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Hard plastic hands caressed Jon, moving slick moisturizer over his scar laden skin. When this had begun, he tried his best to get away from them - he would thrash, kick, once he even tried to bite the hands that moved over him. This led to tight ropes that cut off his circulation, and a gag placed in his mouth permanently. At first, the drool would drip and collect on his shirt, but as the time dragged on, it would become cold, would start to harden on his clothes and form into small icicles hanging from the corners of his lips.
Eventually, he stopped fighting - not because he was no longer disgusted, but because he couldn't even feel it anymore. The touch of those disgusting plastic hands did not register against his numb exterior. The only way he knew they were touching him was by sight alone. And at this point, he was just tired. He couldn't even tell when the touches had begun to fade away, when he stopped noticing them all over him. It was simply his new reality, and his brain refused to acknowledge the precise moment when it became so. He couldn't tell which was worse: not having the ability to fight back, or the false-comfort of not knowing when he needed to.
How long had Jon spent in that place? The circus, surrounded by laughter, fake smiles and even faker skin. Everywhere he looked, something false lurked just beyond, mocked him every time he began to consider how to escape the situation he was in. He could hear the laughter circulating in his head every time exhaustion got the best of him, when his guard began to lower. His skin burned as the cold of the warehouse penetrated his bones, made him numb to everything but the underlying fear of becoming... what, exactly? He wasn't sure, but whatever was left over would not be him. It would just be a hard, plastic shell, used against the people he loved. Their memories of him would be twisted, altered, scrapped like trash in a junk-yard heap. Jon feared that he wouldn't be able to last much longer as the cold isolation ate away at him. He knew that Nikola and her circus of mannequins were waiting for this. Waiting for him to be worn down, to let them under his skin. They wanted him to decompose, to give up, wanted to wear his skin and falsify his love, use it as a weapon. He would not allow that. He owed it to the assistants, owed it to Martin.
Martin... his mind lit up at the thought of his lover, the warmth of his embrace, his oversized sweaters and the adoring way he kissed his face. He ached for the feeling of Martin's soft skin tangled with his own as they watched movies on the couch. He missed the cup of tea that Martin would have waiting for him after a long, dreary day. Missed the way he smelled, the way he got bright red when he laughed just a little too long. The only smell here was of old wax, stale popcorn and long forgotten peanuts, the only laughter he could hear was high-pitched and laced with venom. Nothing here was good, nor soft, and there was nothing he could do to soothe himself.
On rare occasions when Jon was allowed to be alone and untied, he would hug his knees to his chest, seeking warmth, but he always found none. There was no comfort in this place, not even inside of himself. He knew isolation, had lived within it before, even thrived in it - but this was not the same. Every other time, he at least had himself to fall back on, but here, in this cold darkness, he was lost. The light at the end of his tunnel flickered, threatening to give out at any moment. The laughter and mockery of the clowns around him were like parasites, burrowing invisible holes within his brain, squirming through his veins. When his mind started to shut down, there wasn't even the comfort of his own touch. He could not feel his own hands, his fingers now purple and stiff from the cold. How much longer would it take for his skin to freeze in place? Eventually, he would be forced to give in, forced to allow The Stranger to wiggle inside of and under him, to take him over. It didn't matter how hard he fought, his will to live meant nothing against the ice that encompassed him.
Mental pressure is a hard battle, but inescapable physical torment is another entirely. It was a battle he did not think he could win anymore. He would surely be killed here, his flesh would simply become a suit, used like a puppet. The assistants at the institute would think he was the same old, ever-distant and condescending Jon, they would discard all the progress he had made to be better. Martin, who knew him best, would either come to hate the new version of him, or forget him entirely. These predictions brought tears to his eyes, which did nothing but further his discomfort as they left half-frozen paths down his cheeks. Jon's breath floated around him as he let out a sigh - even his lungs were numb at this point, he had to consciously remind himself to breathe. He closed his eyes, and the lull of a restless sleep pulled him under the waves.
When Jon awoke, blinking open his bleary eyes, he was tied up in the middle of the circus floor, and could no longer move. This part of the routine was not new to him, he knew that soon he would be surrounded, touched by those unfamiliar hands. Nikola would stand by and talk to him in that false happy voice of hers, apply lotion to his unfeeling skin, coo about how soft he would be at the end of all this hard work. Disgust burned like bile in his throat, but he was far too tired to notice it much. He was yet another step closer to his demise, and he no longer had the strength or will to even think about being upset about it. Maybe, he thought, if he died, there would be some warmth again.
Jon did not believe in God, his experience with the Fear powers made sure of that. Nor did he believe in Heaven, but he was beginning to believe in Hell. At least, he hoped that is where he'd end up once he was finally gone. The experience here already felt like an Earth-bound version of Hell, and he could only wish that the after-life portion was exactly what every evangelical extremist proclaimed it to be: a burning ring of eternal flame. Fuck, he just wanted to feel his skin again - he was willing to trade one extreme for the other, being on fire for eternity would be a more than welcome change at this point. At the very least, Satan seemed reasonable. Nikola, on the other hand, was absolutely insufferable. He would jump for joy if he knew he would never have to hear its voice in his ears again - if his legs would work after this, anyway; he was extremely doubtful, though. He eyed Nikola, unable to voice his protest around the fabric in his mouth, unable to swat her hands away or fight against it. Too tired and helpless to sit and watch her ministrations any longer, Jon once again closed his eyes and gave in to the beckoning of sleep.
Upon opening his eyes, Jon immediately knew something was different. The laughter was gone, and the waft of old circus snacks no longer permeated his nostrils. His ankles and wrists were free to move, mouth un-gagged. When he noticed that he wasn't on a concrete floor anymore, he nearly started sobbing. He looked around the room, bedsheets shifting around him as he moved. Blinking, once, twice, unsure if this was a trick of his mind or a scheme thought up by Nikola, he held back the tears that teetered on his eyelids. Was it trying some different method to get him to finally let his guard down, attempting to give him that final push into letting it infiltrate his very essence? He would be goddamned if he gave it the satisfaction of seeing him cry any more. When the door on the side of the room began to open slowly, Jon was all sharp edges and grit. He felt anger burn a hole in his chest - if this was indeed a trick, there was nothing smart about allowing him to defend himself now. He was ready to rip apart some fucking mannequins, could already feel the sweet clogging of wax underneath his fingernails. His breathing came in ragged bursts, muscles tensed, fists clenched at his sides.
When Martin's head slowly peeked around the door, he was quiet, as to not wake Jon before he was ready. The sight that met his eyes was unsettling; Jon was awake, but absolutely dripping with rage. He looked like he was about to murder him, the pupils of his eyes dilated, and the whites stained bloodshot. Martin sighed, equal parts relief and concern. Softly, he stepped into the room, hands in front of him to show that he meant no harm. "Jon? Hey, it's just me."
Jon took a moment to assess the situation. His instant reaction was to recoil, to not let himself give in to this absurd trick. He wasn't entirely sure of the full scope of The Stranger's power yet, and had no clue what was happening outside the circus tent while he was inside it. Could Nikola have finally gotten to the others? What was it doing when it wasn't torturing him? Was this Martin real? Or was something else just wearing his skin? That same ragged breathing continued, only it was brought on by fear instead of anger now. Jon winced as he scooted back on the bed, trying to gain distance, his wrists and head aching. His breathing hitched as he eyed the man standing in front of him, "How do I know it's really you?"
Martin took a step closer, inching his way toward Jon. He wanted nothing more than to wrap him in an embrace, wanted to hold him and whisper that everything would be okay. But he didn't want to scare Jon, who was sitting in front of him like a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding truck. He tried to smile reassuringly, "Well, you could ask me a question or two. You know I'm not much of an open book for anyone else."
Jon met his eyes, really took a moment to drink in the sight of them. Martin was closer now, and he could smell that familiar scent coming off of him; something like creamy black tea, brown sugar, and the wool of his sweater. His voice came out scratchy, as if he was scared to know the truth, "Would you mind bringing me a coffee?"
When Martin's face scrunched up in recognizable disgust, Jon's chest felt a bit lighter. "I think that's an absolutely rubbish question, considering neither of us like it." He paused for a moment, and chuckled lightly, "But I should have known that would be the first question you asked. Your teasing never ceases to surprise me." He rolled his eyes slightly, his smirk bringing a little bit of light into the space.
Martin moved slightly closer, just wanting to lessen the distance a bit. They'd been apart for so long, and he had been worried sick the entire time. It took every ounce of his self-control not to tackle his boyfriend adoringly. Jon, still cautious, but visibly more relaxed, asked another question. "How do you feel about oolong tea?" Jon knew this question would sting, knew what that particular type of tea meant to Martin - but he needed to be sure this, he, was real. As the words laid heavy in the air for several moments, Jon watched Martin's face turn into one of bittersweet memory. He would Know if this was a genuine reaction, if the man in front of him actually held the same pain that he knew should be there. He watched as Martin remembered his mother, as he worked through a brief moment of grief, despair, longing. He was hurt. But he understood the reasoning for that specific question. As he went to answer, his voice came out soft, like if he spoke his feelings too loud, the world would hold it over his head for the rest of his life. "I like it..." he sighed, shaking his head, "Though, I can't drink it anymore. It holds too many memories... My mom. Her voice in my head..." He hiccuped, "Makes my chest hurt..."
When their eyes met again, Jon knew this was real. He didn't need his powers to tell him anything, he knew his lover well enough to know this wasn't a trick. He started to cry, the reality of safety finally hitting him. Before he knew it, Martin was on the ground, knelt before him, "Jon, can I please hug you?" He nodded, and Martin shoved forward as gracefully as he could in the moment.
When Martin wrapped his arms around Jon, it should have been euphoric, should have felt like the greatest hug of his life... So why didn't Jon feel anything? He looked at Martin, saw his shaggy ginger hair splayed across his chest, saw those soft arms wrapped around his torso... He could smell him, the scent taking over his senses. But he could not feel the squeeze, could not feel the warmth. Jon's own arms came to wrap around Martin in return, but it was simply reflex. He couldn't feel the soft wool of Martin's sweater, the fingers that he moved along his back simply felt... nothing. Like there was only air beneath them. What was happening? Why couldn't he feel anything? Jon stuttered as he tried to speak through newly formed tears, "Martin? Martin, what is happening to me?"
The pained gasps and sputters of half-formed words started to spill out of Jon's mouth, and Martin felt the top of his head becoming wet. He pulled back, worried. Meeting his boyfriend's eyes, hearing the newfound fear in his voice, was soul-shattering. "What do you mean, Jon? Talk to me," his own tears started to brim against his eyelids, "Please..."
Jon shuddered, as if the words that he wanted to say were fighting him to keep their place in his throat, "I can't... can't feel you. I can't feel anything." He looked down at his skin, wrists still bruised, fingernails a dull shade of purple. He was trembling. Martin's face twisted in concern, and he moved to gently hold Jon's hands in his own. The touch wouldn't have been known if Jon wasn't already watching it happen. Just like in the circus tent, just like with Nikola. Martin pressed Jon's cold knuckles to his lips, "Your nerves are probably still numb right now. You haven't been back long, it'll take some time to warm up."
Jon shook his head, "I spent over a month in that place." He winced at his own words. "Now that I'm out, now that I'm safe... I just want to be me again." The tears flowing from his eyes were still fresh, his nose stuffed and starting to run, "I missed you, Martin, wanted you to hold me more than anything." Even if he couldn't feel it, he still brought his hand to Martin's cheek, the gesture familiar, "And they've taken that away from me, too." He dropped his hand to his side, defeated, and pulled away from Martin.
Martin was lost for words. The man sitting in front of him was broken. He loved Jon, deeply and whole-heartedly, but had never seen him this low. It was a strange thing to witness. Jon was usually so stubborn that his spirit felt unbreakable, he came out of traumatic situations nonchalantly, if not bitterly sarcastic, and would often just lose himself in a pack of cigarettes before reading a statement and acting like it didn't bother him. Very rarely did Martin ever see Jon cry, and yet, right now he was a blubbering mess. To make matters worse, the only way Martin could think to comfort him, the only thing either of them really wanted, would only make him feel worse.
When their eyes met again, Jon's were swollen and vacant. This time, when Martin went to reach out his hand, Jon flinched away, breaking eye-contact. He sighed, voice coming out in a whisper, "Could you leave, please? I'm tired. Would like to go back to sleep..."
Without waiting for Martin to respond, he laid down again and turned away, pulling the blanket over his head to create more of a physical boundary between the two of them. Martin stood up, shocked, and had to will his legs to move. His feet felt like heavy stones, the action of leaving went against everything his heart and mind wanted. This was wrong, their reunion was never meant to go this way. He couldn't blame Jon, this was more than he had ever experienced before, it was bound to leave some kind of mark on his psyche. Martin was more disappointed in himself for not realizing it sooner. If Jon needed space, Martin would obey, no matter how much it hurt. After all, he was good at this - he knew distance like the back of his own hand. When he reached the door, he felt like he had no strength to turn the knob, but forced himself to do it anyway. Stealing a glance back at Jon once more, he sighed and left the room.
Jon would not allow himself to be taken care of, because he didn't recognize the man in the mirror. He felt like he couldn't stand on his own two feet, and took that as a sign to not rely on anyone else. Not yet, anyway. Not until he felt like himself again, not until he could physically feel his skin again. He wasn't sure what hurt him the most, the paranoia, constantly checking over his shoulder for monsters hiding in the dark, or how long it took for his skin to warm up again. Before Martin, Jon had never been one for much physical contact, but now that it wasn't available to him, it was all that he craved, but could not have. Something in the back of his mind screamed at him to accept Martin's help, this was the man he loved with his whole heart, he was supposed to be a source of safety. But the weight of doing so felt like an absolute crushing pressure, it was too much. If he let Martin take care of him, allowed those gentle hands to caress him, he would never find himself again. He would end up doing exactly what Nikola would have done - would turn himself into nothing more than a husk of who he once was, completely defined by someone else.
The next several weeks felt like a new kind of self-imposed torture. The distance between Martin and Jon felt bigger than it had when the latter was kidnapped. At least then, Martin was able to hold onto the hope that his meeting with Jon would be tear-filled and full of love-proclamations, that they would spend nights together, sharing in all the skin-to-skin contact they had missed out on. Maybe he was too hopeful, maybe he was naive, but he hadn't even considered the fact that Jon wouldn't come out unscathed. During their conversations, when Jon actually managed to open up about what happened, Martin realized that the situation was worse than any of them had even imagined. Knowing what he did now, Martin wished for Jon to rely on him, wanted to provide a safe space for his lover. He wanted to be his rock, desperately craved to take care of Jon during his time of need, but he was being denied that privilege at almost every opportunity.
As the weeks turned to a month, Jon finally started to come around to himself again. He felt steadier, and could feel the sensation of touch on his skin once more. It took longer than either he or Martin was comfortable with - Jon's fingernails and the sensitive parts of his skin remained tinged with purple; permanent marks that he could not for-see getting rid of. If he was still human, the experience with The Circus would have killed him, but he was not, and would be forced to bear constant reminders of that fact. "Just more scars to add to the collection," he told himself. His paranoia was still present, but he found himself mapping out every possible exit route available less and less, he didn't feel the need to watch the dim corners of the spaces he occupied anymore. The screaming in his sleep and nightmares had almost stopped. He was slowly readjusting to being close to his lover again, could see the physical weight lift off of Martin's shoulders as he got better day by day.
One night, Jon sat Martin down on the couch. He could see the anxiety on his face, and smiled softly to reassure him. It had been too long since they had a moment like this, and it almost felt strange. He wanted to talk, wanted to share his healing with his lover. Jon felt like he had a lot of making up to do - both for the emotional turmoil he surely put Martin through, but also for lost time. The two hadn't touched since Jon came back that fateful day, Martin had respected his boundaries, and Jon, of course, had been his typically stubborn self, avoiding every touch that could have been possible.
Jon started casually, "Hey, Martin." He smiled again, eyes crinkling in a way that made Martin's heart soar. It had been too long since he had seen Jon smile this way, he had missed it dearly. "Hey, Jon," he replied, trying to stop his cheeks from reddening already. Jon looked into his eyes, tried to pour all of his love out into his gaze, "I don't even know where to start..." He glanced away for a split second before pushing away the shame that threatened to build up in his chest, and brought his eyes back up to lock eyes with Martin again.
"So I'll just get straight to the point," he cleared his throat, "Martin. I'm sorry. For what I've put you through these past two months. I've been distant, lost -"
Before he could finish his thought, Martin interrupted him, "Please don't apologize for that, Jon. You went through so much," his voice was soft, understanding, "and none of it is your fault." He sighed, "Trauma affects everyone differently. You do what you have to do to get through it."
Jon smiled, of course his boyfriend would be empathetic to his situation. Martin cared so deeply, and it was part of the reason Jon adored him so much. This man was precious beyond words. "I know... I know. But that doesn't excuse the fact that I hurt you in the process." When Martin started to object, Jon held up his hand to stop him, "Just because I was dealing with something painful, doesn't mean it didn't bother you as well. You're allowed to have your own feelings about what happened, about how I dealt with it."
This time it was Martin who broke eye contact, he felt that he needed to before he started crying. The distance between him and Jon had been excruciating, he had missed the man even when they were in the same room together. "I... really missed you, Jon. I don't blame you for how you handled things, but my god." He met Jon's gaze again, "I just... I missed you. So much. I wanted to take care of you."
Jon smiled, equal parts sadness and longing. "Believe it or not, I missed you too. I just couldn't handle the idea of getting close again and not being able to feel right about it." He blinked slowly, "Nikola - She really did a number on me. I felt so lost. I didn't want to give you parts of myself when they didn't even feel like me." His eyes started to water, tears brimming in his eyelids, "But... if you'll have me, I think I'd like to try now."
It was Martin's turn to blink, and he did so rapidly. He couldn't stop himself from blushing this time, his cheeks and chest starting to flush. He tried to speak, but his words came out a stuttering mess, so he settled for swallowing the lump in his throat and nodding his head. When Jon had his consent, he started by gently raising his hand and cupping Martin's cheek.
Jon's already watery eyes started to overflow, it had felt like forever since he was able to feel this kind of warmth. After being numb for so long, this simple, but familiar touch, almost felt overwhelming. Martin sighed, and leaned into Jon's hand, relishing in the physical contact. They spent several moments like this, unmoving, getting used to how the other felt again. Martin was the first to speak up, breaking the intense trance that Jon was caught up in, "I missed touching you. Missed your skin." His voice was breathy with emotion, and he felt like he would cry at any moment. "Can I, um, can I hug you?" His eyes were almost pleading, something in his mind scared that he was pushing Jon's comfort level and it would be too much, too fast.
Jon's voice was barely audible, a simple but effective "Yes, please. I want that more than anything." For the hundredth time since he had first gotten Jon back, Martin had to physically stop himself from lunging onto his boyfriend. He made sure to do this slowly, to take his time. Martin gently turned his head to kiss the palm that Jon still held against his cheek, and then lifted his own hands to smooth along his forearms, across his collarbone and shoulders, and finally down around his waist. He made sure to let Jon anticipate every movement, gave him time to truly savor the first touches they shared after so long. He locked his fingers together on the small of Jon's back, and shuffled closer to rest his chin on top of his wavy head of hair. Jon's hand left his cheek in the process, moving it to rest on Martin's chest, adoring the steady thump thump thump of his heartbeat, and moving the other around to his shoulder, feeling the soft familiarity of his wool sweater.
Jon's face found purchase in the small of Martin's neck, and he breathed in that sweet scent deeply. "I missed this... Missed you... You always smell so sweet, you feel so soft." He started sobbing against Martin's skin when the warmth overtook him, that creamy, brown sugary tea scent completely washing over every one of his senses. He could feel Martin chuckle a bit, "And I missed the smell of old books and cigarettes. The archive just doesn't smell the same as you, you know?"
Jon felt absolutely lost in Martin, but only in the best way possible - this was the safest he had ever felt in his life. Martin reminded Jon of the home he never had, every part of him was peaceful, felt like pure and divine love. Jon could feel his scalp becoming damp, realized that Martin was probably crying, too, and the hiccups that reverberated through his chest confirmed it. When Jon went to move away so he could look Martin in the eye, he was met with a tightening squeeze, could feel Martin's desperation to stay like this a little longer.
Martin sniffled, voice coming out shakily, "Please Jon, if it's okay, can we just stay like this? I'm not ready to let you go yet." Jon smiled, the sweater against his face warm with the dampness of his own tears, "I would love that. I never want to let you go again."
They continued to stay a mess of entangled limbs, their heartbeats and breathing synced. When Jon spoke again, his voice was muffled, but clearer and louder than it had ever been before, "I love you, Martin." He felt Martin shift, just enough to be able to kiss his ear and whisper back, "I love you, too, Jon. Forever." Jon smiled and nodded against him, "Yes, forever.”