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They wake up in bed, all disoriented because they haven’t slept in ages, bellies cramping because they’re starved and legs hurting like anything and blisters on their feet—they are disoriented, because Jon hasn’t slept at all lately and if Martin did, it was fitful, restless, plagued by nightmares. This now is rest, is comfort, is a bed, and the word ‘apocalypse’ is far, far from their minds. They haven’t slept in ages, so when they wake up, they don’t realise where they are, or what is going on.
It’s warm, and soft, and cosy, and Martin is already awake and watching, quietly, mind blissfully blank and drowsy, as Jon blinks his eyes open, lashes fluttering over the deep hollows beneath. Martin just watches. Just watches, aches, chin folded with his head tilted to catch every single moment.
It takes Jon a while to realise he’s pressed up all against Martin with his lower body, legs entangled. Martin feels the hand on his waist twitch. Jon’s eyes open more fully but are still fuzzy, sleepy. They settle on him, stay. They are calm. There is no panic in them, no anxiety, no shadow.
Peace suits Jon.
Martin cannot fucking help it. He brings his hand up from underneath the blanket to cup Jon’s cheek, brushes his thumb over the scarred skin, soft and slow.
“I spy with my litte eye,” Martin whispers, hushed, “a beautiful man.”
One second passes, then two: then Jon realises what Martin said, and he groans, “Martin,” exasperated, turns his head to hide his reddened cheek in the pillow they share.
He also brings a hand up to cover Martin’s on his cheek, to hold it there.
God. That contradictory, lovely idiot. A grin split’s Martin’s face.
He dips his head to croon, “A beeeaauuutiful man,” near Jon’s temple, delighted, low and close.
Jon mutters, “Shut up, Martin,” but doesn’t actually push him away.
“Nope.” Martin’s tone is all love, teasing, light. “No can do. Got a beautiful man here—”
“Ugh.”
“—and will tell him til he’s sick of me!”
“Ugh!”
Martin snickers and allows Jon to keep his face hidden for a moment longer, before he slides his hand round to the back of his head, fingers gently weaving into his disarray of hair, greasy and messy. Silence welcomes them, wraps them up in terrifying intimacy, and Martin scratches Jon’s scalp lightly, waits until he feels Jon’s indignation has settled.
Martin is so in love his heart quivers with it. Jon doesn’t Know, of course: they’d agreed he wouldn’t look.
But if Jon doesn’t Know, Martin can let him know.
“Seriously,” Martin says, quietly, “you are so beautiful. Okay?”
Instead of arguing, Jon makes as if to shake his head, before he lets out a frustrated noise and simply shifts closer to wrap his arm around Martin and press his face into the softness of Martin’s double chin. Martin keeps cradling his head in his palm, keeps it safe. He closes his eyes and breathes, just breathes.
He is so in love.
“I love you.” Jon says it quietly against his skin. His words leave little kisses, soft and feathery. “I love you.”
“As do I,” Martin whispers back. “Love you too.”
They will wake up for real, in a few moments. Realise where they are, what is going on—what has been going on. In a few moments.
Not just yet.
Just yet, they hold each other close, and safe, and warm, and they know every single moment has been worth it to have this.