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The Dark was…bad. Not just because of the argument, although that still hangs in the air between them like a storm cloud that refuses to dissipate. Not just because of the children that it’s gutting Martin to just walk away and leave there. Physically . He’d thought Jon’s hurry to get through the domain was just because of it being, y’know, an awful place full of the fear of literal children, but the moment they’d crossed the boundary back onto the warped remains of the M6, Jon had noticeably slumped in relief when he thought Martin wasn’t watching. He had been, of course. His eyes are still drawn to Jon, even now, and he finds himself at an odd intersection of peeved and fond that Jon’s trying to just…keep moving, even when he’s clearly struggling, because when has Jon ever been able to just admit when things are a bit too much?
He sighs. “Jon, stop.”
He only gets a huff in reply. “There’s a ways to go yet before the next domain. We should keep moving.”
“No, you need to sit down . And so do I.”
For a minute, Martin thinks Jon’s going to make some dry comment, probably about motorway services and the lack thereof, but he looks at the set of Martin’s jaw and seems to decide against it with a sigh. “Alright, Martin. If you want.”
Martin lets out a little hum of satisfaction, and turns off the cracked asphalt of the motorway. In these strange in-between spaces, things…vary. The remains of the motorway itself are relatively constant, winding and ruined in places but a clear path back to the South and London, but the surroundings change by the whatever-passes-for-a-day. Currently, the left of the road is a barren mass of broken, ruined cottages and blasted heath, while the right slopes down into a foreboding, misty wood that makes Martin’s stomach curl with memories of the Forsaken. It’s not really a difficult choice to make his way over to the left and find the low remains of a garden wall, complete with about half a wooden fence to lean back on, and sit himself on it.
Jon follows. He sits close, but there’s a space between them that’s full of storm clouds. A petty part of Martin doesn’t want to close the gap. He’s done his part just getting Jon to sit, hasn’t he? But one look over at the curve of Jon’s shoulders, the way he stares down at his knees with lidded eyes, the tension that still runs through his form, and Martin can feel the constant frustration and sour mood that’s been building for this entire journey ebbing from him like the tide. He doesn’t want to be annoyed with Jon. He’s not really, if he’s honest with himself; it’s not really Jon he’s annoyed with, he knows that, and he’s being stupid and petty, and God, he’s just…too exhausted to keep it up. He doesn’t have the heart to, even if he wasn’t. He shuffles closer, touching thigh to thigh, and is rewarded with the way the hard line of Jon’s mouth softens at the contact.
They sit like that for a long moment. It’s quiet. Peacefully so, even without the usual white noise of birdsong and cars. If Martin closes his eyes and tries to ignore the feeling of Beholding’s constant gaze on the back of his neck, they could almost be - well, anywhere but here. He feels a hesitant, gentle touch on his hand where it rests on his thigh; Jon’s hand resting on his, tentatively, like he’s worried Martin might snatch it away from under him. Jon’s not looking at him when Martin opens his eyes, but the sad, tired expression on his face is still an open book.
“That one was really bad, wasn’t it,” Martin says, low and soft, turning his hand over and entwining their fingers. Jon squeezes in return.
“For…for a lot of reasons,” Jon murmurs. He closes his eyes, an echo of a pained frown creasing his forehead. “Not that any of them are easy, but…”
“Did it hurt? Being in the Dark?”
“Not exactly. I’m just…tired.” He leans into Martin’s shoulder a little. Something twinges in Martin’s heart at the caution of it, and he leans in too, tilts a little to welcome Jon’s presence closer. Jon follows the invitation, leaning more of his weight on Martin, letting his head rest in its usual place on the curve of Martin’s shoulder blade. Its usual place - when was the last time they’d been able to just sit like this? The cabin? It feels like so long ago, now. He’d missed this.
“I love you,” Jon says, suddenly and quietly, still looking at their clasped hands. Martin blinks down at him for a second, then squeezes his hand with a slightly wan smile.
“What brought that on?”
“Just realised I hadn’t said it in a while, really. I wanted to.” There’s the same aching affection in Jon’s voice that Martin feels at the warmth of him pressed along his side. His heart twists with it, with the knowledge that their minds were playing the same wistful, longing tune. He leans down and kisses the side of Jon’s head, lingering there.
“Yeah,” he says, soft and thick. “Yeah.” Both of them know what he means. They’ve talked about it, about what he struggles to say out loud even now. How trying to verbalise the feeling clenches his throat shut with irrational panic. He knows Jon can hear it instead in the soft drag of his thumb across Jon’s knuckles, where their hands are clasped, and the gentle press of his lips to the scars on Jon’s temple. Jon hums and squeezes his hand again, message received , and Martin feels like he might burst with the rush of love he feels.
Another moment passes, comfortable and warm. Neither of them seem to want to move, as though doing so would disturb this fragile peace and bring tense reality back. Martin continues to stroke Jon’s bony knuckles with his thumb. Jon’s fingers are longer, but Martin’s palm is wider. Their hands shouldn’t fit together as well as they do, but somehow they do anyway. They have done ever since Jon took his hands in the Lonely.
The moment stretches a little longer. Martin’s the one who breaks it, speaking almost despite himself.
“God, I really hate Elias. Jonah. Whatever.”
Jon snorts, startled at the suddenness of the outburst, and looks up at him. “Wh-“
“Don’t laugh!” Martin huffs, annoyed, letting go of Jon’s hand to fold his arms across his chest and feeling his ears going pink.
“I’m sorry, I just…totally understandable, obviously, but where did that come from?” Jon says, smiling as he struggles to control himself again.
Martin’s response is nothing more than a little angry noise. Jon nudges him with his shoulder, still smiling a little, and Martin can’t help but relent to his raised eyebrow. “I just. I was just thinking about it, you know? How - how much I hate this. All of this, it’s just - it’s just unrelenting and awful .”
“I know.” The mirth’s faded from Jon’s face now, and his tone has gone deep and distant and leaden and frustration flares up in Martin’s chest again.
“Don’t say it like that, I know you know, I know you have it in your head all the time and I’m sorry— “
“No, Martin, I didn’t mean it like that.” Jon sounds pained again. Martin almost wishes he could convince himself Jon sounds patronising, so he didn’t feel like such a prick for lashing out again . “I just meant…I understand. That it’s all….a lot.”
“…sorry. I know. I know you don’t-“ Martin runs a hand through his hair and groans. “This is exactly what I mean , I hate this, I feel so snappy all the time and - god, it’s stupid, but I just - keep thinking about Scotland.” He trails off. Jon just watches him, giving him the space to finish the thought without pushing. He takes a deep breath and keeps going, the heat of frustrated anger cooling into bitter embers.
“It was nice there, you know? It was - it was the first time in years that it felt like….all the- the terrible things in our lives weren’t there, or at least they’d left us alone for a while. I was - happy . Relaxed. It was…it was like a holiday I’d almost convinced myself never had to end.” He turns away, resting his elbows on his knees, and lets out a bitter snort. “Three bloody weeks. That’s all we got.”
In the end, that’s the galling part. The universe’s big joke, handing him more than he’d ever even dared dream of, giving him just long enough to start to get used to it, and then tearing it away. The universe, and Elias Sodding Bouchard. Jon rests a hand on his shoulder, and he covers it with his own with a sigh. Jon swallows, in that way he does where he wants to say something but doesn’t know what or how to phrase it, and Martin looks up at him. His face is all sorrow and sympathy, and tinged with the guilt Martin knows he feels over this, and Martin manages a wry quirk of a smile. “Do you know how much time owing I had built up? It was a lot more than that. Bastard.”
Jon’s expression shifts through several different emotions at once, settling on a small, brittle smile of his own. “I don’t think I ever took any time owing. Not even in Research.”
“No, really? You, work too hard without a holiday? Shocking! I never would have guessed.” The fondness in his voice is as audible as the smile it produces, and Jon’s grin strengthens along with it. He nudges Martin’s shoulder with his own again, and Martin huffs a laugh.
Jon sighs, then, his smile fading. “I…I miss it too, Martin. The house, Scotland. Before. I’m—” He runs a hand through his hair, tucking the growing strands back behind his ear once his hand dislodges them. Martin’s seized by the memory of cutting Jon’s hair, back then, of a lot of frantic viewing of YouTube tutorials while Jon laughed, and kissed him, and assured him that he really couldn’t care less about the end result, had even made a terrible pun about never mind the buzzcut that had left Martin speechless. That Jon seems a world away from this one, with well-worn guilt writ large across his face. “It was nice. Wonderful, really. Being there - being there with you. It was… easy.”
Martin can hear the words he doesn’t say. I’m sorry I took it from you. I’m sorry I destroyed it . No matter what, he’s never been able to get Jon to believe it wasn’t his fault, that there’s only one person who deserves the blame for it.
“Hence, hating Jonah bloody Magnus,” he says firmly, cutting off the self-loathing before it spirals. “I definitely won’t complain if you let me get a punch in before you smite him.”
It works, though. The haggard, forlorn look on Jon’s face collapses into a snort, and he buries his face back in Martin’s shoulder as he laughs. Martin fights back his own laughter with fake outrage, batting lightly at Jon’s arm. “I can throw a punch, Jon!”
“I believe you, I believe you, I just. I’m—” The laughter subsides, and he sobers slightly. Still buried in Martin’s shoulder, padded by his warmest wooly jumper, Jon brings his hand up to rest on Martin’s chest, curling slightly into the fabric there. “Very glad you’re here, is all.”
Martin doesn’t quip about the alternative to being here. He knows what Jon means, just like he knows that even if there were an alternative to being here, he wouldn’t want it if Jon wasn’t there with him. It doesn’t feel like the kind of thing he can say aloud, though, one more thing that just feels too much, so instead he just looks down at Jon and shifts his arm around him, kisses the top of his head. Time goes soft again, Martin leaning back against the broken garden wall, Jon a comma curled around his side, their hands having found each other again in Martin’s lap.
This can’t last forever. Martin knows that, and he knows that Jon knows it. This little island of peace between fear domains is ephemeral at best, and despite themselves - no matter how much Martin tries to not - the stress of moving through the world’s nightmares will start getting to both of them again soon enough. But maybe it’s enough to know that these moments are still possible. Sometimes when times are bad, all you can do is live for the brief periods of respite you can find.