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The world has changed. Martin isn’t blind, he can see it. He can see that they’re all alone again, he feels the all too familiar chill of the Lonely drip slowly down his spine. He can see the eyes in the sky, where they’ve replaced the sun and the moon and the stars and anything that made the sky beautiful instead of vast and terrifying, he feels them looking down on him, observing his every move. He’s seen the stragglers walking along on displaced limbs, like puppets being painfully pulled along, he can feel the webs trying to tug him into place at times, the crawl of the occasional spider on his body as he tries to sleep. He’s not stupid, he knows that things have changed, he knows that everything’s taken a sharp turn for the worst despite all of their efforts. Despite all of Jon’s efforts.
He can also see the effect all this has had on Jon, the way the weight of his gaze hardly ever leaves Martin now, even when they’re in different rooms, the way the bags under his eyes have only darkened, the way he doesn’t seem as hungry as he once did despite them definitely not eating as often, the way he looks more tired and weary every day, the way the look in his eyes whenever his gaze crosses Martin’s has quickly changed from love to fear to finally some type of sadness mixed with dread that Martin hasn’t yet been able to quite pin down.
And, well, Martin’s not going to lie to himself and pretend there’s anything he can do to change their situation, or even help Jon really, not in a way that matters. But, he can do his best to help them forget about everything for a few minutes and feel normal again, make this entire situation just a little more livable.
Martin looks through the kitchen window, trying to see clearly beyond the odd pattern of dirtiness on it and see the Scottish countryside. He doesn’t manage to see much beyond the empty fields - the animals that were once common aren’t there anymore, and if they are, they’re on the ground, hopefully dead; Martin tries not to think about them much - and the bright midday sun in the sky. He eventually manages to rip his eyes from the window, blinking away the spots in his vision from staring at the sun, and looks around the kitchen for something to do, unable to stay still and not do anything any longer.
He spots some dirty dishes on the counter, a few plates and the two cups they have left. It’s not particularly productive - they have much bigger issues, like the eyes in the sky and the suffering the Beholding imposes on Jon - but cleaning them is something to do at least. He turns on the tap, blinking when it starts immediately, the crystal clear water hitting the bottom of the sink with a metallic sound. Martin’s pretty sure the sink didn’t work anymore, but he supposes the pipes must just be old and finicky.
Cleaning the plates doesn’t take long, Martin barely remembers even picking them up before he’s putting them in the cupboard, right next to an old box of tea. It’s odd, he thought they’d ran out of tea a few days ago. He opens it carefully, not willing to immediately trust something as suspicious as this in their current circumstances, but it’s just a regular box of tea, containing one lone teabag. Martin probably just thought they’d ran out because it’s not enough to make tea for both of them. That must be it. Well, at this point, there’s really no point in keeping only one teabag. Besides, Jon deserves it, he’s under much more stress than Martin is, with the weight of knowing on his shoulders while Martin’s just sort of… there.
He should make tea for Jon and help everything feel a little bit more normal again. It’s the best thing he can do right now.
Martin plugs in the kettle after filling it up and uses the time it takes the water to heat up to clean the cups. He’s surprised again when, this time, the tap takes a few seconds to turn on. The pipes must just be old and finicky, it’s fine. The kettle conveniently finishes boiling the water right when Martin’s wiping the mug off on his shirt. He takes the teabag gingerly and lets the tea steep. It doesn’t take long, though it’s hard for Martin to tell how much time has passed - Daisy didn’t have the foresight to install a clock in her safe house, and, since the electricity was one of the first things to go, Martin’s phone is long dead. Once the smell starts to permeate the room, sticking to his lips and the back of his throat, Martin decides to bring it to Jon.
He knocks lightly on the doorway leading into the living room where Jon has settled on the couch for the day. “Hey, Jon,” he says tentatively, giving him a small smile when Jon looks over at him with a distant kind of sadness, “I made you tea! There was only one teabag, so I don’t have any but that’s-”
“Martin,” Jon interrupts, and Martin is immediately hit with how tired Jon is. Has he been sleeping enough? Does he still need to sleep? Maybe Martin should start monitoring Jon’s sleep, at least a bit. It won’t help anyone if Jon runs himself into the ground by refusing to sleep. “It’s not tea,” he continues and something in Martin’s mind screeches, refusing to accept it, a headache hitting him so hard that his knees weaken for a few moments.
“No, no, it is,” he insists. He tries to look down at the mug in his hand, but his eyes won’t cooperate, instead stuck on Jon and on the window behind him, with its odd patterns and the bright midday sun in the sky. “I made this.” he says, the desperation in his voice takes him by surprise.
“We ran out of tea the day before the change. You said there wasn’t any at the little village store,” Jon sighs, passing a hand through his tangled hair, “Ergo, this isn’t tea.”
Martin’s about to argue again, deny it when he feels something crawl along his hand, making him drop the mug in surprise. It shatters when it hits the hardwood floor of the safe house. The sound of it resonates through the room, piercing through his headache, and Martin finds he can move his eyes again. As he looks down, he can see hundreds of spiders skittering away, heading to the dark corners of the room.
“I-” Martin stammers, at a loss for words. He made that tea, he remembers doing it all step by step, he even cleaned the cup, “What?”
“I’m sorry, Martin,” he looks up at Jon again, this time voluntarily, and he can see the broken out window behind him. There are no patterns and no midday sun, only a desolate wasteland that was once countryside and the eyes in the sky, watching their every move, “But it doesn’t work like that anymore.”
Martin bites his tongue as questions bubble up in his throat, he’s not sure if they’re his own or not, and Jon’s tone is even more tired than it usually is these days. Instead, he just sits on the couch, close to Jon, but not touching, and tries to make sense of everything again.
Time gets fuzzy - it’s hard to know how many minutes or hours have passed when the eyes in the sky don’t move, and Daisy hadn’t had the foresight to install a clock in her safe house. In time, Martin gets back up, unable to stay still and not do anything any longer. Martin goes about his business, trying to read the few books they have at the safe house, talking about nothing with Jon, making both of them a small meal with what they have left in the cupboards.
Eventually, Martin ends up in the kitchen again. He spots a mug on the counter, next to an unopened box of tea. It’s odd, he thought they’d ran out of tea a few days ago. Maybe Jon picked it up at the village shop?
Well, either way, he’s sure Jon would appreciate some tea. Maybe they can even drink it together, forget about everything for a few minutes and feel normal again, make this entire situation just a little more livable.