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Martin is sitting on a train, at night, with a stranger on either side of him.
The one on his left is sitting close to him, closer than a stranger probably should be, and his eyes are closed. He isn’t sleeping, Martin knows, just resting his eyes. He’s tilted his head back against the seat, and there’s an open book in his lap. His hands are buried in the pockets of a heavy, deep green coat, chest rising up and down too unevenly to be sleep and too slowly for him to be feigning it. His hair is long, draped over hollow cheeks in greying strands and a face dotted with small, round scars. He looks exhausted, and it’s no wonder he’s resting.
Martin is grateful for it. It’s odd, being this close to someone at all, being so aware of their every breath, the warmth of their skin, the trace of the light on the stress lines decorating their face. But it’s easier, less strange, if they’re ignoring him.
The stranger sitting on his right is not ignoring him. He’s staring at Martin from the dark glass of the window he’s sitting against, glistening with raindrops that have collected on the other side, racing each other down the pane. He’s bigger than the stranger on his left, and his eyes are open.
He’s looking at Martin like he doesn’t know him, and Martin can only figure that it’d be more unsettling if he was acting like he did. He doesn’t think they’ve met before, after all. The stranger’s eyes are thick with a soft white mist, a cloudiness that dulls his piercing gaze. It doesn’t seem to permeate anything, eyes hazily lingering around his face as opposed to actually watching him. He doesn’t quite know what the stranger would be watching, anyway.
He looks tired, but not like the other stranger, whose bone-deep fatigue is carved into dark, once-sharp features, this one looks like a ghost. Maybe he is. He smells faintly of the ocean, salty spray and the heavy grit of sand that clings so well to damp skin, a limpet in its own right. It carries with it a cold, soaked feeling that hangs around him like a thick fog and fills Martin’s weak lungs with misty air that tastes like the shore.
His hair is pale white, cloudlike, but too dishevelled to carry any appearance of airiness. He does not look light, he looks untethered. Free only to drift to more emptiness.
Martin cannot decipher his expression, nor does he spend too much time trying– the stranger’s cheeks are streaked with tear tracks and meeting his eyes feels like drinking in the weariness, taking it for himself. He only feels heavier when he does, more tired, and he feels as if he stares too deep into those concealing, misty eyes, he might fall in. Like the stranger’s round, pale face is a chasm filled with fog, giving every appearance of a soft and gentle landing but having only the feeling of falling and cold rock to give.
So he looks away, turning back to stare in front of him, across to the empty seats, and the stranger on his right does the same.
The strangers are both sitting fairly close to him. There are empty seats across the train car, though, and he figures they must be saved for someone else. Other strangers he does not know, who will frown at the stranger on his left and his tired face, avoid the eyes of the stranger on his right and wonder why he smells like seawater.
He feels cold.
Maybe it’s the stranger on his right, with his damp clothes and cold eyes, but the man in the glass isn’t shivering at all. He’s still, eyelids heavy and Martin swears he can see him glancing over at him out of the corner of his eye.
He looks like he might want to ask Martin’s name.
He’s wondering what he might say in response, if he were to, when something touches his left hand. He looks over to see the other stranger with his fingers resting over the back of Martin’s hand.
It feels odd, and he can’t place it, but it would make the most sense that the feeling would be confusion. After all, he does not know the man, but his hand is on top of Martin’s. That’s strange, that isn’t something that usually happens, and some part of him tells him to draw his hand away, pull away from the touch. Because it doesn’t make sense.
Except- it’s warm. The man’s hand shakes slightly, not with nervousness, but with hollow adrenaline and exhaustion. His fingers are bony, but still soft on Martin’s, like Martin is something brittle. He doesn’t know how he feels about it, except that he’s already picked which of the strangers he’s more fond of.
Even when he meets the man’s gaze, and it’s sharp and piercing and muted by no fog, he does not change his mind. Green eyes cut through him and it’s almost startling, but he feels too heavy to react how he figures he should.
“Martin?”
That’s him, isn’t it? It’s a name he recognises. It has to be.
He nods, just once.
“Are you with me?”
The man’s voice is low, rich, as soft and raspy as it is. Like he speaks frequently, but rarely so quietly. And the sound warms Martin even more than the hand on his does, so he resists the urge to turn back to the stranger in the window to try to see what he’s thinking. If he’s just as confused, if he’s judging either of them. He probably wouldn’t be able to tell, either way.
It takes him a moment to think about the question, what he means, why he’s asking. He does half feel like he’s dreaming, after all. There’s something odd and floaty about all of it, like he’s suspended between sleep and wakefulness, unable to commit to either, having lost his ability to distinguish them. He only knows there are strangers on either side of him, one is warm and the other smells like the ocean, and he does not know why he is being asked if he’s there.
He corrects himself. The man had asked if he was there with him. The stranger, the man in the green coat with the sharp eyes and voice like molasses. His face is handsome beneath all the tiredness, Martin realises. He’d look wonderful if he smiled.
Martin finds that he hasn’t answered the man’s question, evidently having thought about it too long– besides, his tongue too is thick in his mouth for him to reply properly if he had anything to say. He hopes it isn’t wrong– he doesn’t want the man’s hand to leave his, it’s so soft and makes Martin feel like something’s holding him together, even though he can’t remember why he might have been shattered. He blinks heavily, and there’s something sticking on his eyelashes.
A breath leaves the man’s lips after a moment, and he doesn’t sound angry, or upset. He still sounds like he’s tired, but there’s something else. Concern, Martin supposes. He doesn’t quite get why, he can handle being alone with strangers. He can handle being on his own.
Either way, the man doesn’t look annoyed when the same steady gaze roams Martin’s face, and there’s something acute about it, tugging him somewhere, pulling him further from where he had been loosely tethered. Coaxed toward one side of his trance, and he isn’t sure if it’s back to sleep or to the real world.
He lifts his other hand to rest against Martin’s cheek, and it’s even warmer, almost burning against his icy skin. Martin sinks into it before he can think about it, tension melting from his frame at the touch. It feels so… so nice, and he hopes that it’ll stay.
Brushing his thumb over Martin’s cheekbone, the man’s thumb comes away with something shining on it, and Martin realises there are tears on his face. He can’t remember when he started crying, or why he might have started to begin with. He can’t really remember anything, he just wants the hand on his cheek to stay, so he brings his own hand to wrap the man’s wrist. Wide, calloused hands enclose over his bony wrist, keeping the hand there with a hold Martin knows could be broken if either of them wanted it.
“Hey,” the man breathes, and Martin fights to focus on him, ignore the stranger he knows is on the other side of him, the smell of sea salt filling his lungs. “Hey, I’m right here. It’s- it’s okay, we’re on the train to Scotland. We’re safe, Martin.”
Scotland. That’s where the train’s going. It does sound safe, the name settling somewhere warm in his mind with the feeling of the hand on his cheek. He had said it was okay, and that explained why Martin’s chest felt so tight– he must have thought it wasn’t. He must have thought he was lonely. He must have thought he was alone again, without anybody to turn to, stranded in a train car headed to nowhere with nobody to talk to, lost and separated from–
“Jon.”
The name leaves his lips in a shaky gasp, recognition flooding back into mind like a crashing wave as he fumbles to turn his hand over and wrap it around Jon’s tighter. He fights for control over his breathing again, but with his voice, a gentle smile breaks over Jon’s face. The Martin who had momentarily forgotten where he was had been right, he does look wonderful when he smiles, and Martin can suddenly feel the cold tears on his face again.
“H-Hi.”
“Lost you for a second there,” Jon says quietly, with a note of fear in his voice, like losing Martin even for a moment was something terrifying. Martin had lost himself for far longer than a moment before, and he figures this is the aftereffect of that. Needing to keep himself grounded, fighting off the chill of the fog that tries to tug him away even when he’s right beside someone he loves.
“I didn’t mean to,” Martin croaks. His throat feels dry, tears still beading on his eyelashes. He shuts his eyes with a deep breath, letting Jon brush them from his face. God, he’s so gentle. “I just… I stopped… paying attention.”
Jon squeezes his hand tighter. “It’s okay. It’s okay, you’re back here.”
“It’s hard to stay… to stay focused,” Martin says through a shuddering inhale, letting his chin drop further into Jon’s hold. “I’m trying.”
“I know.”
“I can’t think right, it’s just- cold all of a sudden, and then even when you’re- you’re right next to me, I can’t-” Martin swallows, voice cracking, and Jon shifts to sit closer to him, closing the little space they had kept between them. His hand squeezes Martin’s again, tighter, consoling him, and Martin can tell he’s rambling pointlessly. But it feels too natural to be quiet, like he might get pulled under again by the silence.
“It’s okay.”
Jon brings an arm around him and he’s smaller than Martin is, but he shudders in relief at the touch. It’s so strange to feel again, and he isn’t sure if the hollowness still carved out of his chest makes it more or less of a relief.
Either way, he sinks into it, returning the embrace, and it’s so right that he could not even imagine slipping away right here. Not with Jon’s chin resting on his shoulder, the smell of old books and sandalwood taking the place of seawater, slender hands pressed sturdily against his back. It’s far too secure for that, too comforting.
They stay like that for longer than Martin dares to count, ragged breaths beginning to match up with steadier ones. Jon’s relaxed, careful and patient as he keeps himself right there against Martin, and he can’t remember when Jon started feeling this safe, when he became an anchor Martin had fixed himself to.
It’s something that’ll take longer to come back to him, he knows.
He slowly draws away once his breathing has smoothened out, keeping his gaze on Jon’s. It feels strange to be staring him directly in the eye, in fear that he might slip away if he looks away too long, but he figures Jon isn’t in a place to complain about people staring.
Seeing the tiredness in Jon’s face only serves to remind Martin that his vision is blurry and all his movements feel too heavy, like he’s been dragging himself forward for far too long. Like he’s aching to take a break, in a place where that won’t mean his lungs filling with fog.
“I think… I need to get some sleep,” Martin tells Jon. He feels like he’s just woken up, breaking the surface of some deep, cold lake that had numbed him for so long, but he still can’t ignore the exhaustion in all of his movements. He can’t remember the last time he actually rested– given, his memory wasn’t at its sharpest right now, but the weariness weighing him down had to count for something.
Jon nods in understanding, one hand still holding Martin’s, and there’s something hopelessly empathetic in how the light meets the shadows beneath his eyes.
“If I wake up like… that, again, will you…?”
“Yes. Promise.”
Martin manages a weak smile, cracking over pale lips just fading of blue, and Jon smiles back. “Thank you.”
“‘Course,” Jon says quietly, moving to sit up against Martin’s side, leaning into him, and Martin draws an arm over his shoulder. He knows his skin and hoodie are both damp and cold, but he can make up for that once he’s anchored again, not at risk of suffocating on the taste of salt in his throat.
For now, he lets his wrist fall over Jon’s shoulder, where Jon takes his hand in his own, using the other to drag the book that had fallen onto the seat back over to him.
Martin swallows over his dry throat, glancing down at the pages, dark text too blurry for him to really see. He’s left his glasses somewhere he doesn’t remember, and his head is much too fuzzy to even make out the letters, let alone comprehend the words. He glances up at Jon, slumped against his side.
“Do… you think you could read out loud?” he says hoarsely, already missing how the comforting words settled over him, too soft and caring for Martin to even really focus on what Jon was saying. “Your voice is… your voice is nice.”
Jon glances up at him, and there’s fondness in his eyes, steady and grounding and Martin trusts it more than anything. It’s been too long since he last trusted anything, let alone this much, and even after Jon’s nodded and looked away, he can’t stop his gaze from tracing the scars and lines on his face where his expression has relaxed. He still looks tired, but there’s a contentedness to it, something reassuring in his voice when he picks up in the middle of a passage. Martin isn’t paying attention to the words at all, only the rhythmic, even tone of Jon’s voice filling the train car, joined by the faint rumble of the tracks. Martin’s already letting himself drift just a bit further toward sleep, relaxing, but keeping anchored by Jon’s hand in his and the familiarity of his voice.
Jon speaks softly, as if there’s someone nearby he might disturb if a word is too sharp or sudden. But even as Martin lets his eyes flutter shut, surrendering to the hum of the train and comforting voice, he knows that there is not one stranger in the car with them.
