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The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.
Jon kisses him sometimes.
They never go further than that, which is fine by Martin. He still touches Jon a little hesitantly - too aware of his own body to ever really relax. He doesn’t want to cross the imaginary line inside his brain that tells him the second he passes it, Jon won’t want him. That he’ll just up and leave, and Martin will once again be alone.
Jon sits him down, two days after The Lonely, and explains everything. He speaks in great lengths about the guilt and the obsession and regret. He speaks about the insatiable hunger, and Martin laces their fingers together. Jon hesitates slightly but Martin’s smile is gentle, encouraging. He doesn’t let go as Jon speaks about Sasha and Tim and Georgie and Melanie. He speaks about all the people he’s lost; physically or otherwise. He speaks briefly about Daisy, and his eyes soften slightly at the corners as he recalls those last moments with her and Basira.
He tells Martin how afraid he is, and Martin kisses him quiet.
Jon breathes in sharply, and Martin pulls away instantly, apologies falling from his lips before theirs even part.
But he’s laughing, and Martin smiles a little awkwardly. “I wasn’t expecting that,” Jon admits eventually, eyebrows furrowed, “did Basira not tell you?”
“Basira tells me everything and nothing,” says Martin with a sigh, “what exactly are you referring to?”
Jon explains, and Martin listens before asking a handful of questions, and Jon’s a little surprised to find himself answering them. “You’re not - this isn’t weird for you?” he asks eventually, and Martin frowns at him.
“Do you really think that changes things, Jon?”
“I guess not,” and this time their kisses are softer, slower.
Martin’s a little cautious after that though, despite what he’d said to Jon. He doesn’t want to push, or make the other man think he wants or needs anything more. He’ll leave his hands swinging by his side when they’re walking together - giving Jon the chance to reach out and grasp it with his own. He always sits on the double sofa, leaving ample room for Jon to collapse on the cushion next to him if he wants to; sometimes they end up tangled together, giggling uncharacteristically like children as Martin whispers stories about everything they’ve left behind.
Martin kisses him on the cheek or the forehead or the nose - and Jon pulls faces and rolls his eyes, and mutters in faux annoyance. There’s something in his eyes that reassures Martin they’re okay. It takes a little too long for him to realize it’s love.
They don’t say the words; parts of both of them just Know. Parts of Martin that The Lonely could never touch; and parts of Jon that The Beholding dare not.
Martin kisses him of his own accord a few times. A little bashfully, before Scottland. Jon sighs into his mouth and Martin almost weeps with joy. The knots in his stomach slowly begin to unwind, and he thinks they’re going to be alright.
The first time Jon kisses him, Martin freezes in surprise. He doesn’t recall the moment, not in any particular detail. There’s no fireworks or rainbows or shooting stars. Nobody breaks into song, and the grip that The Lonely still has upon him doesn’t shatter. He just remembers sitting at the wooden table in their little kitchen, scribbling furiously into one of his little notebooks. Poetry, probably. A letter, maybe. He remembers Jon wrapping his arms around his shoulders, leaning into his ear. He’d whispered something, and Martin’s body had vibrated with a burst of easy laughter. Jon had shifted, gently repositioning Martin’s face and pressing their lips together.
Jon’s lips were soft and eager, but Martin had moved almost on instinct to pull away before Jon had cupped his face and kissed him again. Both were more than a little breathless when they finally drew apart. “Was that okay?” Martin had asked, and Jon had only raised an eyebrow at him.
There are more conversations after that, and the way that Jon describes his sexuality fills Martin with ease. It’s all matter of fact and hypotheticals, but the trust and familiarity in the conversation fuel him.
He reaches for Jon’s hands more readily from then.
A week before the world ends, they’re on the run. Which is more figurative than anything, because really they’re only lounging around hotels, bored out of their minds, but together. Jon’s taken to reading fiction to try to satiate the hunger, and Martin curls up next to him with his notepads and poetry books.
Jon reads over his shoulder sometimes, frowns usually etched onto his unusually pale face. To Martin’s surprise, Jon has a lot of opinions about poetry, and almost all of them aren’t obnoxious. Almost all of them.
He’d imagined stripping away Jon’s layers a thousand and one times, but even his best daydreams didn’t feel like this. Jon speaks at great lengths about a lot of things; Cats. Storms. Chocolate. He even has opinions on scissors and notepads and batteries. Martin’s endlessly fascinated by everything he says, and in a surprise to him, Jon seems to care about his opinions too.
He voices this surprise out loud, and Jon once again raises his eyebrow at him. “You’re insufferable,” he grumbles, and Martin grins toothily back.
The night before they leave for Daisy’s safehouse, Martin’s reading one of his poetry books when he bursts into a fit of giggles. Jon tugs him closer, his eyes still fixated on his own paperback, but the giggles only increase. He eventually tugs the book out of Martin’s hands and his eyes drink in the ink on paper.
“The night has a thousand eyes, and the day but one” he reads slowly, and Martin hums in amused delight. Jon speaks each word carefully, his voice taking on the quality of statement recording; there’s something dreamy, ethereal about it. Like he’s barely holding back laughter himself. Martin’s long memorized the words of this particular verse, and so he instead drinks in Jon’s voice as it washes over him. The imagery of this particular piece never felt more real to him.
When he finishes, they sit in silence for longer than is probably necessary before Jon finally speaks again. “I know more things than I care to know,” his voice is even, steady, “but knowing that you love me, that you’re still here despite everything I am, it’s - “
Martin doesn’t let him finish, whispering an “I know, Jon,” into his neck, and for now, Jon’s fine with The Beholding not knowing how that sentence ends.
The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.