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“Martin.”
There was a hand on his shoulder; Martin noted this more as a simple fact than something he could really feel. There was the press of fingers, a squeeze, yes– but he couldn’t feel the warmth. Never the warmth.
“Martin,” the voice said again. No, that was … Jon. Yes … Jon was still here. And he still looked so sad. Staring at him with desperate eyes. “Look at me. Look at me and tell me what you see.”
It was tempting to ignore him again. It’s just … it hurt, the things Jon asked him to do sometimes, and this was no different. Trying to look was like trying to ascend the water too quickly, risking collapsed lungs and decompression sickness.
But the hand on his shoulder squeezed ever tighter, the eyes starting to mist, and … and something in Martin’s chest … pricked. He could feel it. It was numbed, in a place he’d thought had already withered away from disuse, and yet …
Martin blinked. Jon was still there. Jon was looking at him.
Seeing him.
Seeing him.
“I …” A heavy weight was pressing down on his chest. A warning. It was too fast, too much, but … “I see …”
Sometimes, Martin found himself missing his more gruesome, shocking nightmares. At least with those, he would snap awake in an instant, drenched in an icy sweat, instead of being held down, trapped in a fog of confusion and fear until he finally managed to break its grip.
But at last, he managed to blink awake, sunlight pouring through the window and straight into his eye. Ah, damn. He’d meant to close the curtains last night.
Groaning, Martin scrubbed his eyes, the contents of the dream fading away. The damp moisture of the fog sat heavy in his throat– reminding him too much of the air in nursery homes and hospital rooms.
It’s not so bad, though. When they first arrived here, Martin used to wake up with tears tracking down his face. He’d hated waking up to a wet spot on his pillow. Or the soft, concerned eyes of his … special someone.
Martin turned over onto his side. Jon’s eyes were still closed, blankets pulled tight around himself and snoring softly. The sound brought a truly silly smile to Martin’s lips.
Yes. Waking up from the dreams used to be much worse. And then, perhaps four days after arriving at the cabin, Jon had declared that taking turns sleeping on the couch was absurd, and that there was more than enough room for the two of them in the master bed.
The speech had been said with such blunt rigor that Martin wondered if, perhaps, it was something Jon had rehearsed. As if Martin wouldn’t have immediately agreed to waking up by Jon’s side every morning.
And so, Martin didn’t wake up crying anymore. Not as often, anyway.
In his sleep, Jon sniffled, before burying his face deeper into the pillow. A low, groaning noise rumbled in his throat, sounding not unlike a dissatisfied cat, and Martin’s chest was crushed under a wave of affection.
What would it be like if he were to lean over just then? Card his fingers through Jon’s hair? Wake him up with a kiss to the forehead? That would be … good.
That was when Jon woke up, blinking soft brown eyes heavy with sleep.
Martin smiled, hoping his expression wasn’t betraying his thundering heart.
“Morning.”
Jon stretched, luxurious and indulgent, before flopping back into the mattress with a sigh. “Good morning, Martin.” He looked up at him through his eyelashes. “Best get a move on. Don’t want to be late for the mart.”
Martin hummed his agreement, and yet, neither of them moved to get out of bed. After all, Martin had found himself rather sinfully cosy, and Jon’s eyelids were sliding back downwards. It seemed like they had found somewhat of a silent accordance, and Martin’s lips quirked.
“… five more minutes?”
Slowly, Jon nodded, halfway back to sleep. Martin, personally, was content to continue lounging about– he could never fall back asleep after those sorts of dreams. Lying there, though, watching the colour of the sun warm Jon’s peaceful, slumbering face, he much rather preferred this than a few extra winks anyway.
Then, with one hand, Jon reached out, his fingers gently wrapping around Martin’s wrist, and Martin froze. Neither of them said anything – Jon looked as if he had already fallen asleep again – and yet Martin’s heart stuttered at an erratic pace all the same.
The quiet was both deafening and utterly still, all at once.
“Done.”
At the table, Martin straightened. Exiting the kitchen, Jon juggled two plates of scrambled eggs and toast, two mugs, a carton of milk, and the French press they had purchased the other day, homemade cold brew sploshing about inside of it.
It was impressive how much he stubbornly managed to carry, and if Martin were of a particular cheeky mood, he would have asked Jon if he ever considered getting a job in the circus.
One of the mugs looked to slip right out of Jon’s hand just then and Martin stood, catching it.
“Thank you,” said Jon, sheepish, before depositing the remainder of his hoard onto the table. He slid one of the plates over to Martin. “I used the nature’s seasoning we got from the store last time. You know, for the eggs.”
“Oh, good,” said Martin. “And thank you for the clarification, by the way. I was definitely worried you’d mixed salt and pepper into our coffee.”
A long-suffering glare, and Martin grinned. Jon made it too easy, sometimes.
With one hand, Jon took Martin’s mug (the one of the little corgis wearing Christmas jumpers), and with the other, he pressed down the plunger on the French press, seeming to take a special sort of pleasure in it, before tipping its contents into the mug. “And one cup of fresh cold brew.”
“I can’t believe you’re drinking coffee,” Martin mumbled under his breath. “It’s not natural, is what it is.”
“Oh, yes. Not like either of us have any experience working with the unnatural.”
Well. Fair enough. Martin crossed his arms, conceding his defeat, and Jon smirked. He grabbed the milk carton and held it up for offer, only for Martin to shake his head. Jon set to work on his own cup.
“I’ve always wanted to like coffee, in theory,” he continued, stirring in the milk until the brew turned a light, creamy brown. “I’ve always thought it smelled nice, at least, and sometimes I’d complete my research assignments in coffee shops just for the atmosphere. It’s just, well …"
“Actually drinking it?”
“Yes. That part had always proven itself to be a challenge. But brewing it cold with a French press is supposed to create a more satisfactory cup than, say,” Jon wrinkled his nose, “instant mocha powder.”
Martin sighed a laugh through his nose, reaching for the mug for a sip. It was quite smooth, although he’d prefer a standard English breakfast more than anything. Much better than the stuff they’d drink at the Institute, at least, although that wasn’t saying much.
Drink mixed, Jon brought his own mug to his lips, taking a sip. A moment.
His lips twisted with such impressive disappointment that Martin couldn’t squash his chuckle in time.
“It is an acquired taste.”
Jon huffed, lowering the mug to the table with a scorned clatter. “When did you start drinking coffee, then?”
“Uh …” He thought back to those late nights at the cornerstone, taking the graveyard shift because no one else wanted it and, hey, at least now he’d be able to make rent for him and mum that month. “Probably around my mid-twenties. I still really just prefer tea, though.”
Jon frowned, glaring into his cup. Martian decided it was a good time to spoon up a bite of scrambled eggs, chewing them slowly. “The eggs are good.”
Chuckling, Jon tucked into his breakfast as well, and they ate in amicable silence, with Jon occasionally reaching to sip from his mug. His expression never failed to sour afterwards, yet he still kept reaching for it. Martin watched, equal parts baffled and fond. Well, acquired taste and all that. Perhaps the French press wasn’t an entirely failed experiment, after all.
When Jon wasn’t holding his mug, though, his hand rested on the table. Idle.
What would … what would happen if, hypothetically, Martin took Jon’s hand, just then? Ran his fingers along his knuckles?
Lifted it to his lips for a soft kiss as he thanked him for breakfast?
Jon had grabbed Martin’s own hand this morning in bed, after all– he was always doing stuff like that. Putting a hand over his shoulder, grabbing his arm when he needed his attention, even throwing his legs across Martin’s lap when they were reading together on the cabin’s too-small couch. Martin … hasn’t been getting much reading done since they got here, to be honest.
Would Jon mind? If … if for once, Martin reached out first …?
Martin thought about the Lonely. He thought about the thick, oppressive fog. And he remembered seeing Jon’s eyes, and the things he saw there. The things Jon felt … for Martin …
He swallowed. Took a deep breath.
Gathered his courage. Lifted his hand–
“Well, you were right,” Jon said, grabbing his empty plate and standing. “Not to brag, but the eggs were, in fact, quite delicious.”
Martin snapped back, heart pounding and face bright.
Thank God Jon had already turned away, walking towards the kitchen. Not seeing Martin mire in his own embarrassment.
He scrubbed a hand across his jaw.
No … not quite …
Standing up, he grabbed his own dishes and went into the kitchen just as Jon turned on the sink.
It's just … Martin wasn’t sure what he should do.
When they had first come to the safehouse some odd weeks ago, they had been too scared and too exhausted to really, you know … talk. About things. Important things.
Martin was too shattered from the Lonely, overwhelmed by the barest hint of human contact between him and Jon. And Jon, the beautiful man, had given him the distance he needed to reacclimate.
And by the time things settled, well …
“Come on, then,” said Jon as he threw on his coat. His expression was grim and stormy. “I swear, they’ve better have gotten those crisps I asked for back in stock.”
Martin blinked, pulled from his musings. He chuckled. “I don’t think Margaret has much saying power as for what’s in stock.”
“You’d be surprised,” Jon said, glaring at his reflection in the mirror and he futzed with his scarf. “If that blasted husband of hers would take two seconds to consider a perspective outside of his own. I suppose I’ll have to keep my rather limited optimism in check, regardless.”
Martin lifted a hand with crossed fingers. With both of them dressed and ready to go, Martin reached for the door when–
“Wait.”
Martin turned and, without any kind of warning, Jon reached up for Martin’s scarf, undoing the knot with an impatient breath. “How many times must I demonstrate how to correctly tie your scarf before you take it to heart?”
Sighing, Martin lowered his head, so that Jon would have better access to his oh-so-atrociously assembled scarf. “At least once more, apparently.”
“If you tie it this way, it won’t keep becoming loose.”
“Yes, dear.”
The words were said with a grain of good humour, an ironic smirk, but once it was out, Martin’s stomach twisted. Oh, damn, that had sounded a little too sincere, hadn’t it? What if … what if Jon took it the wrong way? What if he thought Martin meant it–
But Jon just rolled his eyes, tightening Martin’s scarf with a scornful squeeze before gesturing to the door. “Shall we?”
Yes. Of course. They needed to get moving if they wanted to start their pot roast.
Jon hadn’t taken the endearment seriously. And why would he? Martin hadn’t meant it seriously. Not … not really.
Swallowing, Martin opened the door, and the crisp, autumn air washed over them. Together, they stepped outside.
With the gravel crunching under his boots, he let out a slow breath.
By the time things had settled, when Martin had finally managed to crack through his cold shell, feel some of his old self returning to him in bits and pieces, they had found their little routine.
One that had the two of them sleeping in the same bed, making breakfast, going to the mart. Where Jon reached for his wrist while they slept, and Martin luxuriated in the gentle warmth of his fingers.
But not one where Martin reached back. One that had Martin kissing Jon awake or taking his hand over the breakfast table, because ... Martin never had the courage to try. And then it just never became a part of the routine.
And Martin desperately wanted it to be. But Jon, he … he seemed fine with the way things were. More than fine with it, to be honest.
From the corner of his eyes, he watched Jon as they walked. He had one canvas bag slung over one shoulder. His other arm swung casually by his side. He was looking at the cow pastures, eyes curious and bright. There was a thoughtful curl to his lips.
Never once, in all the years they’ve known each other, had Martin seen Jon so … relaxed . Had ever seen him smile so often. The man nearly looked his age, for once– the shadows under his eyes fading, the stress lining his face softening. And Martin would honestly die before he did anything to disturb that peaceful tranquillity. And a conversation like that could make things … awkward.
But Martin very much wanted all of those things. The kissing, the hand holding. Getting to call Jon pet names like dear and darling and my love and holding him close as they both drifted off to sleep.
He thought sometimes that maybe Jon wanted that, too.
But what if …?
“Oh, look,” Jon said when they reached the mart. “They’ve already got Halloween decorations up.” He turned to Martin. “Is … is it really almost Halloween?”
When was the last time Martin had checked the date? He shrugged. “Well, give or take a few weeks, yeah.”
“You don’t think we’ll need to purchase some Halloween candy, do you? You know, in case we were to receive trick-or-treaters?”
Martin had to bite back a laugh. “Jon, the closest house is a mile out and I’m pretty sure it’s just an elderly couple. I don’t think we’ve anything to worry about on that front.”
“I …” Jon looked back to the candy, frowning. “I suppose that’s a logical conclusion to reach.”
He sounded dreadfully disappointed, and Martin’s heart squeezed, because of course Jon would be worried about something like that.
Oh, Lord, they were really going to do this, weren’t they? He hoped Jon never figured out he could get Martin to do about anything if he used that tone of voice, if it wasn’t already obvious. He let out an amused breath. “I mean, we might as well get some anyway. Doesn’t hurt to be prepared, right? Worst comes to worst, we’ve got some candy we’ll need to sort through ourselves.”
“Well,” Jon said, askance. “If you think it’s a good idea.”
Martin did, more so for the delighted way Jon reached for the largest bag of mixed chocolate brands than anything else.
They got their items for the one-pot efficiently, although there was a lengthy delay as Jon glared balefully at the area where his favourite crisps used to be and have yet to return to. Martin gave him a good pat on the back, promising himself to book it to the nearest Costco if they ever made it back to London.
As they approached the register, Jon was checking their basket, and paused.
“Bollocks, I meant to grab some more eggs.” He turned back towards the aisles. “Go ahead and get started, I’ll be quick.”
Martin did as told, depositing the items on the conveyor. Behind the register, Margaret smiled.
“Good seeing you boys again,” she said as she grabbed the bag of candy. She lifted a brow. “Stocking up for the holiday? Don’t think you’ll be getting many customers way up in that little shack of yours.”
“Yeah. We wanted to have them around just in case.”
“Where is that young man of yours, anyway?”
Martin opened his mouth, torn between replying with getting the eggs and actually, he’s not really my young man, I know we seem like a couple but it’s a bit more complicated than that – but then Jon came traipsing back into view.
“I’m here,” he said, placing the eggs on the counter. Martin’s heart skipped a beat – had Jon heard what Margaret asked? – and then stopped entirely at, “I’m several months older than him, by the way. For the record.”
Margaret snorted with an almost offensive level of disbelief, but continued idly scanning their groceries anyway. Jon reached into his wallet for the cash, counting the notes before handing over the required amount, and … and that was it.
No bracing awkwardness, or flushed faces, or heated denials. If Jon hadn’t said anything, Martin would have doubted he’d heard Margaret’s comment at all.
They loaded up the canvas bag, Martin slinging it over his shoulder, and they were out, making their way back to the cabin. It was an inconsequential trip, an inconsequential comment, and yet, Martin couldn’t stop thinking about it. About what it all meant.
Perhaps it meant that … that the idea of being Martin’s young man just didn’t bother him. Even if Jon was technically older.
Martin let himself have a little sigh.
A few years ago, (hell, even a few months ago) Martin might have just let things go unsaid. He’d never want to risk upsetting Jon. Making Jon realise what a pathetic, clingy mess he was and make him want to leave.
But things were different. Martin was different, and he knew Jon now, at least a little bit better than before. This peaceful little life hidden away in their small cabin was fragile, yes, but whatever it was between them was stronger than one awkward conversation about labels.
The only way he’d ever know for certain is if he asked. If they talked things seen in the Lonely. About what they wanted and needed from each other.
Besides, Martin was ... trying to get better at vocalizing the things he wanted. This was important to him; Jon would understand.
Tightening his grip on the canvas bag, Martin took in a steady breath.
At least he knew what he should do now.
After putting away their groceries and throwing the proper ingredients in the one-pot, they both settled in for the wait.
Martin took the couch first, flipping through one of the books he had pilfered from Daisy’s back room. A romance, of all things. Jon joined him not long after with his own book. He sat down on the other cushion, and although Martin had learned to expect it, his stomach still flipped when Jon casually threw his legs over Martin’s lap. Martin lifted his book to make room and then …
He swallowed.
Well. Now was as good a time as any.
“Jon?”
“Hm?”
“Just … this, uh, might be a weird question.” Breathe. Come on. “But are we … dating?”
Jon paused, and looked up from his book, and Martin swallowed. Come on.
“It’s just … we live together and sleep together. And in the Lonely, I saw how you feel about me.” Martin scrubbed the side of his jaw, cheeks warming. “But there’s other relationship stuff we don’t do at all and just … maybe I’m misreading things?”
“Oh.”
Jon didn’t look immediately angry, at least, or annoyed. More … gently confused than anything. Slowly, Jon closed the cover of his book.
“I mean, I would like for us to be.” He cleared his throat. “If we are not already, that is.”
“Oh!”
Oh. The word did little to properly encompass the rushing relief that coursed through his chest. It dizzied him with its intensity– if he had been standing, he would have fallen over. If we are not already, that is. God, this whole time, Jon thought … he thought they were already like that.
Martin … wasn’t misreading things.
“Would you, uh …” Jon continued with a cough. “Would you like that as well …?”
“Yes,” Martin said, a bit too quickly, and his face warmed. It was hard to care about embarrassing himself now, though. “I mean, yeah. Yes. Obviously, I–” He settled back down, a small smile curling his lips. “Yes.”
“Good.”
“Yes. Good!”
The silence lapsed, both of them staring down at the books, but Martin couldn’t make out the words of his own pages if he tried. He was too distracted by the thumping of his heart, the buzzing in his ears, wondering if it was too soon to reach over and take Jon’s hand right then. I would like for us to be. If we are not already, that is. I would like for–
“But …” Jon said, sudden, snapping Martin out of his thoughts. There was a new stiff tension to Jon’s shoulders as he pulled his legs off of Martin’s lap, holding them to his chest. A kernel of apprehension curled in Martin’s stomach. “Just so you know, even if we are dating, the, uh, “other” relationship stuff you mentioned …”
Jon rubbed the back of his neck and swallowed.
“I … regret to inform you it’s off the table. Entirely, in fact. I’m …” He blew a soft sigh through his nose, then straightened, their eyes locking. “I’m not interested in sex. Having sex. With you. Or anyone.” A beat. “Ever.”
Silence. They stared at each other, Jon seeming to lose his nerve with every passing second, but Martin, for the most part, was just … really confused.
“I knew that already, Jon,” said Martin with a light shrug. “I was talking about, like … holding hands and maybe kissing and stuff.”
Jon blinked. And then blinked again. And one more time, to really get the point across. “I– how do you– Oh.” Jon’s eyes lost a bit of their focus and a light metallic taste settled in the back of Martin’s throat– the way it always did, Martin noted with some alarm, whenever Jon was knowing. “Oh, I see.”
Martin nodded, self-consciously scrubbing the side of his face. He had … heard the office gossip same as anyone, shamed as he was to admit it.
But then, Jon reached forward, reaching out his hand. “So, you don’t mind? I need you to be sure.”
Martin smiled. Finally, finally, took Jon’s hand in his. “Not at all. Trust me.”
“Huh,” Jon breathed. The sound was soft, and yet also contained multitudes of quiet wonder as Jon stared down at their conjoined hands. Then, a playful light entered his eyes, and he leaned forward onto his knees.
“So, about kissing …?”
If Martin could see his own face just then, he was sure it was a mortifying tomato-red. Jon’s own complexion had taken on a flushed hue of its own, but the spark in his eyes was steady and bright. Martin had barely gotten a yes out before Jon leaned in the rest of the way, pressing his lips against Martin’s.
And … it was lovely.
Jon’s lips were a bit chapped from the dry, autumn air, and he awkwardly kneed Martin’s leg as he shifted closer, and Martin was pretty sure he could still taste their breakfast, hours old at this point, and it was wonderful .
When the kiss escalated from a curious, gentle meeting of lips to something a bit hungrier, a bit more desperate, Jon pressing up against him with an intensity he couldn’t have fathomed, Martin found himself helpless as he fell back against the cushion. Jon yelped, startled at their new position.
“Sorry , sorry, I …” He chuckled nervously, brushing his hair out of his face. “I was getting a bit carried away, wasn’t I?”
“Jon.” Martin took Jon’s face between his hands. “You weigh 30 kilos soaking wet. The only reason I’m down here is because I very much want to be.”
Jon snorted, loud and crude, and he quickly clapped a hand over his mouth at the rude noise. His face had fallen even more flushed, his eyes bright. His lips kiss swollen. And Martin felt himself fall a little more in love.
“Come back down here, would you?” he said, a touch pleading. Jon’s lips curled upwards, doing funny things to Martin’s heartbeat, and, at last, he leaned back down, once again covering Martin’s mouth with his own.
“I love you,” Martin whispered, sometime later– before they had to run to check on the pot roast, certainly, but after they had accidentally tumbled off the couch. Jon’s eyes slid shut, pressing their foreheads together.
“I love you as well.”
Later that night, as they were eating their pot roast, congratulating themselves on a meal well cooked, Martin reached out– and took Jon’s hand within his. Slowly, Jon turned both of their hands over and slid their fingers together, squeezing gently.
And everything was just a little bit perfect.