Chapter Text
"I see…" The fog was parting. Martin blinked, his eyes adjusting. He smiled and breathed a sigh of relief. "I see you, Jon. I see you."
"Martin," Jon said, his voice full of the same relief. He smiled back. Martin threw his arms around him as he began to sob.
"I… I was on my own. I was all on my own."
"Not anymore," Jon told him, breaking their embrace just a bit too soon, taking Martin's hand. "Come on. Let's go home."
"How?"
"Don't worry. I know the way."
Martin had been replaying that conversation in his head since they left the Lonely. The two hadn't talked much since; they were mutually silent as they made their way to Daisy's safehouse.
"Come on. Let's go home."
He found himself wondering what home was. It sure wasn't London; not after… all of that. It couldn't be the safehouse, either, although, they hadn't even arrived yet, so how could he be so sure?
Something inside of him told him to cut it out with the optimism.
They had been holding hands since they left London. And now, approaching the safehouse, they still were. With his free hand, Jon reached into his pocket, retrieving the key. He looked up at Martin, as if asking permission to let go of his hand. Martin nodded, then followed him to the door. Jon fumbled with the key for a moment before finally letting them both in.
They stand in front of the door for a long, horribly silent moment.
"Well," Jon finally spoke. "Here we are, I suppose."
“I-I suppose,” Martin echoed with a soft chuckle. “It’s… cozy! Well. Would be without all of the dust.”
Jon stepped further in, taking a look around. “Surely there’s a duster somewhere.”
Martin followed, closing the door behind him, unwilling to find out what would happen if he stayed too far away from Jon for too long.
The safehouse itself was rather small; Martin supposed it could be classified as a cottage, but he wasn’t entirely sure. It was a cute word, though, so he called it that. He followed Jon as he wandered through the house, feeling a bit silly, but not knowing what else to do with himself.
“Nothing hurts here. It’s just quiet. Even the fear is gentle here.” The fog was so cold that it had almost felt as warm and comforting as a real embrace. At least now, with no one to cross paths with, nothing horrible could happen to him, or to them. This was for the greater good.
“This isn’t right. This isn’t you,” Jon pleaded foolishly. This was all he was, all he ever had been, all he ever would be. It was a wonder that no one else had figured that out yet.
“It is, though. I really loved you, you know?” He supposed that was his first mistake; loving someone who would not— could not—love him back. Perhaps it was not Jon who was the fool.
By the time Jon stopped walking, Martin had zoned out so badly that he nearly ran right into him. Jon was standing at the doorway of one of the rooms, which, Martin realized, was the only bedroom there. And then, he realized, with a start, that there was only one bed. Of course.
“Ah.”
“You can take it,” Jon said almost immediately, as if he hadn’t given much thought to it. “I can, uh… I can take the sofa.”
“What? No! You—that’s…” Martin paused, taking a moment to figure out what he wanted to say. “We can, um… share it. If—if you, don’t… mind, that is?”
“Do you?”
“No! No, no, I—I don’t. I—would prefer, if we… did.”
He began mentally scolding himself for saying such a weird thing, but stopped when Jon walked into the room and began to set his bags on the floor. Which reminded Martin that he was carrying his own, so, he followed Jon inside and did the same.
As soon as the last bag touched the floor, this entire situation hit him all at once.
The Lonely. He was in the Lonely, just then; he had been in the very culmination and manifestation of everything he feared all at once. He had been alone, so completely and utterly alone, just as he feared he would be; no one had cared about him, no one had seen him, no one had loved him in the Lonely, as it had always been, and as, he thought, it always would be. It was cold, it was so cold, but the cold was so inviting; it was a better suffering than the suffering he had endured his entire life. So he embraced it—no, that wasn’t right; he let it embrace him. It felt as though he were a puzzle piece, a faded, pastel puzzle piece, fitting into the empty space surrounded by the foggy pieces. It felt right, he thought; a snug fit. This was where he belonged, and nobody saw that; nobody except Peter, it seemed. But it was wrong, wasn’t it? Martin—as hard as it was to admit this to himself—did not deserve that. Nobody saw that; nobody except Jon, it seemed. Jon came for him; he saved Martin.
When Martin finally saw Jon through the fog, he had realized, then, just how cold he was. It was unbearable. How had he been sitting in the cold like that? And for how long? He had stepped away from the fog’s cold, bitter embrace and stepped into Jon’s warm, loving embrace, feeling, all at once, the culmination of years worth of loving—loving that Martin knew, somehow, was finally reciprocated. Jon cared about him, saw him, loved him, in the Lonely. He had picked up the faded pastel puzzle piece from its mismatched foggy surrounding and placed it back where it belonged.
I see you, Jon.
Martin began to cry right there, standing in the middle of the safehouse’s bedroom.
“Martin!” Jon gasped softly, rushing over to him. “Martin, are you alright?”
“I—I’m… I don’t—know, I…” Martin tried to explain between sobs, eventually giving up and throwing his arms around Jon.
Jon hugged him back. “I know. You’re safe, now, Martin. You’re not in… there, anymore.”
“I k—know, I know-I, I just. It’s all… It’s all, so... much? The Lonely—a-and Peter, and… and you… you came for me. I… Thank you, Jon.”
“Of course I came for you,” Jon said, hugging him tighter. “I couldn’t lose you.”
“I’m, I’m sorry.”
“Martin. You have nothing to apologize for.”
The sun had long since set, and Martin was exhausted. He had already been exhausted, of course, from this entire ordeal, but he hadn’t gotten a chance to really rest.
It didn’t seem he was going to get a chance, either.
He was laying on his back, staring at the ceiling, as he had been for hours at this point. Jon was doing the same exact thing. Occasionally, one of them would glance at the other, preparing to say something, but they never broke the suffocating silence. Martin did not know what either of them expected.
It was all a little silly.
Of course. Of course this situation would only happen after the both of them had been dragged through hell and back. At first, he thought it wasn’t fair. It still wasn’t, but it just made sense, now. Nothing comes easy when you work at The Magnus Institute. Nothing. No one gets to miss out on the traumatizing supernatural happenings.
Beside him, Jon shifted. Martin suddenly felt watched.
“Martin. I…” He sighed, then stayed silent, as if trying to figure out what he wanted to say.
“You don’t have to say anything, Jon. At least, not yet.”
“I want to, I… I just… have so much to say.”
Martin looked at him, giving him a small smile—the smile he always gave someone when he wasn’t entirely sure if he could actually help them. “We have time, now. We don’t have to get it all out right away. Besides, we’re both exhausted; won’t do us any good.”
Jon returned the smile. “No, I… suppose it wouldn’t.”
He held out his arms, inviting Jon to move closer; an invitation which Jon quickly took. Soon, Jon had his face pressed against Martin’s chest, while Martin rested his chin on Jon’s head. It was warm. Martin almost shed a tear at how comfortingly domestic this was.
Jon had fallen asleep very quickly. Martin was unsure how long it took, exactly, but Jon had fallen asleep before he did.
“I love you, Jon,” Martin whispered into the darkness, keeping his voice low, as if he were afraid that the statement would break something.
And then, finally, he drifted into sleep.
It was cold. It was so cold. The fog was so dense, he couldn’t even see his own hands in front of him. His hands. Hands, he was holding someone’s hand, just a few moments ago, he swore he was. When had they let go? Did they leave him? Who was it, again? It was…
Jon?
Jon.
Jon!
He realized, in a panic, where he was. Where did Jon go? Why had he left?
Martin began to run, even though he could not see where he was going, calling out for Jon. He had almost tripped over his own feet a few times, but he did not let it stop him. He had to find Jon.
Why did he let go?
Why did he leave?
Something behind Martin grabbed his hand, and he breathed a sigh of relief, at first. When he turned to greet Jon, however, he realized there was no one there. The fog itself had grabbed his hand, somehow, and was pulling him deeper into it.
This was where he belonged, right? Perhaps Jon had realized that. Was that why he left? It must have been. Jon realized that Martin was much better off in the Lonely, than out there with him, where Jon would inevitably get hurt because of Martin, or where Martin would inevitably get hurt because of Jon.
Yes, that must have been it. This was where Martin belonged. It always had been, and it always would be.
He closed his eyes and let the Lonely drag him deeper, deeper, and deeper, and deeper.
Martin woke with a start, forgetting where he was for a moment.
It was a nightmare.
He was safe, he was okay. This was not the Lonely. Jon was still there, he hadn’t left him in the fog.
Breathing a sigh of relief, he attempted to hug the still sleeping Jon tighter, except…
There was nobody there.