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“Jon,” Martin says, amused. “What are you doing?”
Jon mumbles something that Martin can’t quite catch, his face buried in the crook of Martin’s neck and his hands fisted in the front of Martin’s jumper.
“Mm, I didn’t quite catch that, love.”
Jon groans, low in his throat, and pulls back just enough to say, “I’m cold. Whoever built this house clearly did not have Scottish winters in mind.” Under his breath, he mutters, “Shoddy workmanship, that’s what this is.”
Martin hums and wraps his arms around Jon, pulling him tightly to his chest. “Maybe Daisy just never got around to insulating the place.”
Jon makes an unintelligible grumbling noise and buries his nose in Martin’s hair. Martin can picture the look on Jon’s face—that little furrow he gets between his eyes when he’s irritated, the way his nose wrinkles as he says words like shoddy—and he can’t help the fond smile that comes to his lips. He shifts and presses a soft kiss to the crown of Jon’s head before saying, gently, “Do you want hot chocolate? I think I still have some of that dark chocolate you like in the cupboard.”
“Yes,” Jon says slowly, “but that would require you going to the kitchen, and then I’d get cold again, which would quite defeat the purpose.”
Martin pauses for a moment, considering. Then, with a conspiratorial grin on his face, he shifts his hands to Jon’s legs, ignoring Jon’s questioning noise, and stands, bringing Jon with him.
“Martin!” Jon yelps, a surprised laugh slipping free as he wraps his arms and legs around Martin like a limpet and grips tight enough to bruise. “What are you—Martin!”
Martin pauses, halfway to the kitchen, and says, “Yes, love?”
Jon makes an indignant, sputtering noise, but Martin catches a glimpse of a smile before Jon buries his face back into the crook of Martin’s neck and says, “Don’t- don’t drop me.”
“Never,” Martin says easily before traversing the remainder of the distance to the kitchen and setting Jon down safely on the counter. He pulls back, despite Jon’s protest, presses a soft kiss to Jon’s forehead, and says, “Let me go get the cocoa ready.”
As Martin pulls out the chocolate and the milk and switches on the old electric hob, Jon pulls the sleeves of his jumper—Martin’s jumper, actually, though they’re pretty much communal property by this point—over his hands and rests them on his knees. His feet swing gently, kicking up against the cabinets every so often, and the soft thud of a socked foot hitting wood endears Martin more than it has any right to.
Martin can feel Jon’s eyes on him as he prepares perhaps the fastest batch of hot chocolate he’s ever made, partly because of his own desire to chase away the bite of December air filtering in through the lackluster wood slats of the cottage and partly because if he doesn’t get Jon back in his arms right now, he might actually die.
Finally, finally, the chocolate is melted, and Martin mixes in a dash of cinnamon and nutmeg before switching off the hob and dividing the liquid between two mugs—a bright, cheery yellow for Jon, a swirl of dark green and blue for Martin. When he turns back to Jon, a mug in each hand, his eyes focus on something in Jon’s hand and a surprised laugh slips free.
“Where did you get that?”
“From the supermarket,” Jon quips, holding up the bottle of Baileys demonstratively. “You were there, if I recall.”
“Mm, yes, but you can be very good at smuggling things through the checkout,” Martin says. “A whole bottle of alcohol, though—very sneaky.”
“I’m really not trying to be,” Jon says, amused, before twisting off the top of the bottle with a flourish. He gestures toward the mugs with the bottle and says, “Yes or no?”
Martin bites his lip, considering, before giving Jon a small shrug. “Yeah, why not? A little shouldn’t hurt.”
Jon obligingly pours a dash of Baileys into Martin’s mug before adding a not-insubstantial amount to his own mug. They settle back onto the couch, mugs cradled between both hands. The gentle, flickering light from the fire reflects in Jon’s eyes and casts shadows across his cheeks and nose, and Martin feels affection swell within him, as warm and sweet as the cocoa in his hands.
“How much did you put in there?” Martin says some time later with a small laugh, when Jon’s mug is empty and his eyes are hazy with intoxication. Jon’s on his lap again, his legs bracketing Martin’s and his hands resting firmly on Martin’s shoulders. Which Martin is definitely not complaining about.
Jon shrugs and wiggles a bit closer, which is not helping the flush Martin can already feel creeping up the back of his neck. “Just a bit.” He gives Martin a smile a touch more lopsided than normal and says, “I… I will admit, my alcohol tolerance is… essentially non-existent.”
“Yeah, I got that,” Martin says, the words jumping up in pitch near the end when Jon leans forward and, without warning, places a feather-light kiss on the side of Martin’s jaw. “Jon.”
Jon shrugs and releases one of Martin’s shoulders so he can place his hand on Martin’s cheek. Martin feels every point of contact between them like pinpricks of static electricity, and he leans his face into Jon’s hand with a small, contented sigh. “I’ve been told that I get… touchy when I drink. And I’m already quite fond of touching you, so perhaps you can understand why I very strongly feel the need to kiss you right now.”
Martin flushes deeply, and his hands tighten on Jon’s sides. “Oh,” he says, embarrassed at the way his voice squeaks around the word. “Well, I- I’m quite fond of touching you too, and ki—”
The rest of Martin’s words are swallowed whole as Jon leans forward and kisses him, hot and fierce and a bit sloppy. Points for enthusiasm, Martin supposes, and he certainly isn’t going to complain about being kissed rather passionately by his very attractive boyfriend who he loves very much.
For a few minutes, there’s just this: Jon’s mouth hot on Martin’s, his hands tangling in Martin’s hair and pulling in a way that has Martin making little bitten-off noises against Jon’s lips, Martin’s hands gripping Jon’s hips tightly and his thumbs rubbing little circles across Jon’s sides. At some point, Jon shifts and knocks his empty mug off the couch and onto the rug. He breaks the kiss with a frown and twists to stare at the mug. After a moment, he shrugs and says, “It’s not broken,” before turning back and capturing Martin’s lips with his again, pushing Martin back against the couch as he does so.
Finally, out of necessity more than anything, Jon pulls back with a contented noise, just far enough to rest his forehead against Martin’s. His breaths ghost across Martin’s lips, quick and labored like he’s just run a marathon, and after a moment, he says, hoarsely, “I’ve decided, after considering all of the variables and conducting quite thorough research, that kissing you is unequivocally my favorite pastime.”
Something in Martin’s chest flutters at that, and he says with a wide smile, “Oh? Even more than reading? I’m honored.”
“Mm,” Jon says in affirmation. He pulls back further as a yawn splits his face in two before curling into Martin’s chest and resting his head against Martin’s shoulder. “I could tell you to ask again tomorrow when I’m once again fully in possession of my faculties, but my answer isn’t going to change.” He turns his head, presses a kiss to Martin’s collarbone, and says teasingly, “It’s official: I love you more than books.”
“Is that so?” Martin says, amused. He runs his hands down Jon’s back, lingering on his shoulder blades and the knobs of his spine before settling on Jon’s lower back and kneading that spot where Jon always caries tension. Jon makes a low, contented noise and somehow burrows further into the fabric of Martin’s jumper. “Well, then, I suppose I should inform you that I love you more than poetry.” After a moment of consideration: “I love you more than the cows.”
Jon lets out an exaggerated gasp and pulls back to give Martin an affronted look. “No, not the cows! They’re good cows, Martin. You said so yourself; I distinctly recall it.”
Martin laughs and leans forward to press a quick kiss to Jon’s nose. “You’re right, how rude of me. I retract my statement entirely; if we’re going in order, I love Martha the cow, then Francis the cow, then you.”
“Much better,” Jon says with faux severity. After a moment, though, his lips curl into a soft, affectionate smile and he moves his hands from Martin’s shoulders to the sides of his face, rubbing his thumbs gently over the top of Martin’s cheeks. “I do, though. Love you. Very much so, in fact.”
Around the sudden tightness in his throat—no, he will not cry, no matter how much the words make his heart swell with unbelievable fondness—Martin whispers, “I love you too. With all I have.”
The smile Jon gives him, unabashedly tender yet still shy around the edges, melts Martin utterly. Jon leans forward and presses another lingering kiss against Martin’s mouth before wrapping his arms around Martin’s neck and resting his forehead against Martin’s. “Bed?” he says softly, voice rough and weary around the edges.
“Bed,” Martin agrees.
And the surprised noise Jon makes when Martin sweeps him up in his arms again and carries him to the bedroom is like birdsong and wind chimes and the rustle of leaves, stunningly beautiful and tucked safely next to Martin’s heart.