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Night has always been Martin's favourite. The peace of it makes it all seem so fragile, the near-silence and starlit skies and sleeping bodies, like he could shoot a bullet into the open air and everything would shatter around him like glass. But to think of the night as fragile or delicate wouldn't be right; the night has always been strong. Stronger than the day, at least. Nighttime is the basis for everything. Light would not exist without darkness, and yet the universe could continue on its cycle of black silence without the light of stars just fine. Night is the natural state of things, and so it is unimaginably powerful.
Nights are often the topic of his poetry, he finds. In Scotland, the days are rainy and dull, and he finds himself holed up in the cabin bored out of his mind. Anything he writes during those days come out uninspired and bland. At least, that's what Jon tells him. At night he can really let loose, let all those pent-up feelings seep out and dissolve into the dark. He's expressed these feelings to Jon on one occasion a few nights back. The answer received was, "You sound like you want to join the Church of the Divine Host," and so he hasn't really brought it up since.
This night in particular is cloudy and starless, and Martin doesn't feel much like writing poetry. So instead he sits by a dead brick fireplace, tapping his foot incessantly and peering at the ash inside. He's so enveloped in his own thoughts that he hardly notices when Jon enters the room and plops down on the sofa opposite Martin's chair. There's a pregnant silence between them, one Martin savours for the moments of quiet they are finally able to experience.
He looks up, then, eyes flicking over to Jon. His long hair has become a bit of a rat's nest lately, but his eye bags have dulled down significantly since their arrival to the cabin. Martin grins. With the amount Jonathan Sims has been sleeping lately, he could create a brand-new rendition of Sleeping Beauty (emphasis on the 'beauty'). But Jon's frowning, and Martin's eyes slide down to see what he's looking at so intently.
It's his hands. They rest in his lap, but shake so badly that Martin can clearly see it even from this distance. He looks back up to Jon's face, and watches Jon gingerly lift a hand up towards his eyes. The hand shakes even worse than before. He instantly drops it back into his lap.
"Jon," Martin murmurs. Jon looks up at him for the first time, and there's an odd expression in his eyes somewhere between frustration and grief. "Jon." Martin gets up from his chair and sits on the sofa, sliding himself towards Jon until their shoulders lean against each other. It's silent for a moment.
"Martin," Jon says. It's hardly a whisper, and his voice shakes under the duress of a single word. His breathing comes in short, ragged gasps.
Martin glances back down at Jon's hands, still trembling harshly. He reaches out. "Can I hold your hands?" he asks softly, his own hand hovering in the air. Jon is still for a moment, but nods, and Martin grasps both hands in his own with a soft smile.
They're cold to the touch but not uncomfortably so; some of that shaking subsides instantly, to Martin's satisfaction. Jon's fingers are long and they wrap around Martin's hand with perfect ease. The sensation makes his heart flutter. From such a short distance, Martin can see so much more than he ever has. The burns on his right hand have left scars that are pinkish and bumpy, and Martin runs his thumb over them gently. On his left hand, he can count the moles, see the folds of his knuckles and the spots where his veins pop out. His nails are longer than Martin's ever seen them - usually they're jagged and bitten raw, the skin around them red and broken. He smiles at the small improvement.
After a few minutes of silence, he speaks again. "Do you... want to talk?" he asks. "Or do you want me to listen, or-"
"No, please," Jon whispers. His voice trembles when he says please. "Just... this is good. I just want to be here with you."
Martin nods. He relishes the calming silence, and the feeling of Jon's hands on his own, and the sound of Jon's slowing breaths. They stay like that for a long while, hand in hand, staring at the dead fireplace together. And when Jon's breathing starts to calm, when he rests his head on Martin's shoulder with a sigh, Martin lets him. There's peace in the soft, deep breaths he now feels from him, and it's comforting
They fall asleep like that. Jon sleeping on Martin's shoulder, snoring softly, and Martin with his head leaned against the couch, staring at the ceiling. Right before he falls asleep, Martin gets that feeling again, like the night sky could shatter into a million pieces at any second, like everything might fall apart. But the sensation is brief, and Jon's gentle breathing lulls him into a beckoning, benevolent darkness. In that quick moment before sleep overtakes him, Martin feels like everything might be okay.