Work Text:
Martin loves like breathing. In and out. It’s reflexive, intuitive, compulsory. He draws it in, holds it deep beneath his ribs, then pushes it back out into the world. He loves like a man drowning, sucking down lungfuls of water in the desperate hope for oxygen, for salvation. He finds none, but still he faithfully forces it all back out into the world and tries again. And again. And again.
In and out.
Sometimes he remembers what the open air felt like. Most days he can’t believe there could be anything more than the burning weight of water in his lungs. So he takes it in, and forces it out, again. And again. And again.
In and out.
When there is no one to focus that love upon, no one to step up and receive it, he sends it out in other ways. In kind words, friendly greetings. In invitations and quiet support and cups of tea. He himself is a cup, filled to the brim and overflowing, spilling over into the world at large. No one could stop it, if there were ever anyone who cared to try. It is the natural function of Martin Blackwood, to love and love and love. Again, and again, and again.
In and out.
Again, and again, and again. No matter how forced, how weak, how shallow. A shuddering breath, taken in and let out. Again and again and again.
In…
And again.
...out.
And again.
In....
And again.
...out.
To some it would seem foolish; to exercise a muscle past the point of usefulness, to keep a heart beating well after the body is cold. Some would call it a tragedy, and they would weep distantly for a heart so Lonely. But it’s been said that drowning is quite peaceful in the end. After the resignation sets in and the panics ebbs away, there is a quiet, encompassing serenity.
In.
Once the struggling stops, the limbs grow still.
Out.
The lungs forget the sweetness of the air above.
In.
And there’s nothing left.
Out.
Again.
Out.
And again.
Out.
And again.
Out.