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Jon changes after he pulls Martin from the deserted tides of the Lonely. He’s kinder, to Martin at least, biting back the harsh comments that so often slip off of his tongue. He makes an effort to smile more, a kind of raw unaffected warmth in his eyes when he does so. Perhaps more startling, though, is the gentle way that he touches Martin, so casual at first that it could almost be an accident.
When Martin hands him a cup of tea, cautioning him about the heat of the drink, his fingers linger a moment longer than usual, brushing against Martin’s hand with a sort of restrained adulation.
When he sits beside Martin, he allows his leg to fall against Martin’s, a comfortable familiarity in the closeness, and he forces down a smile when Martin does not pull away.
It’s because I’m worried, he tells himself. It’s because I don’t want Martin to slip away into the Lonely again.
Even this is far too close to a love confession for Jon’s comfort, private as it may be, and he stops that train of thought before it can go any further down its current tracks.
He doesn’t stop touching Martin, though.
When they walk together, Jon hesitantly reaches out a hand, linking Martin’s pinky finger with his own. Martin glances over at him, but Jon staunchly avoids eye contact. Neither of them breaks the connection, however; it’s a small reminder that Jon is here, that he won’t let Martin disappear again if he has any say in the matter. (It’s also a reminder of how Jon’s pulse speeds up when Martin talks to him, of the blush that tints his cheeks when Martin offers him a warm smile. Not that Jon would admit as much to himself, not yet. But it acts as a reminder nonetheless.)
Eventually, as this gentle touch has slowly become a part of their routine, Jon becomes bolder. He rests his head against Martin’s shoulder — lightly, carefully, hyper-aware of Martin’s reaction — but Martin looks down at him and gives him that damn smile, shifting his position to make Jon more comfortable, and Jon can’t stop his lips from pulling into a soft smile of their own.
Neither Jon nor Martin mentions it, though. Not out loud.
They don’t mention it when instead of linking pinkies, Jon takes Martin’s whole hand in his, delicately interlacing their fingers together.
They don’t mention it when they fall asleep tangled in each others’ arms, breathing soft into the gentle air between them; when, for the first night in a long time, neither one is plagued by the nightmares that so often haunt their dreams.
They don’t mention it when they sit together on the couch, enjoying one another's company late at night, Martin's arm flung over Jon's shoulders and Jon's head tucked up against Martin's chest; when Martin tucks a loose strand of hair into its place behind Jon’s ear; when Jon melts into the touch, his expression fond, almost doting.
They don't mention it until one day when they awake early in the morning, curled up together (it's just another part of their routine at this point, sleeping close enough that it isn’t always certain which limbs belong to whom), and instead of getting up immediately, they stare affectionately into each others’ eyes for a long moment, not daring to break the stillness of daybreak. In a flash of bravery, Martin leans down and presses a kiss to Jon’s lips — it’s gentle, chaste, and Jon lets out a breathy gasp of surprise. Martin is quick to apologize, stumbling over himself in a jumble of “oh, god, I’m so sorry, Jon, I just thought,“ but Jon cuts him off.
“Martin,” he murmurs reverentially, saying the name as if it were a prayer. He pulls Martin back in for another kiss, unsure at first but then hungry, passionate. His free hand traces the round crest of Martin’s cheek with a worshipping touch, and Martin lets out a stifled whimper.
When they break apart this time, Martin’s breath is quick, tremulous in his chest, and the blush that paints his cheeks is so beautiful that Jon can’t help but smile.
“Martin Blackwood,” he whispers. “I— I seem to have done you the disservice of falling in love with you.”
And Martin can’t quite form a coherent response right now, his brain still playing catch-up with his flushed lips, but he doesn’t need to reply for Jon to know that Martin loves him back. He doesn’t need the harsh intrusion of the Eye to tell him as much; it’s written across Martin’s face, across the soft touch of Martin’s hands running through his hair, across the tenderness in Martin’s movement when he leans up to kiss Jon again.
It takes them a while to get themselves out of bed.