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The morning had started out as normal as any other; Jon woke up in the early hours of the morning, and watched as the sun rose and Martin slowly did as well. After an hour of laying in comfortable shared silence, they finally rolled out of bed and went to the kitchen to get breakfast started. Jon had felt more sleepy than usual, but hoped that after a cup of tea and some time, the feeling would go away.
Unfortunately, the morning passed and he only seemed to grow more tired. He knew they needed to go to the village today, they were getting shockingly low on a few different things, but Martin saw Jon's state and decided he should go alone this time. After many many assurances that yes, he would be completely fine going by himself just this once, and yes, he would call if he felt even the slightest bit lonely, Jon relented and let Martin go to the village by himself.
"Get lots of rest and try to feel better, be back in about an hour." Martin had said as he was leaving. Before he closed the door behind him, he gave Jon a long, meaningful look, and he was gone.
Jon knew what that look meant. He hadn't had a statement in a few days, and obviously that was what Martin believed to be the cause of his tiredness. Jon knew it was, because Martin stated "about an hour." He was telling Jon how much time he had to read a statement.
But Jon didn't think that was the cause of his sleepiness. He had gone longer without statements before, and he wasn't about to waste one or two rationed statements on something that might not be related to The Eye at all. He was probably just having an off day.
And so here he was, sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace, reading one of Daisy's romance novels. To be honest, Jon didn't really think Daisy was the type, but after looking through her book collection and noticing they all had bright red 'clearance' stickers on the back of them, he realized she probably just got them to make the house look less suspicious. But it was the only reading material there was besides statements, so he was reading it.
He was trying to, at least. He was having a hard time following the lines of text, like the signal from his brain to his eyes were taking just a little bit too long, and it left his reading feeling sluggish. He looked up from his page in a daze, blinking a few times to get his eyes to re-focus. But as he blinked, the eyes he was forcing his eyelids to close over did not feel like his own.
Oh no. He was starting to feel depersonalized.
He had felt depersonalization before, many times in fact. And he learned how to adapt: how to ignore the feelings of wrongness enough to continue what he was doing, or how to rest for just long enough for the feelings to go away. Most times, when he felt this way, he simply felt slightly out of body, or slightly distanced from himself, or like he was in a dream. Not great ways to feel, but overall not major enough to distract him from his work or cause any real harm. It was an annoyance, more than anything.
He stood up and shifted his gaze around the room, eyes moving from the fireplace to the couch to the kitchen, and with every movement the eyes he was looking through felt more and more sluggish, more and more unlike his own. They couldn't be his own, his own eyes would dart around the room, looking at everything at the speed with which he wanted them to. But these eyes took too long to respond. He sat back down, but immediately shot back up as the feeling of this body touching the couch sent a cold chill through his psyche. Even sitting felt incorrect somehow.
Suddenly, he was hit with a sharp jolt of panic. Looking down at the fingers that were supposedly his, he tried to touch the thumb to the index finger, and it still felt wrong. He knew he was the one making them move, but the movements didn't feel like his, and the touch wasn't the right pressure and it just wasn't right. He sat this body down, ignored the screaming in his mind telling him that sitting was incorrect, and instead felt the wave of panic start to completely flood him. He could see now that the hands were shaking, and the body he was in was shaking, and everything was cold.
This kind of reaction had only ever happened to him once before. A couple of months ago, in his office, he felt completely out of himself and it sent such a bad panic through him that he couldn't stop shaking or crying for over an hour, the only thing his mind being able to process was how wrong everything he saw and felt was. He remembered it had been a while since he had had a statement then too, and he wondered if that was his punishment for not feeding his fear entity enough. He remembered that all he wanted at that time was another person to talk to.
Martin.
Martin. He could call Martin. He couldn't, all those months ago, but he could now.
But why waste his time with something as ridiculous as this?
No, he could deal with this on his own. He's not a child, and sudden panic out of nowhere is completely unreasonable. He knows it's completely unreasonable. But the panic is now starting to flood over, his breaths becoming labored and the shaking in this body becoming uncontrollable. He vaguely registers this body's hands place themselves over what should be his ears, and this body's knees come up in front of it's torso. He isn't sure if he told it to do that or not, everything feels so far but so close all at once.
He needs to get a hold of himself. He desperately wants to get a hold of himself. Maybe he isn't even feeling depersonalized, maybe his panic is for nothing, maybe he is overreacting. He gets what must be himself up off of the couch and walks to the bathroom, just a few feet away. He pushes past the door, flips on the light, and looks directly at the face in the mirror.
But it's not him. That can't be him. It's so ugly and vile and incorrect. He sees the figure in the mirror flinch backwards, and the implication that the thing starting back at him must be him makes him flinch harder, and quickly leave the bathroom.
He's breathing even heavier now. Okay, so he is maybe feeling a little depersonalized.
He doesn't need to call Martin yet, he can still figure this out. At least he knows what the issue is, he can fix it. He just needs to ground himself. As quickly as he can, before he has time to register the movements he is making, he walks to the coffee table in front of the couch and picks up his phone, then opens his music app. Without even looking at what song was last playing, he taps the 'play' button.
The noise is overwhelming. It's taking up all of his senses at once, and he feels like his mind is being wrestled down into a fine powder by the sound waves from his cell phone speakers. As quickly as he turned on the music, he shakily taps it off, and the room is plunged into silence again. Well, except for his desperate gasps for air as he tries to regain what little ground he did have.
Alright, music is not going to work. He tries to steady his breathing, but the thought that the body he is breathing through is his is making him panic even more. The chest rapidly moving up and down beneath him can't be his, it just doesn't feel right.
His mind snaps back to Martin. The only thing he had wanted to ground him before.
He knows he shouldn't bother him, he knows that what he's feeling is stupid and incomprehensible, but he also knows that Martin might be the only person who can help him right now. He stayed by Martin's side when Martin was fading in and out of the Lonely, the fog covering his pupils and pooling at his feet and overwhelming the tiny cabin they lived in. Selfishly, he hopes that Martin would do the same for him.
Without thinking, he once again picks up his phone. He opens his messages, taps on Martin's name, and shakily types
Martin, are you available?
As quickly as he hits send, he regrets his decision. He shouldn't be bothering Martin, he's probably in the middle of the grocery store, he's probably busy talking to some local about new sites to visit around the village, anything he is doing is more important than-
Yes, what's up?
He's ashamed at the feeling of relief that washes over him. He wasn't even sure his signal was going to work today, let alone that Martin would actually be able to answer if it did work. Trying not to feel too guilty for taking up Martin's time, he types
Can we call? I don;t feel real and I think hearing your voice might help.
After pressing send he realizes just how bizarre and incredibly ridiculous he sounds, so he quickly adds
We don't have to call for very long, I just need to hear your voice
A few seconds pass and the reality of just how strange what he's asking for sounds hits him like a truck. Adding that second message did not help at all, it just made him sound worse. Desperate and out of his mind. Just as he's about to pick up his phone to type a 'nevermind' text, his phone buzzes and Martin's profile picture appears on the screen. He's never answered a call so quickly in his life.
"Jon?" Martin's voice comes through his speaker.
"Ma-" But he stops. That cannot be his voice. He doesn't sound like that. He opens the mouth of the body he inhabits and finds it difficult to force any noise to come out at all.
"Jon? Jon are you there?" Martin's worry is loud, even through the phone. Jon needs to say something.
"Y-yes I'm here, sssorry talking doesn't feel realrightnow" He rushes through the end of the sentence, trying to ignore the overwhelming feeling of wrongness as he speaks. He must sound like a raving lunatic.
"No talking! Okay! N-t talking is okay, uhm," Martin cuts out just slightly, the dodgy signal rearing it's ugly head.
... Unless it was Jon making it all up. He tries not to dwell on that for too long, but his level of panic increases nonetheless.
"Okay, uhm, well, I got -s the milk th-t we needed and- and I was j-st picking up another bo-tle of so-p," Martin's voice is cutting out at what feels like every other word, and Jon feels the chest that's not his start to heave and the body that's not his let out a choked cry.
"Crying! Ok-y! Crying is o-ay! God I w-sh I could b- there right n-w," Martin takes a deep breath. "Okay. J-n? I nee- you to answ-r me if y-u can, are you alright?"
"Phys-Physically yes," Jon pushes through the words like he's walking through a windstorm.
"Okay! Good! Wh-t do you need m- to do-"
"Just t-talk to me." He feels this body let out a small sob.
"Talking! I c-n do that! Ok-y! S-so I h-d a quick chat w-th the l-dy that wor-s at the fro-t of the sto-e, and-and she tol- me that h-r cat is exp-cting kitt-ns!" As good as it is to hear Martin's voice through the phone, the words are only cutting out more and more, and the unease it's sending through Jon is something he really can't ignore.
"Is-Is the connection bad? Canyouhearme?" Jon tries not to let the words drag on any longer than they need to, and he breathes a heavy, aching breath.
"Oh! U-Uhm," A pause. "Y-ah it looks l-ke I've onl- got -ne bar, s-sorry ab-ut that,"
"'s okay," Jon answers quickly. As dumb as it is, the reassurance that Martin's voice cutting out is not just a trick Jon's mind is playing on him, does make him feel just the slightest bit less panicked.
"Okay, uhm," A pause, Martin is obviously struggling to continue talking. "S-so I t-ld the lady -t the fron- that -s soon as sh- has pi-tures, pict-res of the kittens, th-t she n-eds to sho- us next t-me we're in."
As Martin continues, Jon can feel the panic start to slowly ebb away from himself. Despite Martin's very very bad connection, the thought that Martin is taking time to talk to him about nothing fills Jon with love, and slowly he can feel this body's breaths slowing down.
"Okay, -hm, J-Jon?"
"Yes Martin?" Saying Martin's name feels like home. Speaking doesn't feel quite to foreign anymore.
"I need t- check e-erything out now, b-t I can be ba-k there in twenty m-nutes, maybe thi-ty, alright?"
"Okay."
"A-e you going to b- okay?"
Jon takes a deep breath. "Yes."
"A-are y-u sure?"
Jon smiles. "Yes."
Martin sighs. "Okay, I'll se- you soon. L-ve you."
Jon sets down his phone. The hands that set it down still don't look like his, but when he closes his eyes, he can tap his index finger and thumb together, and it doesn't feel wrong. He sits like this for some time, trying to even out his breathing and remember the warmth of Martin's voice.
At some point, he hears the cabin door swing open, and the rustling of bags and stomping of shoes heading towards him. Jon opens his eyes to see Martin, right in front of him, grocery bags in his hands and worry on his face.
"Let me set these down and then I'll be right back here, okay?" The way he speaks is forceful, but not loud. And not overwhelming. Jon feels himself nod.
Martin quickly sets the bags on the small kitchen table and rushes swiftly to close the cabin door. Jon watches as Martin makes his way back to him.
"Okay," Martin leans down in front of him. "Can I touch you?"
After only a moment's thought, Jon nods.
Martin carefully reaches a hand out and touches Jon's shoulder, and starts to gently move it up and down the top of his arm. The motion feels warm, and right, and Jon slips his eyes shut.
He hears shuffling, and feels the couch next to him dip as Martin sits beside him. "Can I hug you?"
Jon doesn't even have to think this time, he just nods.
Jon feels Martin's arms wrap around his torso. His torso. Feels Martin's hands hold his back and his head, and feels Martin's lips place a soft kiss on his cheek. This feels right.
Jon finds that his arms are wrapping themselves around Martin too, and he lets himself sit with Martin enveloping his every sense, drowning out the panic and unease and feelings of wrongness.
And then he feels right. His face is buried in Martin's shoulder, and his arms are wrapped around Martin's middle, and his legs are pressing against Martin's legs, and he doesn't think he could ever feel wrong about anything when he is like this.
After a few moments, Jon really, truly finds his voice.
"I love you."
He feels Martin smile against him.
"I love you too."