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It is warm, somewhere else.
Not the warmth of an uncaring fire, destroying the only home you’ve ever known, or the warmth of thousands, millions, billions of people packed together as one giant, trying desperately to free themselves, or the warmth of sickness, fevered bodies shivering under blankets, desperately trying to get warm even as they become soaked in their own swear, or even the warmth of blood as soaks and splatters into you as the people all around you fall to the bullet or the blade and you can do is desperately hope that the next to die will not be you.
It’s the warmth of sunlight, it’s the warmth of the one you love lying next to you, it’s an incredulous laugh that you let out upon realising that you did it, that you’re safe, that it’s finally over.
You look around at where you have ended up. It’s a field, grassy with sporadic trees and wildflowers — poppies and cornflowers.
You look down at the one you love, and can’t suppress your gasp. Of course, of course it couldn’t just be over. He’s still bleeding. There's still a knife wound in his chest from when he begged you, collapsed on the ground to cut the tether, set them free, give them a chance to end up somewhere else.
“Jon?” It’s less of a word and more of a choked sob. He smiles, weakly, up at you.
“Martin.” He says it, as always, like it’s something special, as if the syllables of your name are something to be treasured.
You pull him into a hug, soaking your jumper with his blood and soaking his shirt with your tears. He leans into it, clinging for dear life. You’re a lifebuoy and he’s drowning, he’s been drowning for so long and you wish you could show him that you’re on dry land after years at sea.
You pull away and he looks up at you, smiling softly.
“Martin,” he says again, he doesn’t look away, like he’s memorising your face. “Promise me-“
“What?” you snap, suddenly terrified of what he’s going to say next.
“Promise me,” he begins again, gripping your hand with surprising strength. “When I-“ He sucks in a breath and blinks a few times, looking away from you for the first time since you laid eyes on each other in this new world. “When I die, you’re going to be alright?”
“No.” You can feel tears slipping down your face. Just a few moments ago the sun was warm and Jon was warm and now it’s tears and blood. It’s tears and blood, and when the blood dries and the tears stop and Jon lies motionless on the grass amidst the flowers he will never be warm again. “No, I won’t. ” Your voice cracks on the last word.
“I’m not going to survive this.”
“You have to, I need you, I can’t-“
You close your eyes and tilt your head up, facing the sky. The sun’s still warm, it’s still so cold.
“Martin, look at me.”
You open his eyes and looks down at Jon. There are tears in his eyes too, he touches your face with his free hand and a fresh batch of tears spills out your eyes.
“I can’t lose you, Jon.”
“Promise me that I won’t lose you, promise me that you’ll be alright,” Jon presses his head to yours. “Please.”
You want to yell that you won’t be alright, that if Jon dies you’ll die alongside him in this field, that you’ll succumb to the Lonely, give yourself willingly to the fog that has followed you through worlds.
But that’s it, isn’t it. Just as the fog has followed you, the Ceaseless Watcher has followed him, as did all the other fears to make the people living in the world’s life hell.
How many times have you seen Jon cry? After the world ended back in Scotland, when they were sitting in the lower levels of the tower, now as he begs Martin to please be alright when he’s gone.
“I’ll be alright,” you say, you’re not sure if you’re lying or not, but you stick your chin up and say it with confidence, because if anyone does, Jon deserves to die happy. “You can rest now.”
He deserves to live happy, but you can’t give that to him, any chance that just this once you could have a happy ending has been demolished. By his choices at the end, by your choices at the end, by the things that you had no control over and yet still struggled against them, like there was any chance for a fly to squirm out of a web it was trapped in before it even began.
“Thank you,” he whispers. Through the pain, Jon kisses you.
Soon, Jon will die. He will bleed his last upon the ground, he will close his eyes for the last time and the first time since the world ended. He will lie in your embrace, his face free of life’s distress, and the curtains will finally close, the tape will click off and the Eye will shut.
You will pick yourself up off the ground and plant a single kiss upon his forehead, and walk off into the distance, carrying his heart with you. Or, you will stay with him, dying slowly from the wounds you sustained in the collapse of the panopticon. You will find your rest together, one way or another, where no shadows are cast and no eyes can see you slumber.