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There wasn’t a time Martin could remember when sound, color, and feeling hadn’t been intertwined. Colors and textures, people and voices, the sensation of rhythm, of tone, as sure and consistent as breathing.
Upon consideration, Martin was sure that was the first thing about him he fell in love with, nevermind the sound of him, academic and stuffy and perfectly curated. Lying to the rest of them sure as Martin lied on his CV. He could blame it on their getting off on the wrong foot, distracted as he was by the patterns of Jon’s voice while he shouted at him that very first time down in the archives.
And still he Listened.
Jon could talk forever and possibly would if Martin didn’t interject, unaware of how captive an audience he truly had and content to share information on every and any subject once he was sure he wouldn’t be laughed out of the safe house, told to shut up and wary from being shamed away from his excitement. It was different for Martin and the people he loved; he didn’t think he’d ever wish for Jon’s silence, not with that overlay of tan and staccato lines of green, framing him as he looked up at him from where his head laid in his lap, eyes full of glittering excitement and affection.
But It was when he became passionate that Martin had the most trouble paying attention, preferring instead to drift along on the wash of color and sound, watching it change. Brightening to soft pink when he was gentle with him, soft and sleepwarm in the smallest hours of morning. It was the blush of dawn, a whispered harmony, and so much more than it had been when they’d been trapped in the Archives.
In the Lonely there was nothing like that, barely enough sound for even the barest bit of color that wasn’t already sea mist and fog. Peter’s voice seemed to blend, whirl up and around that smothering miasma and it’s scent of salt. It was a part of this place. It did nothing to break up the never ending and infinite haze.
But Jon’s did.
A wavering buff tapestry shot through with slim parenthesis of bright green. The very image of fear, and not for himself.
“Martin!”
He loved the way his name looked when Jon spoke it.
Every variant. Every way. Every time.
“Martin!” He reached for it. For him. But his colors were carried away on a cold and empty wind towards the unknown and he tried to follow it.
Forgot why it was important and let the shallows lick their way up his ankles.
Until…
“Martin. Martin look at me. Look at me and tell me what you see.”
“I see…”
And how could he explain?
“I see you, Jon.”
But it was so much more than that. It had always been more than that.
“I see you.”