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Martin knows the night is going to be difficult. What he doesn’t know is the possible magnitude of it and the uncertainty is really gnawing at him. It’s in his nature – or his habit – to always try and make everything right, but what can you do when a man you love accidentally brings about the literal apocalypse?
So, Martin makes tea. The tea itself is not the best, but he puts a little honey in it, and, actually, he’s a firm believer in the idea that if you make something with enough love, it will be okay. And god knows the cup currently in his grip is filled to the brim with love.
He’s not sure if Jon will drink it at all. He has spent most of the day sitting in one place, staring into space. Martin didn’t try to talk, just sat next to him and held his hand, rubbing his thumb in comforting circles. Jon had leaned on him after a while and Martin could feel him shaking with unsteady breaths and quiet sobs. It broke his heart, truly, knowing there was nothing he could do to fix it, not in that moment, at least. He opened his arms and let Jon settle there with his face hidden in his chest, breathing slowly with him and murmuring nonsense until he felt Jon relax a bit.
When Martin comes into the bedroom, Jon is curled up on his side on the bed, his back turned to the door. Martin makes his way over to the nightstand, stepping as quietly as possible, and sets the mug there. As he does, Jon stirs gently and opens his eyes, looking up at him.
“Did I wake you?” Martin asks, half-whispering, even though he doesn’t need to. Somehow, talking doesn’t feel right after a day filled mostly with heavy silence.
“No, no, don’t worry. Couldn’t sleep anyway,” Jon replies. He pushes himself to sit up and leans against the bedframe. Takes the cup from the nightstand and smiles softly. “Thank you, Martin.”
Sometimes, the adoration and reverence in Jon’s voice still nearly knocks Martin out. There is always the initial shock, the sudden realisation that Jon’s voice, so filled with love, is directed at him, like he’s imagined countless times in the past few years. There is a little voice protesting all this at the back of his mind, but it’s getting weaker by the hour. Each “I love you” from Jon shrinks it down and muffles its shrieking, and even though Martin isn’t sure if the voice can be killed, it’s enough for now. The warm feeling that starts in his chest and travels up to his cheeks and down his arms and fingers, tingling, that’s way stronger.
“How are you feeling?” He asks as he settles down on the other side of the bed.
Jon sighs and takes the cup to his lips, takes a sip, doesn’t reply. He doesn’t bring the cup down from his lips immediately, and his eyes are unfocused, staring into space. Martin knows he’s thinking of a way to put it all into words. Maybe he’s trying to find a way to phrase it, turn it around and make it all less horrifying than it is, to protect him.
“You can tell me anything,” Martin adds quickly, then. “I can handle it, Jon, whatever it is.”
Jon chuckles and there is an awful, sad quality to it. Martin decides he never wants to hear it again.
“I know you think you can,” he replies. Martin wants to protest his choice of words, but doesn’t get to, as Jon continues, “And I know you would try, for me. But I don’t want to burden you like that.”
“Jon, you c–”
“I know,” Jon cuts him off. “But I don’t think I can handle it.”
Martin closes his mouth and puts down the hand he’s lifted on instinct, index finger pointed in an accusatory way. He hasn’t thought… of that. He feels silly and ashamed at the same time. It’s so strong apparently that Jon picks up on it and furrows his brows.
“Don’t be,” he says quickly. “How could you know? You’re not the vibe radar in this house.”
It’s not funny but it’s an attempt and Martin gives him a smile. He shuffles closer on the bed and gets under covers. Immediately, Jon puts down the mug and Martin knows he’ll never finish his tea. Might be that as well. As soon as Jon’s settled in his arms, head tucked under his chin, and his hands wrapped around his middle, Martin stops caring about anything else in the world.
“What can I do, then?” Martin murmurs into Jon’s hair. “What do you need, Jon?”
“Just… a distraction. I think.”
“Huh. What kind of distraction?”
“Tell me a story?”
That actually surprises Martin. There is genuine earnest and hope in Jon’s voice. But, alas, he’s never thought of himself as a storyteller and he says as much.
“It’s always, uh, been mainly poetry, you know?” He tries. It’s not that he can’t. He can talk alright. It’s just that he’s worried to disappoint. “Besides, what would the story be even about?”
“Don’t know,” Jon replies. “Happier times.”
“Oh? Like?”
“Like…” Jon pauses. Martin can see him fidget, pick at the tassels of the blanket. “Like if we met under normal circumstances. If we could have this, just without any… supernatural turbulence.”
“You think about these things?” Martin asks quietly.
Jon has been so affectionate with him since they made it out of the Lonely, has developed the habit of always finding a way to get into Martin’s arms, to hold his hand, just touch him, feel him close, anywhere, at all times possible. Most of the time they’re so entangled it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. It’s a comfort thing for them both. He’s been so generous with affirmations of his love, too, so it’s silly, really, that Martin is surprised.
“Of course,” Jon replies, and his voice is serious.
“Well, what do you think about, then?”
If Jon knows what he’s doing, he says nothing of it. Besides, Martin is genuinely curious.
“I think about our flat a lot,” Jon begins and the fidgeting stops. “Together, we’d be able to afford something nicer, with a garden maybe, so our cat could run in and out as she pleases.”
“We have a cat?”
“Of course we have a cat,” Jon says, a bit offended, but the smile is audible in his voice. “She’d be a little black cat and she’d have a collar with a bell on it and we’d love her. You’d love her, Martin.”
He’s not describing the scene in much detail, not vividly by any standard, but Martin can picture it exactly. It’s so clear in his mind, almost like it’s his own fantasy, his own little make-believe world.
“I could learn to love her, yeah,” he agrees gently. He craves and yearns for more of scraps and pieces of this alternative reality where they are boring and not troubled, so mundanely happy. “What else?”
“We’d decorate it together. Bit by bit. I don’t know where we’d work in this timeline, but I doubt we’d be millionaires. Wouldn’t want that anyway. So we’d go to flea markets and used furniture shops and pick and match whatever we’d find nice. I wouldn’t mind that our couch would be a pile of pillows for a few months. It’s much more fun that way and we could make pillow forts…”
“Pillow forts?!”
“Why not?” Jon chuckles. “I like them. You can hide away from the world. It’s my pretend world and I say there are no rules anymore. Want to make a pillow fort even though you’re approaching thirty? Why not. Ride that merry-go-round if you want!”
The odd addition doesn’t go over Martin’s head but he’s too focused on the bright image of Jon covered by blankets that have fallen over his head as he tried to construct a fort, laughing at himself, their cat snuffing around, trying to see what’s happening. There is soft afternoon sun coming through the window and the air is warm.
“And I know it’s silly to fantasise about things like that, but I think about going to the shops with you. I know it’s not realistic that we’d always go together, probably grow sick of it faster than I think, but I like to imagine that we do. I like to imagine all the mundane things with you, really. Even washing the dishes.”
“And you hate washing the dishes.”
“Well, yeah. But I’d like to, with you.”
“Sure,” Martin says and grins. “You can do that here, still. You’re very welcome to, actually, I’ll just sit down and…”
“Right, right, okay,” Jon laughs. “We could have a dishwasher.”
“But more than anything I dream of kissing you goodnight for the rest of my life. Then kissing you again when you when you wake up. You’re so adorable in the morning, Martin. Like a grumpy kitten. Before you say anything, I don’t think you’re grumpy, it’s just how you look like.”
Martin gets it, suddenly. Sees himself on his side, covers tucked underneath his chin, eyes opening slowly, closing again, feels the kiss land on his nose, even though Jon hasn’t moved an inch. Then the picture changes, it’s him, a setting he’s never seen before, sat on a big armchair, reading. He looks older, and he looks happy. Healthy. Content. What catches his attention is a wedding band on his finger. Then the scene is gone, and he sees both of them slow dancing, somewhere in public, people swirling around them. It’s snowing and it looks like it’s cold but doesn’t feel cold. Martin remembers how much Jon hates being cold.
And then it clicks. Jon is saying something, but Martin has zoned out quite a while ago, it seems. He clears his throat to get Jon’s attention, and when that fails, he gently taps his shoulder. Jon pauses and turns in his embrace, looks up at him, completely content.
It’s a weird experience. Martin knows where he is. He knows Jon is still settled in his embrace, can still feel the heat coming off his body, the gentle hand tracing patterns on his chest. At the same time, the image of Jon is hazy and blurry somehow. He doesn’t quite know how to describe it.
“Jon, I think I can see what you’re describing.” He tries it this way.
Jon smiles. “Oh, good. Then maybe I’m the storyteller in this relationship.”
“No, I can See it, Jon,” he says, then, putting more emphasis where needed. There are no words to describe how it feels and he prays Jon will get it.
He does, thankfully. “Oh.”
There is a short silence. Neither of them knows what to say. Martin’s here and now starts coming back into focus.
“How does it feel, then?” Jon asks, curious, hopeful. Martin knows he wouldn’t have to reply if he didn’t want to, but this might be the first positive aspect of Jon’s powers they’ve just discovered. He has to give it a try.
“Like you’re lost in a daydream,” he says. “It feels like I’ve imagined it, like it came from me, but I know it’s yours. Or, like. Didn’t know until I’ve seen myself outside of my own body.”
“Ooh, must feel creepy.”
“I’ve had worse. You make me look really good, though.” He feels like he’s fully back now. Presses a kiss to the top of Jon’s head for good measure.
“That’s just how I see you. You look really good, Martin. You’re beautiful.” It feels like the air around them is buzzing with static, but not of the sinister kind. It’s like the feeling of being slightly tipsy in a beautiful garden on a June evening.
“No, honestly, there was one scene where I was older and wow, Jon, that silver fox? Couldn’t be me!” He’s joking, teasing, when another detail pops back into head, full HD, screaming. “And oh. I had a wedding ring on my finger?”
“Is that weird? Where else would you have it?” Jon sounds genuinely puzzled.
Martin takes in a shaky breath. Doesn’t fully grasp why this makes his stomach twist into a knot. “You’d wanna marry me?”
“That surprises you?”
“Jonathan Sims, are you saying you’d propose to me if the world didn't end?”
Silence. Jon is thinking. He lets out a small tsk before he speaks. “No, I think I’m proposing to you regardless.”
To that, Martin doesn’t have a reply. He thinks he can feel his body stiffen a bit and Jon turns around, worried. He wriggles a bit and sits so now he’s facing Martin fully.
“You’re…?”
“Proposing to you, yes.”
“Right n…”
“Right now, yes.”
Martin stares at him, surprised, eyes probably huge like two saucers. Jon stares back, something playful in his gaze, something fond, something new, and something that’s actually always been there. Then he jumps and Martin jumps, too.
“Ah, fuck, I don’t even have a ring.”
“I think you’re fine on that front, heh, it’s not like it’s…”
“Martin,” Jon says, serious note in his tone, and his face shows a mixture of actual, genuine concern and playfulness. “You don’t think this is real? You don’t believe I’m proposing to you right now, you silly, silly man? Well then!”
Last thing Martin registers is the spark of mischief in Jon’s eyes and then he’s out of his embrace and pulling him up to a sitting position on the side of the bed. Jon himself kneels between his legs, not on one knee, proper, but close, intimate, on both, like it’s communion. One of his hands rest on Martin’s thigh, the other finds Martin’s left hand, fingers pressing gently to his ring finger.
Martin has never thought Jon would be one for such dramatics. A new thing each day, he guesses.
“I meant all that I’ve just said before,” Jon starts, and his face turns serious. There is so much love there, the sheer intensity of Jon’s gaze makes Martin want to look away. It’s different from his Archivist gaze, of course, as different as day and night, yet here and now, Martin thinks this is the one he can’t handle. He forces himself to look back, focuses on Jon’s eyes, his soft smile, and the gentle comforting pressure of his hand on his own.
“Jon, the world…”
“I know, Martin,” Jon says, and for a second, there is sharpness in his voice, and it cuts through the air like a knife, compared to the softness seconds ago. It’s quickly gone. “I know. I think we are allowed one soft fantasy, all things considered.”
“Right,” Martin replies and smiles. “You’re right.”
“So,” Jon says and takes a deep breath. Martin thinks he might be a little stressed, actually. He gives Jon’s hand a comforting squeeze and watches him smile. “Martin Blackwood, you are the most exceptional person I have met in my life. You are strong and resilient, and you can kick some serious ass if need be. But most importantly, you stay kind and loving through and through. You’ve done so much for me, and, Martin, one day I hope I’ll be able to… To… I hope I can make you feel as safe and as loved as you make me feel. I love you. I love you so much. Please, marry me.”
A single tear makes its way down Jon’s cheek, and when Martin brings up his free hand to wipe it away, Jon leans into his touch like a cat. Martin strokes his cheek once, twice, then takes his hand away and pulls Jon up by his hands, until he’s seated on Martin’s lap, knees on both sides of his thighs. He leans in close, their foreheads touching, and he closes his eyes, just breathing in, breathing out together. Jon doesn’t rush him.
Before Martin answers, he leans in and kisses Jon sweetly. It’s a long, slow kiss, full of love and adoration. When they break away, almost breathless, he quickly says, “Let’s stay just like this. Don’t open your eyes. This is ours, Jon. This moment belongs to us alone.” He pauses for a second, listens for anything on Jon’s part, but he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t move. His hands are firm on Martin’s back, rubbing small comforting circles there.
“Of course I’ll marry you,” Martin whispers and it’s holy. His voice is sweet like honey, dripping with adoration. There’s something new entirely, too. Martin can be firm. He can adhere to what he’s decided. But this soft confidence in his voice has never surfaced before. Somehow, he knows Jon can feel these aren’t just words, that he means it, that he believes it will be their right and privilege, and his Beholding powers have nothing to do with how he acquired that knowledge. He breathes in deeply, feels Jon follow suit. They exhale together and Jon leans in to steal a kiss, eyes still closed, Martin just knows this. They will be okay.