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Alone.
Martin knows that isn’t true. Not really. He could be talking to Jon in a matter of seconds. He knows. He does. That Jon would pick up the phone without hesitation no matter where he is. Jon is just gone for a few days. Taking in a few museums and bookshops during a short university break. Well deserved, because Jon has been working his ass off, trying to keep up with grading and coaxing students to turn things in on time.
Martin would have gone if he didn’t still have work.
In any case.
Technically Martin is alone. And that should be fine. It is fine.
It’s been years since the Lonely.
He shouldn’t be feeling like this. He shouldn’t need someone with him to feel like a person. He shouldn’t need Tim to drop in and check on him. And, yes he does want to see Tim, but... this feels more like he needs a babysitter. And he doesn’t want to put Tim out.
Martin presses himself into the couch. He should get a blanket. Preferably his heated blanket. But. That feels like cheating.
He closes his eyes as he exhales, afraid of the puff of fog that might escape him. Better he doesn’t see.
He doesn’t really want to see anyone right now. It sounds like a lot more effort than he has energy. Numb limbs heavy on a faded couch.
Faded? Is it really that dull a color? Or has the brightness gone with Jon?
Heh. Jon really is the light of his life, he supposes. What a stupid sappy stereotype.
He disgusts himself.
Why would Jon want to come back to this flat? It’s too cold, anyways.
He doesn’t want Tim to come to dinner. He doesn’t have the energy to shower. He should shower before he goes out. He knows he isn’t smelling the freshest. Is the salt on his skin and his lips from the clammy sweat that clings to him as his anxious thoughts writhe, or is it the salt spray of the Lonely? Either way. He is sticky and salty. And not fit for dinner. Not alone and certainly not with anyone else.
He’ll pull the life out of Tim. The warmth. He shouldn’t subject Tim to his mood and what his mood can do when he’s like this.
He shifts on the warn fabric of the couch. Drawing himself inwards.
Trying to find warmth in his core but just making himself a small, cold lump.
Pluto, abandoned, and frozen, and ignored.
With icy fingers that his phone hardly recognizes, he texts Tim to cancel.
Tim curses when he gets the text. He isn’t surprised to get it. But that doesn’t stop his heart from juddering.
“Sash, I’m going over. You coming?”
“Hurry up, Stoker, I’m already out the door.”
She is, and Tim scrambles to catch up.
He doesn’t want to admit how tightly he holds her hand on the tube.
The apartment door is cool to the touch.
As it should be, Tim’s fire-fighter brain supplies. But this is a little too cold.
A little frosty. The door knob mottled by the cold.
He knocks. Loudly. Shave-and-a-haircut. “Martin?”
Martin knows it’s Tim. Intellectually, he knows it has to be. That’s how Tim always knocks. But it jolts Martin out of the cold ball he has made himself into, and …nowhere.
Part of him is shoved against a wall with Jane Prentiss banging on the door. Part of him is pierced by the guilt that Tim has come all this way just for him and that he is stupid and needy and worthless for needing looking after, just a parade of guilt and isolation because he never learned how to grow up. Part of him is back in his closet hands over his ears as his parents fought, then barged in to give him an apology that never really apologized, just made him feel like he’d done wrong or that no matter how tidy and quiet he was he would never be worthy or clean. And part of him is still on a distant beach. Distant in distance and emotion.
And he can’t breathe.
Memories in his lungs.
Guilt in his throat.
Coughing and choking on the chilly air, too busy drowning to even call out to the Tim shaped life preserver banging on his door. His hands going numb and his muscles spasming.
Useless. Can’t go a weekend without Jon without a panic attack. Stupid. Codependent. Needy. Clingy. Worthless excuse for an adult. Can’t be a person for a single weekend.
Tim unlocks the door without getting a response. Of course he has a key.
He can’t say he’s surprised to find Martin hyperventilating and crying silently on the couch in a slightly foggy flat. He would like to have been surprised by this… but he isn’t.
Martin’s been having a rough go of it recently. Becoming and EMT means less time at home and with Jon. Less time to see his therapist. And Tim knows Martin has talked to Jon about this, and to his therapist, and to Tim and to Sasha, but that doesn’t help the reality of this. Martin is worn thin, and he knows it too, which is why Tim and Sasha were going to visit with him anyhow.
“Hey, buddy?” Tim eases himself closer to Martin.
Sasha is… not the most comfortable getting cried on. She prefers doing things to provide comfort not actually physically being there. She’s done it for Tim a few times, but she prefers showing her love in other ways. Like with a favorite meal. Or pirating a favorite movie. Or buying interesting rocks. Little ways to show love without… getting damp or snotty. Tim knows this, and figures she has slipped off to fetch Martin’s electric blanket, and start the kettle on the hob, and send a text to Jon, saying something to the effect of: please call.
Tim is all for damp hugs. He is all for clinging to someone like they are the last hope in the world, or as if he can hold that person together as the world tries to shake them to pieces. He’s done that with Jon in the distant past… and the very recent past. He’s done that with Sasha a few times, but not as often. And he has done that with Martin… just as he does this time.
Asking permission, of course.
Getting a jerky nod in answer to ‘is touch okay?’
He gathers Martin into his arms. He knows how much pressure Martin likes. He might not be as good a hugger as Martin, but he likes to think he’s a close second (with Sasha coming in third, and Jon in last place. Those noodle arms of his docking points).
“Buddy, can you breathe for me?”
Martin shakes his head, gasping some things that certainly don’t quite count as breaths.
“Martin, you’re scaring me, please take a breath?” Tim keeps murmuring to him for several minutes before it seems like Martin is getting any oxygen to his brain. But, Tim supposes, since he hasn’t passed out, he’s probably managing. “That’s really, really good, bud. Think you can manage some grounding exercises? Either that or I tell Sash to find you a lemon. Not the old school name for sexy time fan fiction, but an actual lemon. I read somewhere that biting one can help stop a panic attack, but I keep forgetting to try it. Do you wanna try that? Or should we stick with the more conventional?”
Martin signs he wants the grounding exercises.
Tim huffs a laugh. Martin isn’t the biggest fan of lemon. “We can try that one another time. Can you name five things you can see?”
Martin signs “Couch, you, my hands, the ceiling, the coffee table.”
Tim presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Good. Now four things you can feel? Or is it four you can hear and three you can feel? Fucked if I know. You’d think I would know this after doing it every few weeks. You’d have to ask Sash or Jon. Just… uh go with the first one. I guess. Buddy, you are doing great.”
Martin’s hands are clumsy and shaky and never were the best at BSL, but Tim can understand him well enough. He names four of each just to be safe. And it does help calm him down…. but Tim is pretty sure he loses Martin to his mind not long after.
Martin staring blankly at the ceiling as Tim runs a hand through his hair. He isn’t as into it as Jon is, but Martin seems to like it.
He’s warmed up enough to start shivering, which Tim is pretty sure is a good thing. Right? When you stop shivering is when you should worry about hypothermia. Plus, he has the electric blanket that Sasha found, and some tea, so he’s probably doing better.
And Sash convinced Jon to start back home. Yeah Martin will probably feel guilty about it, but Jon wouldn’t forgive them if they didn’t keep him posted about Martin’s wellbeing.
Martin must have fallen asleep. Or… did he just go all space cadet on Tim and Sasha? …He shouldn’t have done that. If he hadn’t canceled their plans, they would have all had a nice evening even if they were babysitting a grown man….
Shut up Martin inner monologue!
He takes a few deep breaths before he can spiral again.
He opens his eyes to see Jon curled against his chest. And Martin half on top of Tim, and Sasha curled up against Jon.
Martin is exhausted. Panicking having sucked any life in him away hours ago. He can’t bring himself to move. He can’t even bring himself to pay attention to the movie that he is sure is his favorite that is playing quietly on the television. He breathes deep the smell of Jon’s conditioner. The smell of Tim’s deodorant. The softest hint of Sasha’s lip balm. And he tucks the electric blanket a little tighter around himself, and lets himself rest.