Chapter Text
It's been three days since the world almost ended.
Three days since Martin turned back from an intended walk to get an umbrella because it looked like rain, only to find Jon sitting stock still, reading a statement in a chilling imitation of Jonah Magnus's voice.
Three days since Martin tore the statement from Jon's hand and burnt it with the lighter he's carried in his pocket since the Unknowing, watching helplessly while Jon screamed and writhed as it burned,
since he saw Jon collapse as the last of the statement disappeared and thought, for one terrible moment, that he'd lost him,
since he held Jon close and rocked him after he came to and began to weep, utterly silently.
That scream as the statement burned was the last time Martin heard Jon's voice. He hasn't said a word since.
Martin isn't sure if it's a supernatural effect of burning the statement, or if Jon simply can't bring himself to speak after his voice was nearly used to end the world.
Either way, he doesn't push. He finds an extra notebook and pen buried in a corner of the bag he brought from London, and they make do as best they can.
Martin doesn't mention to Jon how much he already misses his voice, his laugh. The way he said Martin's name. What good would it do?
-
Today, Martin is in the kitchen, finishing up the breakfast dishes while Jon sits out on the front stoop, smoking. He's spent a lot of time sitting there the last few days, watching the clouds and making his way through a packet of cigarettes Martin hadn't known he had.
Martin doesn't have the heart to admonish him for it.
They've been doing a lot of that the last few days—dancing around each other, sharing the space but doing so a bit…separately. They still haven't talked about what happened that day, not properly. Martin is hesitant to bring it up, wanting to give Jon the space to process and decide if and when he wants to talk about it.
But it's left him a bit at loose ends, as he wonders what it all means for them, for this life they've been living here.
He's known from the start that this is all temporary—a brief respite from the horrors of their life in London. Before the statement, he'd assumed that eventually that life would drag them back in, that either Jonah would find them, or that they would go back to try to do what they could to fight him.
Now, it feels like they've come out on the other side of something, and he's not sure where they go from here. Jonah found them, and tried to use them (use Jon ) to end the world, and failed. He might try again, might send other horrors after them—and of course, he and Jon are both still tied to the Lonely and the Eye.
But maybe, just maybe, Jonah's failure means that have a little longer to breathe.
Martin rinses the mug he's been washing, places it on the rack to dry.
Could they stay here now, if they wanted?
For a moment, he allows himself to imagine what it would be like—to stay in this house, to build a life here with Jon, to cook and go on walks, get to know the people in the village and turn this temporary refuge into a home.
What would it be like, to belong here, together?
The image makes his chest hurt with a fierce wanting—all the more painful because it's been so long since he allowed himself to want—to feel —anything so keenly.
Martin shakes himself, picks up another mug to wash.
It doesn't do any good to imagine something that's probably impossible.
He doesn't even know if staying here—staying with him —is something Jon wants. They've never discussed what was said (and not said) in the Lonely, have been sharing a bed out of necessity but carefully keeping to their own sides. Surely, if staying here with Martin—having something more with Martin—is something Jon wanted, he would have said something?
Isn't it more likely that now that they have some breathing space, Jon will want to go back to London, meet up with the others, rather than staying out here in the middle of nowhere, with only Martin and some cows for company?
Martin is startled out of his thoughts by a quiet knock behind him. He turns to see Jon leaning against the doorframe, looking at him with a soft sort of look on his face that Martin doesn't think he'll ever get used to.
"Hey," he says. "What's up?"
Jon responds with a small smile, but the way he's clutching the notebook before him with both hands betrays his anxiety. He holds the notebook out to Martin, turned to a fresh page with just one sentence written on it:
Can we talk?
Martin's heart rate picks up a little.
"Sure."
He quickly dries his hands and follows Jon back out to the stoop. When they sit, he is careful to leave a few inches of distance between them, even though the stoop is small.
Before the statement, Jon had always seemed to do this—to carefully leave a bit of space when they sat on the sofa reading, or when they went on walks on the heath. When Martin had found him that day, he hadn't had the brainspace to think about it, had held Jon close because he couldn't think what else to do to comfort him. But in the days since, he's tried to go back to respecting that boundary, even if all he wants is to hold Jon, to take his hand and reassure them both that everything is all right.
He watches Jon now as he fidgets with the pen, looking down at the notebook as though trying to work out how to put his thoughts into words.
He can't think what Jon might need to tell him that would make him so nervous, and his mind starts providing him with increasingly distressing possibilities: Jon wants to go back to London, Jon wants to go back to London without Martin , Jon blames him for burning the statement and losing his voice and wants nothing more to do with him—
But before Martin can work himself into too much of a panic, Jon finally puts pen to paper, writing one short sentence before handing the notebook over to him.
I don't think my voice is going to come back.
A wave of conflicting emotions washes over him—relief that Jon doesn't want to talk about leaving just now, shame that he can be feeling relief when what Jon wants to talk about is something so serious. Grief and loss at the thought of never hearing Jon's voice again.
His hands tighten around the notebook, wrinkling the pages. He wishes he could give Jon a hug.
"Jon, I-I'm so sorry. Is there anything I can—"
But before he can finish the sentence, Jon is waving him off, reaching over to write on the notebook without bothering to take it back.
That's not why I wanted to
I
He huffs a bit, shakes his head. Starts a new sentence.
There are things I've wanted to say to you, Martin. I kept putting them off because I was afraid, and because of that
Jon's handwriting begins to cramp as he writes faster, as though he wants to get the words out as quickly as possible.
I never got to say them out loud.
I was too slow, always too slow. Waiting for the right time and now
Jon stops again, closing his eyes, a small crease appearing between his brows. Martin wants nothing more than to reach out and smooth that crease away.
"It's okay, Jon. Take your time."
Jon takes a deep breath, and nods, then leans back in over the notebook. Martin is still holding it, and because of this, he can see the words as Jon writes them, and when he reads them his breath catches in his chest.
I love you, Jon writes.
I love you, Martin. I love you I love you I love you
Jon writes so fast that the letters start to bunch and blend together, but Martin can still read them.
I love you.
"Jon..." Martin says. He doesn't know what to say—there is too much going on inside him right now, bewilderment and wonder and a fierce, awestruck joy, and all he can get out is Jon's name.
Jon looks up at him with an expression that Martin can't quite read. Then he leans back over the notebook.
I know you don't feel that way anymore, and I don't
I'm not asking
I won't ask anything of you that you don't want to give but I can't not say it. I waited too long before and I thought
I shouldn't wait anymore. No more waiting.
I love you. I'm sorry.
"Jon don't—why are you apologizing, there's nothing—"
Martin is so flustered that he can't get the words out properly.
Jon loves him.
Jon loves him.
All this time, Jon has loved him.
A smile starts to spread over Martin's face, all the joy inside him too much to contain—and then he stops, reading over again what Jon has written.
"Wait. What do you mean I don't feel that way anymore? What are you talking about?"
Jon takes the notebook back. This time he writes slowly, deliberately, and hands the notebook back to Martin with resignation in his eyes.
Loved.
In the Lonely, you said "loved".
Oh.
So many things begin to fall into place in Martin's head. How hesitant Jon has been about touching him, how he has always been careful to keep any contact short, perfunctory. Martin has followed his lead, thinking it was because he didn't feel the way Martin did, and all this time—
"Jon, that wasn't—I thought I was going to stay in the Lonely forever. I thought that was the last time I was ever going to see you. Of course it would be past tense."
All this time, he thought Jon already knew. He thought that he knew and had been trying, in his own gentle way, to tell Martin that this was as far as he could go. And Martin has been telling himself that he's okay with that, that this friendship, this sharing of space, is enough. He hadn't brought it up, because he thought everything that needed to be said had been said. Why dwell on it?
He realizes now just how wrong he's been, how many things have been left unspoken between them—and he can't help but laugh a little at how Jon, voiceless as he is, was the one to finally speak them first.
Well. Better late than never.
Martin reaches for Jon's hands and takes both of them in his, the pen still clasped in Jon's fingers pressing into their palms. Jon startles a little and looks up at him, eyes wide. It's the most deliberate contact they've had since they arrived here, apart from the day of the statement.
Martin takes a deep breath.
"Jonathan Sims, I love you. Now. Present tense. I love you, and I never want to leave you again."
Jon looks at him with such naked emotion in his eyes that Martin can hardly bear to see it. But he holds his gaze, wanting to make sure that Jon knows how much he means this.
"I'll say it as often as you need to hear it. I love you."
Jon's mouth trembles, and it looks like he's not sure if he wants to laugh or cry. Then he drops his gaze, reaching out with trembling fingers towards Martin's lips. He stops short before he makes contact, looking up at Martin with a question in his eyes.
"Oh. Oh, " Martin says, as he realizes what Jon is asking. "Yes. God, yes."
And then Jon is kissing him, and Martin doesn't want him to ever stop. His lips are chapped and taste bitter with tobacco, but Martin doesn't care. The sensation of Jon's kiss fills up a place inside him that he hadn't even known was empty—a place that had been empty all his life, until now. Everything else falls away, and in that moment there is only this: Martin Blackwood kissing Jonathan Sims on the front step of a safehouse in Scotland, the taste of cigarettes and the feel of Jon's hand on his cheek, and the wonderful, miraculous knowledge that this is only the beginning.