Chapter Text
Martin always felt the chill of the winter to his bones. The dry December air would steal moisture from his lungs, and the warmth from his body. Everything about its cold sting made him feel so far away. Whether it was because of the memories that the holidays dredged up, or because it always made his younger self yearn for more. For things he never thought he would have. Things he didn’t think he deserved, up until recently: like love, and warmth, and a home that--finally--felt like one.
When he looks back, the chill he felt when he was younger wasn’t far off from the one he had endured in the archives the year prior. He feels more sure than ever that they’re the same. Maybe he was always meant for the Lonely. He shakes that thought away. With some love, and time, it was getting easier for him to believe otherwise.
He reassured himself with the warmth he felt beside him, and pushed thoughts of the Lonely from his mind. Those years he spent in his youth, cold and unfeeling, were gone now, he liked to think. The man beside him, nose embedded in between the pages of a book, was proof of that. Proof that someone could understand him, could look into his heart and still take his hand. Proof of the thaw that time has afforded to him. He stares into the roaring fireplace, the dark stone hearth, and watches the light dance against the muted and rough surface. He focuses on its heat, on its intensity, and listens to the rhythmic rise and fall of Jon’s chest. He feels the cat purring in his lap, remembers and acknowledges its encompassing weight, its comforting heat. And he lets out a sigh. He feels a little warmer.
Hearing his sigh, Jon looks over at his partner with a questioning look. His eyes round and big behind his glasses, glinting in the firelight. A silent question. Martin feels a smile tug at his lips, and a deep love in his chest, and tugs him closer in answer. Jon nestles into his arms, adjusting himself so he can read over Martin’s arm, propping himself against his bulky stomach, kicking his legs back against the rest of the couch.
“Okay then. Use me as a pillow, why don’t you?” Martin jabs playfully, his voice dripping with amusement. Jon grunts contentedly in response. Martin couldn’t see his face, but he knew that if he could, Jon’s eyes would be sparkling with mirth, and his face, a picture of quiet amusement and contentment.
“What are you reading, love?”
Jon shifts the book in his grip so he can peek at the cover.
“Harry Potter,” he pauses briefly, moving the book closer to his face to read the lightly colored print of the subheading, “and the Philosopher’s Stone.” Martin froze. Jon felt it.
“What?” Jon questioned indignantly.
“Have you?-” Martin began, already grinning, ready to tease him.
“Never read the Harry Potter books? Yes, yes. Is there a problem?”
“I’m sorry, Jon. But that might be a dealbreaker,” Martin was grinning now, “I can’t have a boyfriend who doesn’t know what a Hufflepuff is.”
Jon huffed, clearly pouting, “I know what a Hufflepuff is!”
“How could you know for sure when you’ve never read the books?” Martin spoke, barely containing his mirth.
“I--” Jon sputtered.
Martin knew that if Jon was facing him, his face would be darkened in a flustered blush. He wishes he could see it. But the two men were abruptly interrupted by the shrill dinging of an incoming call.
“Shit, I think that might be mine. My phone’s on the kitchen counter,” Martin moved to get up, but Jon shifted to stop him, placing a hand on his chest gently. Now facing him, Jon smiled softly, “I’ll grab it,” and he hopped up with unexpected fervor, almost like the cat that slept dormant in Martin’s lap, and determinedly walked to retrieve the offending device.
Rushing back, holding the phone like a burning coal, Jon quickly passed off the phone to Martin, falling back into the softness of the couch next to his partner. In his haste to get the shrill noise to cease, Martin didn’t look at the caller ID before pressing the green ‘accept’ button.
As Martin scooped up his phone and answered the call, Jon watched as his face slowly morphed from warm content into a picture of tense anxiety. His eyes filled with a spark of something Jon had never seen, an old wound, the crystalline reflection of something fragile, something breakable. So much unlike the calm, cool tones of solid grey in his eyes, a gray like the ever-rolling sea beyond the cliffs near their cottage.
Martin squeaked out a name, rough and strained, “Angela?”
He cleared his throat, and the brief spark of vulnerability had quickly replaced itself with something even more unfamiliar to Jon, a hardness, a dullness. Like the stone cold surface of the hearth when the warmth of flame is absent.
Clearing his throat once more, he began.
“Hello, Angela,” He said again, his voice this time was steady and strong. Controlled.
Hearing his sister again, he felt his heart shrivel. He felt the old wounds reopening, threatening to weep blood. Up until now, he was convinced they had healed. But in the same moments, he felt his skin hardening, the old feeling of internal bleeding like an old and familiar foe. The anger and sadness, pooling in deadly congregations.
“Martin,” the syllables sounded stilted from her lips, like she struggled with the syllables. Her voice was cordial, down to business, as ever.
But how did she know--?
“I know you’ve made it very clear how you feel about us,” she paused, letting the comment hit him with the appropriate sting. She always conveniently ignored nuance, he thought with contempt.
“So I’ll keep this brief. I hope you can actually hear me out,” Martin could hear her draw a long-suffering breath. Her voice dropped some of its edge, “memée’s condition is worsening. We think it might be her last Christmas. Process that however you want, but one of her requests was that she wants you here for Christmas. Lord knows why. It’s ultimately your choice, as it would be best to say your goodbyes while you still can; while she’s still here.”
Jon didn’t know what this ‘Angela’ was telling him, but he saw the hard line in Martin’s mouth, the way that his lips upturned in contempt and unease. His eyes had that glassy look again, like the things this woman told him had stripped away the stony look in his eyes once again to reveal a gentle and breakable crystal. Martin remained silent, taking in the information solemnly. But when this ‘Angela’ stopped talking, Martin cleared his throat once more.
“I’ll consider it.”
Drawing the phone away from his ear, he decisively cut the connection. He almost never let things end on his terms when they were younger. Things have changed. He let out a breath that he didn’t know he had been holding, his breath catching itself mid-sigh. His eyes stung, and it suddenly felt too hot to bear. The warmth of the fire burned his cheeks and stung his eyes, he felt prickles of sweat under his jumper, down the plane of his spine, and suddenly everything felt too close. He shot out of his seat. The cat--Admiral Jr.--leapt from its spot. Tears congregated in his eyes: threatening to spill in a solemn procession.
“I have to--” he choked, stuttering, “I need-- I have to l-leave.”
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. He felt as though his world was on a tilting axis. Alone. He thought, I need to be alone. He began, on unsteady feet, heading towards the door. But a hand shot out, lithe and nimble fingers gripping his larger, plush ones.
The world stopped spinning for a moment, and the tears slid from their place, allowing him to turn his head and look back to see Jon. His eye was glowing of its telltale preternatural green, but Martin couldn’t be bothered. Because he felt the familiar warmth of love, of being seen. Of feeling seen. In that moment, he knew that Jon Knew a fraction of what lay in his heart. Even upon seeing just a fraction of what waits beneath his layers of vulnerability, he was still here. He still held his hand, tightly, like an anchor. Even though Jon has Seen what's inside his heart, Seen its cracks and imperfections and its faded wounds, he still rubs his thumb along Martin’s knuckles, and looks into Martin’s gray eyes with a loving tint to his own. And Martin no longer feels like being alone.
“My sister--” he exhales, gulps in another breath, composing himself.
“Angela, yes?” Jon prompted gently, still holding Martin’s hand, rubbing gentle circles over the slightly protruding bone on his thumb.
Martin’s voice is steady now, “She wants me to come home for Christmas, to say goodbye to my grandmaman,” He takes another breath, his voice quieter this time, “She’s dying, Jon.”
Jon squeezes his hand again, urging him further along, encouraging him. He can feel the question Martin wants to ask. He doesn’t need to Look to know.
“Thank you, Jon,” this remark however, confused the man. He met Martin’s eyes.
“For not Knowing what we were talking about. I know you’re trying hard,” He was surprised at this. Mostly because he expected him to say something else, a question. Martin was always doing this, though. Thanking others for giving him the basic things he deserved. Deflecting from what he really needs to say. From what he wants to ask.
“Yes, yes, Martin. I appreciate that, I do. But,” Jon trails off, the unspoken but what about what just happened? Martin understood.
“Jon, I--,” he huffs, “I have to go. You know that. My memée, she took care of us when my mother started getting really sick, I--” he pauses, his eyes getting glassy again, “I have to pay my respects,” He finishes, his voice small.
“...and?” Jon prompts.
“And what?” He sounded frustrated now. But then he realized their problem.
“Oh,” then, his eyes widened, “Oh, Jon, you don’t have to go. Not if it doesn’t make you comfortable, I couldn’t force you if--”
Jon was standing now, placing his other, free hand atop Martin’s.
“Of course I’m coming with you.” He met Martin’s eyes, looking deep into their stormy gray hues, smiling softly. He coughs, “I mean, only if you want me to--” the terse lines in Martin’s face eased to softness, and bright tears spilled freely down the ample plane of his cheek.
He lightly tugged at the hands adjoining them, pulling Jon closer. He leaned down to meet Jon’s shorter form, and brushed his lips lightly against his forehead. An action of pure tenderness, before leaning down further and silencing him with a heated kiss that Jon could only describe as Martin’s physical manifestation of his gratitude.
Drawing back, Jon untangled their hands, and wrapped his around Martin’s slumped form, nuzzling his face neatly into the crook of his neck.
“I love you.”
Jon whispered it like a sacred omen into the skin of his collarbone, hoping he’ll truly believe them. If not now, then someday.