Chapter Text
Martin wakes to find the world awash with colour. Golden sunlight spills into his room, paints a square on the wall. Cutout shadow shapes; the ceiling light, the wardrobe, Martin's shoulder and the arm curled around him.
He shifts, shuffles onto his back and Jon grumbles, half asleep and reluctant to wake. Martin stares at him, drinks in the sight of tangled hair, free from its bun and spilling over the pillow, strands caught in his mouth. The furrow between his brows as he clings to sleep. A soft frown, nothing like the strict edges Martin knew, then didn't. Nothing like the weary and worn smiles, weighed by exhaustion and regret, trembling against the gravity pulling their corners down.
Jon looks so soft like this, Martin thinks. So young, even with the grey in his hair, the scars, the lines etched deep into his skin.
He lifts his hand and brushes his knuckles along Jon's cheek, the high bones, sharp enough to cut under skin pulled too tight. His skin tingles with the contact, sparklers in his veins. Bursts of silver stars, pretty and mild unless you try to touch. A constellation of burns, a reminder. There is a reason for keeping your distance.
His skin warms, thaws; snow melt in spring. He has nothing to fear from this.
Jon stirs. His eyelashes flutter as he wakes, as he opens his eyes to a new day, a new world, always different in a million tiny ways. Always more to see, to learn, to memorize and tuck away. Saved for a rainy day.
Martin meets his gaze fearlessly, letting himself become lost in the depths of his irises, a million colours stitched together into a galaxy; brown and blue and green, an asteroid belt of red gravitating around a black hole, holding steady, push and pull and keep your place. Shades of orange under strands of umber, spider silk of twisting threads. Navy mists surrounding it all, keeping the universe contained, forever folding back on itself.
Sunlight warms those fathomless depths when Jon smiles, tired and small but sure, complete in its felicity. "Good morning," he says, warm breath on Martin's skin.
Yes, it is.
Martin smiles, and it pulls at old muscles left to weaken from disuse. He longs for the days when smiles were easy, when he wore them like a shield, protection against anyone who aimed to hurt him. When happiness drew a smile from his chest, unexpected and bright, imperfect and natural. The simplest act in the world. He hasn't had cause to smile for so long.
He wants to have a reason to, again. He thinks he's already found it.