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Jon knows he’s always had issues around alcohol. From realizing at eighteen that getting a bit drunk loosens the ever present knot in his stomach to getting close enough to outright addiction after university that he quit drinking at the same time as smoking, he’s got ample clear evidence that he can’t interact with alcohol like other people, not to mention that he’s always been a lot more susceptible to smaller amounts than others. He knows exactly why he shouldn’t drink. However, that also means he also knows exactly why he enjoys it.
He sits on the kitchen floor with his back against the wall, a half-empty bottle of Scotch resting on his knee. It’s sort-of night; there’s less light coming in through the curtain than usual and Martin’s asleep. He’s having trouble identifying anything he’s feeling beyond “drunk,” but that’s sort of the point. He takes another sip. “Very drunk,” maybe.
He puts the bottle down beside him and surveys his forearms. Should he have another go at hurting himself? It hasn’t really worked the previous times he’s tried, all wounds heal as soon as they’ve been made, but the pain still usually offers release. He doesn’t think he’s up to it right now, though. He can’t tell if that’s a good thing. He gnaws at his lip a bit, but doesn’t feel it.
There are some sounds from the direction of the bedroom, and Jon feels his heart beat pick up. He really doesn’t want Martin to find him in this state, he’s too drunk to have a conversation about why he’s gotten this drunk. He tries to slide his back up the wall and stand, but everything feels heavy and off and he comes right back down to the ground. Staying still, he tries to listen for any more sounds, and on not hearing anything decides he probably imagined it. He closes his eyes, picks up the bottle again, and takes a few more sips, almost not noticing when the overhead light flicks on above him.
“Jon? What are you doing alone in the dark in here… oh no.” Martin stands in the doorway, looking down at his visibly frightened and disoriented partner huddled on the floor. He sees the Scotch bottle and remembers it had been unopened the last time he’d seen it. He hasn’t seen Jon drink before, he didn’t even drink from the wine he politely accepted at his birthday party a few years ago. This can’t be good. “Are you… alright?”
“I’m… I’m fine, yes.” He puts the bottle down out of sight beside him and tries to stand up, but Martin can see that isn’t going to end well and comes forward to grab him as he stumbles.
“Hey, no need to stand, we can stay down here,” Martin assures, bringing both gently to the ground. Jon’s head comes to rest on Martin’s chest and Martin’s hand goes to the back of Jon’s neck out of habit. “Talk to me, what’s going on? I’ve never seen you drink.”
Not looking up, Jon mumbles into Martin’s shirt, “Haven’t in about seven years.”
Oh no. “So why are you now?”
He sighs and shifts his position slightly, twisting his head outward. “‘M coping. Don’t wanna talk about it right now, very not sober. Please don’t be cross.”
Martin’s heart aches and he presses a kiss to Jon’s head. “I’m not going to be cross, but, and I feel like this goes without saying, breaking sobriety and drinking yourself into a stupor isn’t a good coping mechanism.”
“Why not? Feels good. Feels really good, actually.” He breaks off into a fit of little giggles that Martin feels are disconcertingly out of place for a man mid-self destruction. “And it’s not like I can die or anything, I’ve tried it enough to know.” Pause. “I shouldn’t’ve said that last part.”
Martin feels a panic button being pressed inside him and pushes Jon up by the shoulders, making him sit upright. “What do you mean you’ve tried it enough?”
Jon pointedly avoids eye contact more than he usually does. “Nothing, nothing, I mean--nothing. I’m drunk and saying whatever, can we do this later?”
Sometimes it feels unfair that Jon can make Martin give answers, even accidentally, to any question, but Jon will duck and dive around anything Martin asks him. “Jon, have you been trying to hurt yourself?”
“Please, I can’t right now--”
“I’m not angry, and I won’t be angry, I promise, whatever the answer is. If you’re really struggling, I don’t want to make it any harder. Have you been trying to hurt yourself?”
Jon grabs and drinks from the bottle, and Martin takes several deep breaths, counts to ten, and tells himself that if he snatches it away he’ll ruin his chance of getting the truth. Jon puts it down again and looks at the floor. “Not a lot of ‘trying’ about it.”
“Fuck.” Martin’s hands tighten around Jon’s shoulders.
“You’re upset, I’m sorry.”
“I’m not upset--okay, I am upset, but not at you, I’m upset for you.” More deep breaths. “Can you, can you explain?”
Jon rubs the flat of his hands against his eyes and keeps them there. Under his breath, he says, “I’ve got way too much liquor in me for this,” and then, louder, “Can I have some water?”
"Of course, of course." Martin releases his death grip, springs up, and fetches a glass of tap water. Jon looks like he's about to be sick with nerves by the time he brings it back over and sits down again.
"Thank you." He sips at the glass. Continuing to look into it, he starts speaking again, voice anxious but a tad unaffected, like he’s not thinking about what he says. "A few times when you've been asleep, I've gotten a knife and, and, uh, I've slit my wrists. It doesn’t do anything really, it hurts and I bleed a lot for a few seconds, but then it heals up and I'm just left a bit light headed. The first time I did it, I was, I was legitimately trying to, uh, to die. Wrote a letter to you and everything. Thought I'd see if I could bleed faster than I could heal. I couldn't, obviously. After that it's just been, y'know, self harm with a bit of extra kick."
Martin is trying really hard not to cry. He can be emotional when he's got enough information. "And, and when was the last time?"
"Two, I guess, days ago."
Martin can't hold back anymore and wraps Jon up in his arms, squeezing him and kissing anywhere he can reach, murmuring breathy and rushed I love yous between the frantic kisses. The embrace also provides adequate cover for his now streaming eyes.
Some minutes pass, and Martin pulls away. Jon toys with the hem of his shirt. “What are you gonna do with me now?”
Martin’s trying to figure out exactly that. He dabs as his face with the cuff of his sleeve. “I knew, I knew you weren’t doing well before, and I’ve been trying to gently tug you back on track, but this--?”
“I shouldn't’ve said.”
“No.” Martin puts his hand on Jon’s jaw. “If it’s happening, if you’re, if you’re actively suicidal, I need to know.”
Jon tenses at the descriptor, but doesn’t refute. “Can we be done now? My head’s not right.”
“Just a minute.” Martin tries to think of any advice he’s read on what to do when a loved one’s self harming but can only think of currently impossible options. “I’m not going to try and force you to stop, that wouldn’t, that doesn’t work, but please, when you next want to do something like that, or like this--” he gestures vaguely to Jon and the bottle “--just tell me and I’ll help you get through it. If I’m asleep and you can’t wake me, then just, just, keep talking and busy until I’m up. I don’t want you to hurt on your own.” Looking into Jon’s face, he’s not sure how much of that Jon is comprehending. He leans in and hugs him tight again, going for a physical representation of what he means.
“Thank you,” comes Jon’s stilted reply after a few seconds. He drops his head onto Martin's shoulder and presses himself into the embrace.
Martin waits until he feels like Jon’s sufficiently relaxed and pulls back. “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep?”
“I don’t kn--I don’t think so. I should still, um, I think I want to lay down.” He runs a hand over his face. “Think I overdid it a bit.”
Under other circumstances Martin might reply with a snappy You think? but this really isn’t the right time. “Come on, let's get you to bed.” He decides to forgo helping Jon walk and goes straight for the bridal carry, Jon’s body feeling like cooked spaghetti in his arms. Some seconds later, they’re laying down in bed facing each other, Martin watching as Jon rubs his face against the pillow as if he’s never felt it before.
He takes Jon’s hand and kisses his fingers. “I have loved you, I love you now, and I will keep loving you. Nothing will stop me. Even when you think no one should, I will love you. You’re in a lot of pain right now and I want to help. Please let me.”
“I don’t think I want help a lot of the time.”
“Then because I want to give it.” Another few kisses. “I’ll go over all this with you in the morning--or, well, not morning exactly but you know what I mean--because I know you’re not with it right now, but I want to make sure you know that I love you before I have a chance to go to sleep. I like you being happy and alive.”
Jon nods and closes his eyes in a way that could be in understanding or weariness.
Martin puts a kiss to Jon’s forehead and snuggles close, closing his own eyes for a few hours of quiet in the closest thing they have to sleeping til sunrise.