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At first, Martin didn't know how to feel about Jon, about the almost unnoticeable mushrooms that grew out of some patches of skin, out of his soft, lovely hair. About his soft scent, one that reminded Martin of old bookstores, of libraries older than himself. Even the strange lines he could see tracing their way under his skin, the mycelia that filled his veins.
He had reminded Martin of Jane, in some ways. His song was softer, less intrusive, didn't try and wriggle its way into Martin's bones.
"Only if you want it," Jon told him once, reassuring.
Still, it took time to trust the corruption avatar. Jane and Martin's isolation was a scar on his soul. It was easy to trust some days; other times it was difficult, the paranoia of the archives these days even too much for Martin.
Still. It was nice to have some friendly company, some kind words and simple conversation.
Jon wasn't a poet by nature, not like Martin, although he did have a theatrical, musical streak. Martin would catch him humming, tying words to the music Jon heard from within himself. It did sound nice, Martin had to admit. It made him wonder, occasionally, what it would be like to never be alone. To have that feeling of complete certainty that someone loves you through and through.
"I didn't really have that, growing up," Jon had murmured, explained, staring into his tea. "My grandmother raised me, sure, but warm is not exactly how to best describe her methods."
Martin had known exactly what Jon meant, staring down at his own drink, and at a small burn on his pinky from a childhood cooking incident gone wrong. He still couldn't completely feel the nerves in that finger, though it wasn't like he couldn't use it.
With Sasha away so much, and Tim so angry and cold, and two new additions to the archival crew, Martin felt like an outsider, in a way. Watching. Trying to mediate and failing. Trying to help, his attempts clumsy and meager against the quiet anger and distance that was growing between them all.
Then, of course, the Unknowing happened. Left Melanie and Daisy dead, Basira more calculating than ever. Left Sasha in a coma, more dead than alive. Tim was a wreck, angrier and colder at the same time. Martin hated it, hated what they had become.
He spent more time with Jon, who they did not trust. Jon, who was an escape. Jon who listened and helped when Jared had invaded the archives, despite his issues with the Distortion, their other strange ally. Jon, who Martin found himself more and more attached to.
Martin was the first who Peter came to. Offered a deal. It wasn't him who took it though; Tim did, agreeing, for Sasha's sake. For everyone's sake.
Jon offered his own deal, a gift, when Martin's mother died. Promised him love. Promised him understanding and safety from the Lonely that had continued to pervade the Institute. The deal hadn't included Corruption's influence, just Jon's love, but Martin had chosen to take Jon's sweet mushrooms into himself. Their song—Jon's song—was sweet, and soft, and more like home than any place, any person in a very long time.
It had hurt, the ache of change, of new things growing inside him, sinking deeper and deeper into Martin like they were at long last settling into the spaces in Martin's body and soul where they belonged. It was easier with Jon holding his hand, humming that familiar song, curled around Martin.
In the wake of his change, for the first time in a very long time, Martin felt right . Felt whole and wanted and welcome.
"Thank you, Jon," he murmured, kissing Jon's hands, his lips, kissing the body that felt as much his as his own physical form.
He won't allow himself to regret it. Regret Jon. Doesn't think he can, now. Not if it meant a future, warped and strange and beautiful.