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Jon flicks off the lamp and the amber light that bathes their tiny room in the cottage gives way to the silvery gloom of night. He shuffles under the blankets as quickly as he can, wriggling backwards until his back hits a warm arm. He smiles to himself. Waits.
It usually takes less than ten seconds for Martin to huff a laugh, run his hand from Jon's shoulder to his waist and roll onto his side to fit their bodies together. Jon would be the last to admit that he had always adored cuddling. But Martin had proved himself a much faster learner than Jon would ever have given him credit for. Today, however, there had been a strange mood in the air. Something thick and impenetrable hanging over the cottage that Jon hadn't been able to decipher. He'd distracted himself with a particularly gory statement and Martin had taken a longer walk than usual, returning with a hand-picked bouquet of wildflowers and a shrug. As the day had wound down into the evening, Martin had insisted he was fine but he sat alone at the table with his flowers drooping out of one of the larger mugs instead of joining Jon on the rickety old couch.
Jon tries to ignore his creeping fear. The thought in the back of his mind that insists: he could still leave you for the Lonely.
They've been laying in the dark for almost thirty seconds when he hears Martin's sob.
It's a choked-off, pathetic thing from the back of his throat. The sound of it has Jon reaching blindly for the lamp again and he feels Martin sit up in bed. His hair shines a wonderful coppery-gold in the lamplight as it falls forward into the face he is covering with his hands.
'Martin-?'
'Sorry!' The man gasps, chest heaving. 'Sorry, I'm-' He sniffs, 'Okay.'
'Martin.' He winds just enough reproach into his voice to get his point across then lets it go soft, 'Martin, what is it?' Martin shakes his head with a wet mumble and something uncomfortable twists in Jon's stomach. 'Have I done something?' He asks, fearing the answer. Martin shakes his head with more purpose. He wipes his hand on the sheets and reaches out to grab Jon's.
Jon has learned that he loves Martin’s hands, the warmth and weight of them. He squeezes back tightly even as Martin's fingernails start to dig into his palm.
A rush of air leaves through Jon's nose as he clamps his teeth down on his tongue, battling the near-overwhelming desire to Compel Martin to just tell him what is wrong. Martin must sense his effort because he glances down at their linked hands and straightens the bow of his shoulders just a fraction. Steeling himself.
'It would have been Tim's birthday today.' He says.
'Oh.' Jon replies uselessly. The utterance does no justice to the sudden sink in his chest, like Martin has opened some kind of floodgate and years of repressed grief and guilt is suddenly pouring through. He wades through it, trying to find anything to say that might make it better. He settles on 'Why didn't you say anything?' And immediately knows that's wrong. It's hardly Martin's fault that Jon was always too self-involved and haughty to recognise his colleagues' birthdays. And he wouldn’t blame him for holding out today, searching for a scrap of emotion from Jon to show that he was remotely interested in the consequences of their shared past. He tries again. 'Do you want to go write a poem about it?' Jesus.
Martin turns to look at him, glassy eyes flashing in the glow of the lamp, 'No.'
'No - no. Sorry. Of course you don't, sorry. I just -' Martin's eyes soften into what Jon is beginning to learn is vaguely-exasperated but fond. It's a good look on him. Jon inhales. 'Sorry.'
They stare at each other. The ache in Jon's chest is only compounded by the sight of Martin like this. Hair mussed and cheeks red. He tries to remember if they have ever talked about Tim's death.
Martin lifts their clasped hands to his mouth and lets his lips rest against the marred surface of Jon's skin. His breath tickles the few resilient hairs that have grown back since his run-in with Jude. He presses a kiss into the skin almost as an afterthought and Jon feels the ripples of it all the way up his arm.
'It doesn't seem fair.' The comment is mostly directed at the back of Jon's hand and so he allows himself a few seconds to try and think of anything to say that isn't: well, life isn't fair. 'That after everything, we get this.'
Martin sniffs again loudly as tears start to well in his green eyes. Jon is loath to stop holding hands but he tugs away gently, pressing briefly on Martin's shoulder to guide him back down towards the pillows. He comes to rest with his head on the crook of Jon's shoulder and curls inwards immediately. Their bare legs tangle beneath the sheets and Jon wraps his arm tight around Martin's quivering shoulders.
'I'm sorry.'
'Jon-'
'No, truly, I am.'
'Don't - please. I just miss him.' One of Martin's pale hands creeps out from beneath the covers to fist into the cotton of Jon's T-shirt. 'I miss them all.'
'I still dream about him.' Admitting that he still has those awful dreams at all is like digging his own heart out of a pool of maggots and trying to present it to Martin like fresh meat.
'Really? About Tim?'
'Yeah. That statement he gave, the one about his brother.' He can tell that Martin is peering up at his face but they're laying too close for Jon to make out his expression without glasses. Now that he considers it, he sees Tim most nights, clutching a poster for the Great Grimaldi and screaming, screaming. What a way to remember someone. Martin squeezes his arm.
'That can't be nice.'
'No.' He strokes his fingers down Martin's back in an attempt at being soothing. It works until he circles round at the bottom and his surprisingly ticklish boyfriend jerks away in surprise. 'Shit, sorry!'
'It's fine!' He feels Martin's mouth flicker into a smile against his chest before it is lost once more in the tide of his grief. He stills his hand on Martin's waist. 'Don't stop.'
They fall into an uncomfortable silence, Jon tracing lines along the curve of Martin's spine. The words that Martin isn't saying weigh on top of them both like an extra blanket. He's debating the appropriateness of writing I love you on Martin's skin with his fingertip when the man speaks again.
'He was on to me, you know?'
'Huh?'
'He knew I had a crush on you.' He lets out a small, humourless hah of a laugh. 'I think he thought I was insane.' Jon's mouth writhes like he's considering smiling but is too nervous to make it stick.
'Hm. Ah, Martin?'
'Yeah?'
'They were all on to you . . . And they all thought you were insane.' He feels Martin's body go tense. 'Sorry?' Then relax. 'You weren't exactly subtle.'
'Subtle enough for you.' Martin's voice is a snippy little thing from around Jon's armpit. He buries a hand in Martin's thick, auburn hair and tries to grin rather than grimace.
'Not subtle to anyone who doesn't need special, evil mind-reading powers to know what's going on around them.' Martin's tiny chuckle is a brief balm against the ache in his chest. He thinks about Tim Stoker, always the last one into the office and the first to leave, usually grinning. Well, until Jon's paranoia had put a stop to that. 'What's your favourite memory of Tim?'
Martin's hand relaxes slightly on Jon's chest as his brow furrows in thought. Jon wonders if Martin is suffering in the same way that he is, unable to retrieve a memory of Tim that doesn’t plummet into a bleak assessment of his own guilt. He hopes not.
'This is going to sound weird.' He starts, 'But probably the time we were trapped in the Spiral for those two weeks.'
'What?'
'Yeah, I know, I know. It was terrifying and disorientating but, after a while, we kind of realised that we had no other option but to walk and talk and um, yeah, he had a lot of funny stories to share and life advice to offer and it ended up being kind of nice?'
There are moments when Jon feels silently terrified at Martin's resistance to the effects of other Avatars. Jane Prentiss? Peter Lukas? No problem. Two weeks in the Spiral? Kind of nice. Snuggling with The Archivist? A perfect Sunday afternoon.
Before he can even begin to articulate that to Martin, he's speaking again, tears soaking dark grey patches into the cotton of Jon's top even as he laughs, 'Oh, that. Or the time after the Christmas Party when we went to that kebab shop - I think you were there - and he insisted on DJing for them and then everyone was,' He pauses to wipe his nose and giggles, face wet. 'Dancing in the kebab shop. Oh my God you were there because he got you to dance with him! What was that song?'
'It was the Scissor Sisters.' Jon has a sudden mental image of fluorescent lighting and loud music. Tim's grin had been outrageously attractive despite the red wine stains on his teeth as he'd grabbed Jon by the arms, spinning him in circles until he was far too nauseous to stomach the kofta he'd ordered.
'Yeesss!' He laughs, 'Of course it was. I think you gave me your takeaway too.'
'No, I tried. You made me eat the whole thing.'
'Oops. Yeah, now you've said that, it does sound like something I'd do.' They fall into the quiet again. Nothing but the sound of the wind whipping past their little cottage and the distant lapping of the Loch.
Jon remembers more of that night. How Tim had tucked both him and Martin into a black cab and given Jon a hard look. Look after him, alright? He'd said, gesturing over at Martin who was failing at giving the driver an address his satnav could recognise. Jon nods to himself and his chin comes to rest on Martin's head. He can do that.
'Happy birthday, Tim.' He says. Martin's hand finds his free one and holds tight.
'Happy birthday, Tim.' He echoes.