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The return to the boat was quiet. Basira strode beside them, the furrow between her brows the only sign of how all they learned had affected her. Jon felt like he was vibrating out of his skin with the burden of it--it was too much, all too much, and if he let himself think about it he wasn’t sure if he could force his limbs to keep walking. And Martin…
Jon was never good at reading others’ expressions, their body language. It made the thicket of human interaction that much thornier. But he had studied Martin’s like a sacred text, and what he recognized there replaced the storm of his thoughts with a slow, cold dread. Martin walked with shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around his torso, in a way that Jon hadn’t seen since he led Martin out of the Lonely. Though now his face held none of that weary blankness it did before: shock and guilt and fearful anger chased each other round and round. And worst of all, he wouldn’t turn his face towards Jon.
Jon took a deep breath, and reached for Martin’s hand. It twitched in his grip, but stayed, though still Martin looked away. Jon squeezed his hand.
“Your hands are sticky,” he teased, and hated how his voice wavered.
“Web’ll do that,” Martin answered, tight and flat.
The shore was in view now. Jon hadn’t been grateful for the lake on the long journey here, but now with Martin’s hand in his, chafed red and grimy with web, it looked like an oasis.
Jon turned to Basira. “I’m sorry to ask, but could we have a bit of privacy? You’ll be safe as long as you stay close by.”
Basira scoffed, but there was a hint of a smile on her face as she replied, “I was handling myself fine before you showed up in your little rescue rowboat, you know.” She waved a hand. “Just don’t take too long.”
As Basira turned away, Martin visibly slumped next to him. “Guess we’re doing this now, huh?” he said, eyes still turned away. “Jon, look, I’m sorry—”
Jon interrupted him with a touch on his arm. “That’s not why I sent her away. Come on.”
With that, he tugged Martin resolutely towards the water’s edge. He knew every terror that lurked in the depths, but at the shore it was simply a lake. Martin followed, and at Jon’s coaxing sat on a stone by the rippling surface.
Jon pulled a couple rags from his pack, as clean as anything could be now. “Good thing you packed these, right?” he said as he dipped one into the water. He’d been hopelessly endeared at Martin’s enthusiasm for his own packing job; the flash of smug pride in Martin’s face each time they found use for something they brought along was worth the extra weight it took to carry.
No such luck this time. Martin just hummed, eyes downcast. Jon rested his fingertips on Martin’s chin and gently wiped where the gag had left its grime by his mouth, then leaned to kiss the corner of his mouth.
Martin started, then looked stricken. “Jon—“
“As much as I wanted to kiss you right away, I refuse to get spiderwebs in my mouth,” said Jon with exaggerated primness. When Martin’s expression didn’t change, Jon let out a sigh. “Just let me do this. Please. I...I was so afraid to start on this journey because all I had to lose was you, and...“ Jon swallowed. “I just need to know you’re still here.”
Martin looked like he wanted to argue, but dipped his head. “Only if I get to return the favor when we get back to the tunnels. I can smell that you rowed all the way here,” he answered, a hint of the usual lilt in his voice.
Jon snorted and lifted Martin’s chin so he could run the cloth down his throat. He resisted the urge to kiss him there, too, but let his thumb caress just below his jawline. “As if we could get that much privacy there.”
“Oh, but I have the inside scoop. Melanie’s therapist told me where the sex tunnels were, in case we wanted ‘privacy.’” The last word was accompanied by air quotes.
“The what?” His face must be a sight, because Martin almost grinned.
“The all-knowing Eye doesn’t know about the tunnels of ‘private contemplation?’ Of course, I didn’t have the heart to tell her there’s no way we would need them.”
Something tight squeezed round Jon’s chest, and it was all he could do to not pull Martin down for another kiss. He’d tried to explain, once, why every casual sign of acceptance filled his heart to bursting; Martin may or may not have understood the depth of it, but Jon didn’t miss the way the little gestures continued.
Instead, he took one of Martin’s hands and soothed the cloth over the rawness the bindings left behind. “Unless we illicitly use them for outside their intended purpose.”
“Mm. Illicit sponge baths.”
“Precisely.”
They fell silent as Jon worked. The webbing came away easily enough, though Jon had to fight back the revulsion that always welled up at its touch. Jon lingered a moment longer than he needed to with each hand, savoring the thrum of the pulse against his fingertips. He left another light kiss on Martin’s knuckles before shifting behind him to get to his hair.
Martin learned into his touch, and Jon hoped that the silence that fell between them was peaceful. He was never good at reading such things. But then he caught sharp little intakes of breath, like half-starts of words not quite said, before Martin let out a long, shaky sigh.
“I’m sorry I left you.”
Jon’s breath escaped him in a rush. “Martin—“
Martin turned a pleading face towards him. “No, listen, I can’t handle it hanging over my head the whole way we go back.”
Jon hesitated. When the others suggested Martin had gone on his own free will, he couldn’t wrap his mind around it, but during the long hours of rowing the possibility had eaten at him. He just couldn’t understand why. And here Martin was willing to tell him at last, he quailed at the offer. He just wanted to bask in the real solidness of Martin with him, and ignore the dull, bleeding ache of what just happened. “If you’re sure,” he managed, voice strained.
“I am,” said Martin, brow furrowed in determination. He began to pluck at the ragged edge of his sleeve. “I’m just...I’m really sorry, Jon. I know it turned out okay, but it didn’t occur to me how horribly it could all go wrong until she had me tied to a chair waiting for you to show up. That she’d do something to me to hurt you, or, or use me as leverage, or bait— Well, guess I was bait.” The last word was leaden with bitterness.
Martin shifted, and when he continued, his voice sounded far away. “You know...I kept thinking. Why didn’t I think of it the whole way there? We walked for ages, and the whole time I was so sure you’d come to save me if anything went wrong. But I knew she had the camera.” He hunched forward at that, breath shuddering.
Jon’s fingers stilled in Martin’s hair. “That...had occurred to me, yes.”
“But it didn't occur to me. Or…it kind of did? When Annabelle first showed up, every worst case scenario flooded my mind, and then just...left. All I could think of was how afraid I was to lose you, and all I could think was that I had to know if she really had another way.”
Jon froze at left my mind, but held back the question burning behind his teeth.
Martin was picking at his hands now. “I-I could have gotten you killed or worse, in the only place in the world where you can be hurt. It was so stupid, I—“ His voice cracked.
“Hey-- Hey, hey…” Jon circled round, reaching to take both of Martin’s hands in his own, stilling them. The memory of the fear and turmoil that swallowed him when he first found Martin missing pressed in on him, but he steadied his voice and said as firmly as he could, “It’s alright. I’ve done a lot of reckless things too—“
Martin gave a strained laugh. “Yeah, you have.”
“—That backfired much worse than this,” Jon pressed on. “I know what it’s like to feel if you don’t rush forward, you’ll lose those you care about, only to find it’s just some monster’s trap yet again.”
Martin let out a shaky breath. “God, we’re a mess, aren’t we?”
Jon chuckled his agreement, and let a silence fall as he ran his thumbs over Martin's hands. “I forgive you,” he said at length, words strange and clumsy in his mouth. It was much easier to dismiss apologies, insist they weren’t needed, but Martin needed to hear it. Maybe he needed to say it.
Martin finally, finally looked up at him, and though his smile was wan, Jon basked in it.
“Remember back in the theater, when I wandered off?” said Martin.
In the sea of horrors constantly pressing against his thoughts, Jon felt one try to surface, threatening to yank him back in with hooks and laughter. He blinked rapidly and focused on his boyfriend’s hesitant frown. “I do, yes,” he answered cautiously.
“You offered— well. I was scared the Web had influenced me, and you offered to check. And I said no.”
Jon nodded, slow and careful as he mulled over his next words. “Did you want me to...check? If that’s what she did earlier?”
Martin didn’t answer right away. “No,” he said at length, staring again at the ground. “Not earlier. I just—I just need to know if she’s in there now. If she wanted me as more than just bait, and I’m just playing along leading you to your doom or— I don’t know, something.”
Jon reached to tilt Martin’s chin up until he could catch his gaze. “You don’t have to do this for my sake, Martin.”
“It’s for mine, too. I trust you, Jon. I want you to do this.”
Jon’s next breath came shaky, and he gave in to the urge to kiss Martin’s knuckles. “Just this once, then. I’ll only look when you ask me.”
Letting himself See into someone’s mind was an entirely unromantic affair. It was a struggle to allow himself a blind spot, especially one so close, especially the object of his affection and attention. But Jon leaned in towards Martin, resting their foreheads together with hands clasped, and let himself in.
Thought washed over him, fresh and untapped, and something dark and deep reared back to drink it greedily down down down, to feast on fear and knowledge withheld, kept aside to age like heady wine—
Jon gripped the hands in his and focused on the breath ghosting over his lips, and found the thread to follow like a guideline.
Martin looked surprised when Jon sat up a minute later. “Oh— you’re done? I didn’t feel anything.”
Jon smiled. “That’s rather the point.”
“And...no spiders?”
“No spiders.” Jon leaned to brush the hair from Martin’s forehead, and laid a kiss on his brow.
Martin’s whole body slumped with relief. “Just left with my own webs, then,” he sighed. “It’s the stupidest thing...you’d think of all the things to be upset about, finding out I was right about myself would barely cause a ripple.”
Jon felt his eyes narrow, and reined in an expression he’d learned could look judgmental. He kept an equal grip on his tone as he pressed, “Right about what?”
Martin waved a hand. “Just...it’s stupid. I always knew I was a manipulative bastard, just hearing from her, and knowing that the Web liked it—heh. Not so fun to hear!”
It was like a bucket of freezing water had been poured on his head. For a moment Jon could only stare, transfixed on the hangdog way Martin hunched in front of him, the resigned look on his face.
“When— what? Since when are you manipulative?”
Martin leveled an unimpressed look at him. “You don’t have to make me feel better about it, Jon.”
“I’m not! I-I mean, I want to make you feel better, but—what?”
Martin heaved a sigh, and again Jon was reminded of the fog on his breath after the Lonely. “D’you need me to spell it out? All that...getting tea for people, chatting them up, tricking them into thinking I was just some...some genuinely nice person, when I was just tricking them into liking me.”
“Tricking—" All the words that wanted to force their way out at once jammed in his throat, but something tugged at a familiar feeling: that he had tricked Martin into loving a man who no longer existed, and who didn’t deserve love back when he did. Jon swallowed the flood of confused stammering and laid a hand on Martin’s cheek. “Martin. You didn’t trick anyone. You deserve to be liked. In fact, anyone who doesn’t like you is a right prick.”
Martin smiled weakly, seeing the joke set up for him. “Didn’t you…”
“Yes, Martin, I was a right prick,” said Jon with feigned impatience. Then hoping every ounce of the sincerity he felt showed on his face, he continued. “I never told you what a lifeline you were, when things started going so terribly wrong. The tea, the lunches, the— Christ, the jar of ashes— It was all I could do not to sleep with that under my pillow.” Jon huffed an awkward laugh.
Martin squirmed, more unreadable emotions fighting their way across his face. “But with Elias and Peter--”
“Jonah and Peter Lukas already saw you as a pawn from the start,” said Jon, not bothering to hide the venom in his voice. “You just let them continue thinking that.”
“I guess…” The despair had ebbed from Martin’s face, but still the frown stubbornly creased his brow.
Jon knew this ran deep, and he was no therapist; there was no way to fight this insecurity all in one go. Still, he drew himself up and said with all the certainty he could muster, “I know it’s hard to believe just hearing it, but I will say one thing: the Web would feast on your fear of being manipulative, even more than if you truly were.”
“My boyfriend, such a flatterer, letting me know I’m even a tastier spider feast than I thought.” But his laugh was watery, and he tugged a hand free from Jon’s to rub it across his eyes. “Ugh. Better a feast than one of them. Especially knowing how much they hurt you.”
Jon felt his muscles seize, his breath go thin. “Not now,” he whispered. “Let’s-- I can’t talk about that now.”
But Martin was already gathering him in his arms, and Jon let himself relax into the solid warmth. There was a soft litany of It’s okay, it’s okay, I love you, thank you, soft as a breath against his ear, and Jon clung back with all his might.
--
Basira returned with suspiciously perfect timing just as they had finished rinsing out the rags. “Let’s get going,” she said without preamble, and herded Martin into the boat.
Jon didn’t follow right away, making a show of untying the rope that moored the boat in place. “Thank you,” he said under his breath.
“Don’t mention it. Now you can’t accuse me of not giving you a moment,” Basira answered with a smirk. “You two have been through a lot. Figured you needed it.”
Jon let out a shaky breath. “We did,” was all he said, and handed her the rope before climbing into the boat.
Martin had already settled himself with the oars, a determined look on his face. “I’ll take first go; need to work out the stiffness. Besides--” he went on with a hint of pride, “I’m not the worst rower.”
“If you insist,” said Jon, and hoped that the heat rising in his face didn’t betray how much he’d been daydreaming of that on the way here.