voice is barely audible over the discordant tape. Jon latches onto the sound; he holds it in his mind, even though it feels like he could run forever in this universe and never reach the voice.
“Jon!” Martin’s voice is nervous now, almost panicked. Jon wants to find him; he needs to find him, but his eyes are all wrong. He can’t see Martin; he can’t see anything but the wretched tape player. Dammit, why can’t he see anything?
“Jon,” Martin’s voice is resolute and quivering with fear and Jon clings to it with all the desperation he has left in him. “Jon, open your eyes.”
With terrifying speed the image before him is gone, as if it were only a curtain that has been shredded and ripped away. The room he finds himself in is dark, but Jon’s eyes adjust immediately. He has shot up in bed, and gasps so quickly that he chokes on his own breath. He clutches at his throat, hands trying to convince themselves that this is reality and the thing that just ended was the dream. Then Martin sits up, tucks aside a strand of Jon’s hair so that his concerned eyes may better search Jon’s face.
“Hey, it’s alright. You’re alright,” Martin says softly, “I think you’re hyperventilating, erm, but it’ll be okay.” Jon doesn’t process the words, not really, but he allows his eyes a moment to drink in Martin’s gentle expression before squeezing them shut and burying his face in Martin’s chest. They stay like that for a long time. It’s not… enjoyable, exactly, Martin trying to stop Jon from shaking and Jon trying not to blink. But the relief of being pulled out of a nightmare by the arms that hold him now is like walking into a warm room after hours spent in the cold. Martin feels so safe it’s almost terrifying.