Chapter Text
These were the nights that Jon had come to appreciate most. Fire crackled away in the hearth. Its warm flicker was at a pleasant contrast to the blue glow of the television. Historically, Jon had never been a fan of Countdown. Game shows weren’t really his thing; they seemed … trite.
He was, however, very much a fan of Martin fawning over him when he smashed the letters round. The way his heart fluttered when Martin gushed brilliant man at him was really rather unbeatable.
Countdown had shifted into an episode of the Simpsons (‘Oh, I used to watch this when mum went to bed, I thought I was being so rebellious’) and then to a cooking show neither of them particularly cared for and then a drowsy sort of travel show led by a soporific narrator. Both of them were not yet ready to go to bed, but growing closer by the minute.
Jon had piled up their dirty plates in the sink, but the kitchen was dark and therefore no longer existed in Jon’s mind. He’d deal with it later.
Vulnerability was strange, as a concept. There was no question of the connection they had, everything they had been through. Martin had seen him at his worst – even taking into account that they both had different definitions of Jon’s worst. Jon did not think he’d seen Martin at his worst, for a variety of reasons, but he was intent on making sure that Martin did not have a ‘worst’ again.
But he never thought he could feel so himself around another person. So disinterested in putting up a front, in proving himself. Perhaps that had as much to do with what he’d been through as much as it had to do with Martin himself. Hard to worry about what people on the street thought of him when he’d been the god of a ruined world.
Whatever the cause, one thing was for certain. Jon was happier, both in his relationship and in his life, now that he didn’t worry so much. He clambered into Martin’s lap without a single thought about being dignified about it.
“Bony bum,” Martin teased, his head lolled back on the sofa. Jon pulled his knees halfway up to his chest, reaching for his medicine bag. Martin’s arms wrapped around his back and his legs. If they weren’t careful, they’d fall asleep like this.
Jon dumped his pill organizer on his lap. The bottles in the bag clacked together as he replaced it back on the endtable. He gave the organizer a shake in Martin’s direction. “Dessert?”
Martin tilted his head up and smiled wearily, his fringe starting to fall in his face. They’d need to get that cut soon. “Stuffed, thanks.”
He popped open the slot for Thursday. A handful of pills with different shapes and colors awaited him. Arms shifting, Martin passed him what remained of his tea. “You add in the newest one yet?”
‘The newest one’ had only been acquired earlier that morning. A prescription strength antacid. Jon really should have seen that coming. All of his bodily systems had been put through a blender, more or less. Eating had been fine; it was the nighttime nausea that really got to him. He’d been determined to tough it out. It wasn’t that bad, and he woke up all hours of the night for miscellaneous other reasons anyway.
Except Martin had found things out. Sort of. It was only a matter of time; Martin didn’t exactly sleep through the night either. A week ago at two in the morning, he’d come into the loo to find Jon practically trembling with nausea against the shower. Jon had made eye contact, announced formally, “I think I’m going to be ill,” and was, in fact, just that.
Martin hadn’t dragged him back to the hospital, but there had been some cajoling involved.
Jon picked up the wide tablet and displayed it to Martin. “Tasty.” He popped it in his mouth, took another sip of tea, and swallowed. “You know, I really ought to start paying you. Chauffeuring me around like you do.”
The slightly indignant noise made Jon smile. Some of the emotion behind Jon’s words was genuine – he went to plenty of doctor visits after being released from inpatient care. Loads of Martin sitting around in waiting rooms. Yes, yes, he knew it was inconsequential (after all that they’d gone through, waiting was not a horror), but he found that he had rather enough of dragging Martin around to places. Frankly, he liked the reassurance that Martin didn’t mind. Jon was beginning to realize that the alternative, Martin not being at his side when the appointment ended, was worse for both of them.
Besides, things were beginning to let up. They’d gotten him on a fairly stable medical regimen. Good. The little hospital cafe had decent turnovers, but that was about all the hospital had going for it. Now, Jon found himself limping across well-traversed linoleum only once or twice a week.
He took another one of his pills. Anti-seizure. Fun one, that. Another, an iron supplement. Another, low blood pressure. Martin was watching him with a gaze more adoring than supervisory. “This what does it for you?” Jon asked, raising an eyebrow. “Watching men swallow pills? I won’t judge.”
Ha! That embarrassed him. Martin’s eyes flicked away, staring at the wall. “Shut up,” he muttered. What a timeless comeback that was. “I just like looking at you. You look more …”
“More …?”
“Composed?” Martin didn’t much like that. “No. Non-desperate?”
“I think I’d like to go back to composed, if it’s all the same to you.”
“I’m not wording this right. It’s just, Back Then - “ As an analogy to Back Then always included, Martin gestured vaguely towards the air. “You were so … rough with yourself. It made me wince with how tightly you pulled your hair back, your jacket was always falling off your shoulders, your shoelaces weren’t ever tied.”
To think that Martin had noticed that about him during the apocalypse was strange. “Er?”
“I wasn’t judging. Honestly, I was afraid your skin would peel back like a banana and it’d be all eyes inside. I’m just saying, in contrast now …” Martin reached up to take a piece of Jon’s hair, hanging loose around his shoulders, and tucked it behind his ear. “You’re less man-on-a-mission.”
Jon had to suppose that was true, but he found himself looking down over his body anyway. He was never much interested in fashion and style and the like, but his body was no longer an inconvenient vessel, a suitcase full of rocks.
Very clearly, Jon remembered having to stomp down a white-hot spike of rage when his hair had the audacity to blow into his face. I have to deal with a mortal form and it has the goddamn nerve to bother me with petty inconveniences?
Things had changed.
Jon liked to pull his hair into a loose braid sometimes. He had discovered the joy of cardigans and sweatervests. Cologne smelled nice, particularly when it was Martin’s.
“It’s just that you really are the most beautiful person I’ve ever – oh god, sorry! Sorry, are you okay?” Martin gushed while Jon choked on tea and air and possibly a pill.
“Fine.” Jon’s hoarse tone indicated that it was probably not fine. “Fine, just - “ I think I may have gasped like a Jane Austen protagonist. The warm fluttering in his chest, however, was most certainly Martin’s fault and not that of his esophagus. “That was good. No, I think I’ve swallowed it, it’s fine.” Jon patted Martin’s searching hands away.
Martin, in return, let out a nervous titter. "Should time those better. Um. Just, point is, I’ll happily drive you to doctors for the rest of my life. They’re helping you get better, I’m – I’m grateful, really.”
Yes, he did like that reassurance. Jon took down the last few with relative ease, wincing. Pills tended to taste bitter. “Perhaps I’ll repay you the favor someday, in case you ever …”
That was where the gears started to turn. He hadn’t thought of it before then. When they’d woken up Somewhere Else, to say that Jon needed medical attention was a massive understatement. It may have been frankly more efficient to wheel Jon down to the morgue and wait five minutes.
Everything else beyond had been a blur. At some point, Jon had simply taken his many doctor visits as a rule of life. Astronauts went to space, Egyptologists went to Egypt, Jonathan Sims went to the doctor. But had any of those visits been for Martin? Had he recalled any mention of Martin going off on his own accord? A tight, cold knot started to form between his shoulder blades. “Martin?” Jon asked, glancing upwards. “When was the last time you saw the doctor, then?”
“Oh!” Martin had to think of it, blowing a thoughtful raspberry as he did. “Uh, ten, maybe eleven years ago? A while.”
“Martin!” That was enough. Jon tried to get up – but, in his comfortable, almost cradled position, he only succeeded in flailing a bit. “We’ve got to call and schedule you an appointment.”
One would have thought he’d just offered to chew on Martin’s fingernails. “What for?”
“What for!?” Clearly, they had come at this from very different angles. “Martin, we’ve – you’ve - “ He couldn’t get anything out. In frustration, Jon threw his hands up in the air. “We’re not in the same universe anymore!”
“I mean. Yeah?”
“Who knows what effect that could have on a human body, it could be carcinogenic, it could be – Christ, we’re lucky our hearts didn’t just stop the moment we got here.”
“But they didn’t. And I feel fine, Jon.” Martin didn’t seem offended by the notion, but rather faintly amused by it. “Seriously! You’re the one who got drug through hell holding onto barbed wire. As physical things went, I got off pretty easy.”
“Pretty easy,” Jon scoffed, but he knew – though he would not admit it – that perhaps it was true. Martin had suffered very few physical scars. A few lopsided corkscrew ones on his leg from his time in his flat (matching tattoos, Jon would occasionally coo when he felt maudlin).
There had been another symptom, back in their world, one which Jon was glad they never had to present to a doctor. How would they explain Martin’s pulse points (his wrist, above his temple, his neck, and others) feeling as cold as ice? His heartbeat was as regular as anything, but cold to the touch. Highly unusual. Martin had been self-conscious, often robing himself in the thickest jumpers he owned in order to disguise it.
He leaned up, now, and kissed just above Martin’s temple. A warm beat played against his lips. Lovely.
“I just worry, you know? Yes, yes, you say you’re fine, and perhaps you are, but it’d stop out that last lingering worry. Besides. You’re in your thirties. Mid-thirties, practically.” Jon ignored Martin’s noise of protest at the sheer implication of his advancing age. “There’s tests to be ran.”
“Well … I don’t know, Jon. Seems like a bit of a hassle when I feel fine.”
Jon pursed his lips together. He tended to do that when the urge to throttle Martin surpassed a certain point. Perhaps that was unfair. He loved Martin so tenderly; Martin had a certain way of making him feel like a shaking-knee fumbling teenager. But Martin was also spectacularly bullheaded. If he had his way, he would putter about in the same rut for decades until he couldn’t get himself out of it anymore.
“Compromise, then, we’ll schedule your appointment to align with one of mine. That way, you can wait in a doctor’s office instead of a waiting room.”
Martin still didn’t seem convinced. “I’d rather it not be super involved, thanks.”
“They’re not going to ask you to drop trou for a basic check-up, Martin. Unless …” Jon’s eyes flicked up and down. ‘Something the matter down there?”
“No! No. I’m just saying.”
And there, Jon thought he’d lost the case. He wasn’t going to push too much on it. Going to the doctor was a bit of a sensitive thing, he wasn’t going to drag Martin by the hair or anything, etc etc. Still. A plan drew together in his mind, one that involved printing out copious amounts of articles on the Internet about how stress affected physical health and leaving them at roughly Martin’s eye-level. Before the decent part of him could step in and analyze whether that was sensible or overcontrolling, Martin let out a sigh.
“Okay. One appointment.”
Jon jolted, surprised.
“It’s just that we go to the clinic, like, every other day. You’re going to be relentless about it. I know you, Jon.”
Pricklings of self-doubt started to claw their way up Jon’s spine. Relentless? He was relentless? “I like it about you,” Martin reassured quickly, “And I know you’re right. Rationally. I just don’t want to go through the hassle.”
“But you will?”
“Yes, because my boyfriend is a heartless monster who wants to make sure that I’m not dying from time-travel sickness.”
Jon did not add that, were Martin actively dying from time-travel sickness, it was taking its damn time. Six months and nary a symptom. “Yes, well,” Jon added, looping one arm around Martin’s neck. “I have to fuss. You rarely grant me the opportunity.”
“Oh, sorry, Mr. Saved-the-World.” It was a conversation that they’d had since everything changed; Jon feared that he’d be having this conversation for the rest of his life. As if taking Jon’s hint, Martin wrapped his arms around Jon and pushed himself to a standing position. Jon was jostled a bit in Martin’s arms. “Pardon me, but I think you ought to let yourself be taken care of now. Reclining on a chaise lounge, being fed grapes, clad in a red robe.”
“Purple.”
“Hm?”
“Typically a, er, a Roman fantasy, the chaise lounge and being fed by grapes thing. Nobility wore purple. Or white with a purple or gold border.”
Martin’s face softened immeasurably. “I love you so much.”
Their position didn’t lend itself well to an embrace. At least, not from Martin’s end. Jon wrapped his other arm about Martin’s neck and pulled him down. Martin half-staggered through the hallway, neck awkwardly craned but kissing Jon back nevertheless. When they made it to the bed, Martin misjudged his gait and fell forward. Jon was practically tossed onto it, bouncing once and starting to laugh. A second later, and Martin joined in.
***
Jon’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. He’d gotten the news thirty minutes ago via text. God, Jon had never been more grateful for mobile phones. It wasn’t even devastating news, not really, but the buffer of a text had given him time to process everything.
Clearly not very well. They hadn’t said a word since they’d gotten in the car. Jon didn’t know how to read the silence. Instead, he pulled out of the car park and started home. The appointment had gone long; the darkness didn’t help matters. Made the inside of the car feel like a bloody spotlight on them.
It wasn’t heartlessness, of course. He wanted to hug Martin. A part of him wanted to cry, even. But the news – that Martin would require surgery for a previously undetected hernia – wasn’t worth that, surely?
He didn’t know. He just hadn’t wanted to worry Martin. This wasn’t helping either, though.
They got ten minutes into their ride of painful, aching silence before Martin interrupted. “I’m so sorry,” he gushed as if it were one word.
Jon wasn’t expecting that. “Sorry?”
“I thought it was nothing. Seriously, I thought, you know, everyone’s got stomach pains from time to time, and I know I’m big, but I really don’t think I’m very strong, so obviously – “
Christ, and people said that his mind moved a mile a minute. “Martin, I’m still a bit stuck on the apology.”
“I should have known something was the matter, shouldn’t I have? There’s been pain and stuff before, but I – I don’t know.”
Oh. Oh, lord. “Martin, regardless of whether that’s true, it’s not something you have to apologize for. Why would I be upset at you?” It was not a question he wanted Martin to answer. “Not thrilled,” he added, out of the corner of his mouth, “That you’ve been in pain and not letting on, though.”
“I didn’t want to worry you? Besides, it wasn’t ever bad, and laying down helped, so I just figured – I don’t know, muscle stuff?”
“Muscle stuff.” Jon wanted to shoot a glare to Martin, because plenty of terrible things could occur from muscle stuff, but ... bad driving etiquette.
“Look, it only got really bad when I was lifting things.”
Jon was going to lose his mind. Martin had admitted that it was never bad and that it also sometimes got really bad in practically the same breath, and how many boxes had the poor man lifted when they were moving in, and suddenly Jon had a very vivid image of Martin sweeping him up off the sofa.
His limbs went cold. Martin was still talking, but his voice seemed very far away. Much quieter than the insistent high-pitched tone screaming into his ear canal.
After seconds or minutes, Jon was broken out of it by Martin’s hand on his wrist. “Hey. D’you need to pull over? You missed our street.”
So he had. Jon winced. “Sorry. I’ll just loop around here.”
“It’s okay. You good?”
Jon considered lying and saying as much, but that would be rather hypocritical, all things considered. “Martin, how many times have you lifted me up? I’m not exactly made of feathers.”
“God, I don’t know, I … oh. Oh. Oh, love, no. That’s not how it happened or anything.”
“You can’t be sure, though, can you?”
“Sure I can.” Martin seemed slightly taken aback by Jon’s certainty. “Because I remember when the pain started up, and believe me, it definitely wasn’t a time where I regularly carried you over the threshold.”
They pulled into their spot. Without turning the engine off, Jon turned wordlessly to face Martin.
“Well, I first noticed it when I was helping Tim and Sasha with the barricades? For the, uh, worms.”
“Four years!?” Jon choked at him, dumbfounded. He finally killed the engine and went to the front door, his voice loud enough to be heard by passersby. “You’ve had an undiagnosed hernia for four years!?”
“Okay, let’s not alert the neighborhood, love.”
But Jon was already trying to think of every memory he ever had of Martin. He was a bit pissed off, now. While it was understandable that Martin wouldn’t go to a doctor before (he could have done it, the back of Jon’s mind groused, there was plenty of down time), it was inconceivable why Martin would wait now. They were in the clear! Safe!
He heard Martin close his car door behind him In aggravation, Jon tossed over his shoulder, “No bloody wonder you need surgery on it now! Christ, why didn’t you say something?”
God, he couldn’t get ahold of the fucking keys in the dark. Jon squinted before a pale hand reached over his shoulder and took hold of the keyring in between his fingers. Deftly, Martin shoved the key into the lock.
Still hovering just behind his shoulder, Martin said in a flat voice, “I didn’t really get sick days when I was growing up, Jon.”
Damn it.
Jon understood immediately. Of course he did. It was a reality check.
They’d spoken of it only a little. For better or worse, Martin had to be alright back then. And he had every excuse to believe that he was alright – after all, his musculature had not degenerated at all. Full control over his body. He could still think clearly and recognize people and, therefore, he could still take care of his ailing mother. In Martin’s mind, wellness was a simple switch – one side read ‘completely healthy’ and the other read ‘needed full-time care’. Whether this was a subconscious matter or not was frankly irrelevant, some part of Martin believed it.
And, even with his mother no longer in his life, perhaps Martin hadn’t ever shaken that off. At least he had begun to realize it.
Damn it. He’d been a bit of a dick.
They got into the living room and Jon turned on his heel to face Martin. Martin looked steely. “Sorry,” Jon got out, leaning on his cane and staring down at the floor. “I don’t mean to – it’s just frustrating. Knowing that you’ve been in pain and hiding it.”
“Yeah, well.” Martin shifted in front of him. “It didn’t seem like a big deal. It still isn’t, really.”
Everything was relative, Jon supposed, but Jon wasn’t about to debate the seriousness of Martin’s medical problems. “Either way. Surgery. Going to be fixed, and everything’s going to be fine.”
Martin’s shoulders slumped in relief, clearly ready to move on. “Yeah. Yeah, they were explaining it to me. And it sounds … not as bad as it could be.”
“Worried?”
And Martin grinned wide, displaying most of his teeth. “Me? Not a chance. Come on, I’m starving. Let’s get dinner together.”
It wasn’t like Jon didn’t know. But, for the time being, he wasn’t going to press.
***
Everything had more or less returned to normal over the following weeks while the surgery date approached. They didn’t speak of it much, beyond writing ‘Martin Surgery’ on the fridge calendar. Jon would also swoop in with a noise of protest if Martin moved to lift anything – a new habit that Martin was not expressly thrilled about.
Really, Jon was almost proud of himself for how little he worried about it. Perhaps Martin’s reaction helped – he didn’t seem like he was thinking overmuch about it, either. Jon would ask and Martin would wave him off with a smile. Perhaps his initial assessment had been wrong; perhaps Martin wasn’t worried about it. Jon wasn't going to stamp his foot and demand his partner be upset.
They kept on with their life until the night before the surgery. Jon found himself lying on his back. It was too hot for cuddling. A tragedy. His hands folded on his stomach while he thought of logistics for the following day – Martin's overnight bag by the front door, Jon's waiting-room bag lying against it, the car keys on the kitchen counter, and perhaps it would be better if Martin left his wallet at home, one less thing to keep track of.
You know, it's really quite promising that you're so calm about all this, Jon thought to himself with some measure of pride. Especially after what happened to your mother.
At that last fragment, everything inside of his body curdled like milk.
He had not spoken about his mother much to Martin – or to anybody, really. In truth, she rarely entered his mind. Perhaps it was unkind of him, but the point of the matter was that Jon hadn't known her. In his childhood, he had tried to force himself to pull up memories, scraps of what he could recall from photos and grandmother stories. He couldn't. Not even fake ones.
In that sense, Jon had never really grieved for her. It was instead replaced by a profound sense of loss that troubled him throughout his life. Not loss for his mother, but loss for what could have been. Who could say whether it would be a normal life, or even a life better than the one he had now? But, in his more sentimental moments during adolescence, Jon had ached for a mother. A mum.
Wouldn't that be the nicest thing? Now, he found himself thinking of it less, though he had thought – perhaps once or twice – how nice it would have been to introduce Martin to her. Jon had no idea who she was, not really, but he liked to think his mother would have liked Martin.
Perhaps if he had known her before her death, Jon would have developed a phobia for hospitals. As it was ... well, people died in routine surgeries. One of them happened to be his mother. It didn't leave any particular impression.
Now, though ...
God. He felt closer to her than he ever had been. Had she sat in bed the night before her surgery, wondering about the outcome? Had her husband, Jon's father, stared at her in sleep and pray or hope or just quietly will a peaceful, uneventful procedure?
He knew he wasn't a bad luck charm. Just because a loved one had died during routine surgery didn't mean that it would happen again. But, Lord, he had never thought of Martin dying as a possibility until right then.
Jon turned his head to the side, watching Martin in sleep. Martin's face was relaxed, peaceful. Dead.
His arms shot out and wrapped around Martin's thick arm before he could tell himself not to. Foolish, foolish, he could see Martin breathing, after all. The rotten feeling inside of him didn't relax.
Martin's eyebrows furrowed together. Groggily, he muttered, " Honey, 's too hot. Gotta be up early tomorrow."
To that, Jon responded by shuffling a little closer. "Go back to sleep." Martin grunted at him in response. He was right; it was too warm to do what Jon wanted. Which was, for the most part, to burrow inside of Martin's skin and make his home between his ribs. He could supervise the surgery that way.
He compromised by setting his cheek on Martin's bare shoulder, cheekbone resting against the galaxy of freckles there. "Love you."
Martin raised his other arm. Whatever loving gesture he intended, fine motor control was not priority this close to sleep. He awkwardly patted the side of Jon's face. "Love you."
Jon knew that worrying would do nothing. If he kept himself up all night, he would just have an extra miserable time in the waiting room tomorrow. It didn't help. He turned his head and kissed Martin's shoulder once before replacing his cheek there.
While he might not have any control over his thoughts, he could control his body. Jon forced his eyes to shut. He forced his breathing to even out. And, as best as he could, Jon stamped out every thought that passed through his brain.
***
It wasn't time to get up. Jon opened his eyes to see that it was still dark – and, perhaps more pressing, the other side of the bed was empty. He blinked blearily. Couldn't be for food or water with the surgery instructions, and he heard nobody in their adjoined bathroom. Bleary, Jon pulled the duvet off him and yawned as his feet hit the floor.
Jon was not yet awake enough to have coordination for his glasses or his cane. The tradeoff was that he shuffled slowly down the hallway for the living room, squinting. At last, he became aware of a bulky mass on the sofa. A blurry Martin shape.
"Hey." His voice was gravelly. "You good?"
"I, ah, uh, yeah. Yeah, all good."
As he got closer, Jon could see that Martin was wringing his hands together. He did not seem to be aware of it. And the tone of his voice ...
Jon sat next to him, disbelieving. "You sure?"
For whatever reason, that made Martin laugh – or perhaps Martin was only laughing at himself. "It's silly, isn't it? It's not even, like, a dangerous surgery. People have it all the time."
"Yeah." Jon reached over to place his hand over Martin's clasped ones, giving it a squeeze. "It's alright to be worried about it. I'm ..."
For a second, Jon thought that perhaps it would help to have Martin know he also shared his anxiety. Misery loved company, as it were. But before he could finish, he thought that perhaps Martin needed someone to hold it together. It was Martin having the surgery, after all.
"I'm here for you," Jon told him, which was equally as true.
"I think it's just scary because I can't – like, do anything, really. Just sort of go to sleep and hope I wake up."
"No. But, I've been doing some reading on it. It really isn't as invasive as it seems, they're not - " Best not to use a colorful metaphor there. "The incision is fairly small, you know. Probably about the size of this." There, Jon raised one finger to trace along the scar on his neck. Six to eight centimeters, Google had reported.
Martin looked him to stare at the scar on his neck. "Hah. You know, I've never looked at that scar and thought, gosh, how small that is."
"Maybe not on the neck, no." Jon squeezed Martin's hands again. "Why don't we just lie down here? Don't have to sleep."
"Alright. Yeah, that's ... that's probably smart."
Jon withdrew his hands to lie back on the sofa. In return, Martin curled up between his legs and on his chest. His feet stuck off the other end. Martin didn't seem to mind, and Jon wrapped one arm around Martin's shoulders. The other hand drifted through Martin's curls. "Going to be just fine," Jon murmured. "It's okay."
Martin's cheek rested on his chest. "Didn't make it through the apocalypse just to get knocked down by surgery."
"Too right." Jon wasn't going to argue with logic, now. Logic – that the vast majority of people got through their surgeries completely fine – hadn't helped to argue against it; Jon wasn't going to use logic to argue for it. "It'll just be a nice nap, hm?" He curled a piece of Martin's hair around his finger. "It might even be relaxing."
Hearing Martin practically giggle against him, the warm vibrations against his chest, made Jon calm. " Relaxing. Uh-huh. But – they know what they're doing. It'll be fine. Yeah. It'll be fine."
***
The inherent chaos of arriving anywhere before the sun rose staved off the worst of Jon's anxiety. When they finally woke up on the sofa, Jon was a whirlwhind of gathering bags and throwing on clothes. He didn't think he'd taken a breath until after they got through surgery check-in; one glance towards Martin proved that he felt the same.
It was only when Martin's name was called that Jon realized they would have to separate.
Stupid. So focused on the details of the surgery itself; Jon hadn't prepared for how much the idea of Martin leaving – to disappear down the long white corridors – would hurt. Martin let out a soft oh of surprise beside him and made no move to stand.
"I can hold onto your phone," Jon offered softly, and it was passed into his hand. Martin's overnight bag was thrown over his shoulder. Jon's messenger bag was cross-body. He looked like he was going to be late for a flight.
The nurse who called his name smiled over in confusion. This prompted Martin to stand, looking dazed.
"Wait!" Jon stood from the chair. "Er – good luck."
Christ, like they hadn't been dating for months and known each other for years. Good luck, Jon chided himself, but Martin smiled regardless. "Thanks. Um, just - " And there, Martin cut himself off. "I love you."
Martin brought both hands up to cup Jon's cheeks. The kiss was brief and heartfelt. If it hadn't been quite so early, Jon thought they might've attracted sentimental stares. Perhaps an aw from a curious child. Martin face flushed while he backed away, but Jon's mind was focused on that cut-off just.
Just in case.
"Love you, too. I'll see you in a bit." Jon offered up a wide smile, and Martin smiled back, and then Martin turned to follow after the nurse, and then --
And then Jon was alone, feeling like an old man, weighed down by bags and a cane.