Chapter Text
They sit on the same side of the booth, bodies curled to face one another. Jon watches Martin and the countryside that glides by the window behind him. The train cart judders on the tracks. Jon feels it in his cheeks, his shoes, where his arm is outstretched from his side to be cradled in both of Martin’s hands. Plump droplets patter onto his open palm and Martin swipes at them with his thumb. They smear across Jon’s skin only to be replaced with new ones. Jon supposes the sensible thing to do would be to grab a napkin or a tissue. But that would require moving. That would require looking away from Martin who is feeling emotions for the first time in months. Jon could nearly cry with joy himself. Martin is here and solid and holding Jon’s hand like it’s something precious.
Back in the Lonely, Jon had seen flickers of navy on grey, a translucent form huddled in the sand, and he ran as fast as he could. Even up close the outlines of him wavered with the fog, Jon’s fingers catching on air as he went to grab Martin’s shoulder. Now that they can touch again, Jon is not keen on letting go. Martin doesn’t appear to be either. But if he gets any of that self-sacrificing nonsense in his head Jon is ready to insist--to grab wrists, plea to stay right where they are.
Jon has so many words. They are fed to him in every which way the Beholding can find. But which of them are his own? There are times when the line feels like it’s thinning. Knowing becomes integrated into him as naturally as air when he breathes. Instead of sorting through the mess of information, exhaustion helps Jon take what would normally feel like a risk; he leans in, tucking his head into the soft cradle of Martin’s shoulder.
Martin is shaking out of time with the train now, his cheek cautiously coming to rest on Jon’s hair. They stay that way for a long while, Jon listening for the slow shift of stifled sobs into steady breath. This is more or less how the rest of their journey goes. When they arrive at the station they still have several legs of the route left, a bus, a taxi. The whole affair is quiet. Not uncomfortable per se, maybe necessary to start digesting all that happened in the past twenty four hours.
They walk up to the cottage just as night begins to fall. Jon fumbles with the key in its rusted lock until it relents, creaking and clicking open. The two stand in the entryway looking into the main room for a moment. Jon himself is unsure what needs done first. He puts his bag down and goes to inventory the kitchen. The pantry is sparse. But there is rice, pasta, oil. Some cans of food that are not overly expired. The gas stove houses a kettle. Jon tries to imagine Daisy using it and nearly laughs out loud. It’s white, well loved, with pink and purple flowers printed on the sides. It would look so tiny and out of place in her hands. Daisy was not serving tea in this cabin. (The specifics of which he tries to push out of his mind as the Beholding eagerly attempts to elaborate) Jon hears Martin coming in behind him while he fills the kettle at the sink.
“We’ll have to go into town for some food soon. Unless you want to live on plain pasta. Might be able to find a neighbor to sell us eggs, but I think we still want bread, vegetables…”
Jon turns around and sees Martin in the doorway looking at the floor on the verge of tears. Jon puts down the kettle and turns fully to Martin. “Hey...talk to me?”
Martin makes a blubbering laugh, “I feel so stupid. Having my emotions.” He laugh-cries again, dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve.
“...How can I” Jon starts, shuffling through the words in his head” do you--can I... hug you?”
Martin nods between noises so Jon walks over. He ends up enveloping his arms over Martin’s entire form, his ear pressed flush to Martin’s chest. And he holds him. And Martin, sobbing, lets himself be held. His body slouches into Jon’s as the grief and relief and feeling wrack his body.
They opt for herbal tea and a can of beans for dinner. Well, Martin has a can of beans and they blessedly do not have a conversation about it when Jon says he’s not hungry. The hot mug of tea gives Jon an excuse to stay nearby. He cups it in his hands enjoying the warmth as he watches Martin eat.
Martin’s scraping delicately at the inner edge of the can when Jon feels the first sparks of tingles trickle down his neck. Maybe it’s because of the simplicity of the meal, the unexpected nature of it, that he sinks into the space of relaxation so easily. His eyes lock into Martin’s movements.
The noise of the spoon is nearly inaudible. Martin picks around with the tip of the utensil before lifting tiny, curated bites into his mouth. The beans make slick sounds against one another as they get moved about in the can. I wonder if he’s always eaten like this, Jon finds himself thinking, or if it’s a habit from making his videos. His videos that Martin doesn’t know he watched. Which is a whole mess Jon does not have the energy to deal with at the moment. Particularly when his eyes want to flutter shut. Particularly when Martin is chewing so daintily with his mouth closed. Jon hopes he’s not leaning in over the table in his attempts to drink in the muffled sounds happening behind closed lips.
“Tired?” Martin asks, dabbing a napkin to his face.
Jon looks up from where he had been staring dazed at Martin’s mouth. “Yeah...yeah, suppose I am. Been a long day,” he concedes with a weary smile.
So they move their bags to the adjacent room to get settled. The room is sparse with a dresser on one wall and one night stand with a lamp near the headboard. The bed is not in great shape. It sits unmade on its boxspring, two pillows stacked at the end with a puffy comforter. Upon inspection of the dresser he finds some white sheets and pillow cases which he sets about fitting on the bed while Martin occupies the bathroom.
It’s not that Jon had been expecting or even hoping for two beds. If by some miracle there were two, Jon doesn’t fancy the idea of leaving Martin alone, susceptible to the creeping fog, for eight hours straight. But now that he’s here, preparing the bed they’ll sleep in, the reality of the arrangement sinks in. Sharing a bed has its own anxiety attached. He hasn’t shared a bed with someone since Georgie in uni. Martin eventually comes back, letting Jon use the bathroom. By the time Jon has brushed his teeth and changed into baggier clothes Martin is sitting in the bed looking over one of the books that was propped at the bottom of the nightstand.
He gives a shy smile in greeting and puts the book down. “You can turn off the lights, I’m done.”
So Jon does, stepping carefully with arms outstretched until he finds his way into the bed. And it’s quiet for several minutes, but the quality of the quiet is different than it had been the rest of the day. It holds a tension, a nervousness that hadn’t been there before. Martin starts picking at the edge of the comforter. His fingers catch on the ridge and pluck away in an erratic pattern. It’s... annoying, and it highlights how awake they both are and how foreign this is for them. And the anxiety sits palpable in the air and Jon isn’t able to tolerate it for long.
“Martin”
“Yes”
Jon shuffles a hand out from underneath the sheet and fumbles until he feels Martin’s curled fingers. “Stop that. If you’re going to pick at something don’t take it out on the bedding. You can pick at me instead.”
Which is a clumsy excuse even to his own ears, but Martin takes his hand nonetheless. He brings Jon’s palm close to his chest and tightens his grip. Martin’s thumb rubs mindlessly across the back of his hand, tracing the lines of puckered skin where Jon had not been touched so caringly in the past. Jon lets out a deep breath, the tension dissipating into comfort.
Martin continues the rub soothing lines with his fingers for a while, when suddenly the touch goes feather light below Jon’s wrist. Martin skims meandering lines up the length of his arm. His fingers flicker over the raised hairs of Jon’s skin.
In no world is Jon physically capable of stopping the moan that rumbles out of his throat. His body sinks into the bed, muscles closed for business. He would not be surprised if he has turned into a liquid and starts spilling off the side of the mattress.
Martin lets out a quiet laugh “Good?”
“Mmmf” Jon affirms into the side of Martin’s pillow.
Martin chuckles fondly and continues his ministrations up and down Jon’s arm. The lapping touches are reminiscent of a voice. The pressure and tempo of fingers change like the cadence of Jon’s speech when he coos at the Admiral. The skin of Jon’s arm is pebbled and sending delightful chills up his neck. After a while more, Jon lifts his head and butts it up against Martin’s shoulder who sighs contentedly in response.
Martin must stop at some point. He must turn onto his side and drape an arm around Jon’s waist. But Jon is far away whenever that happens. He has long drifted off into a mercifully dreamless sleep.