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Jon holds Martin's hand the whole way to Scotland.
They sit with their shoulders pressed tight together, with both of Jon's hands wrapped around one of Martin's. His skin is cold and clammy, pale and desaturated. His glasses are misty with the fog pooling on the train carriage floor. His hair is more white than it is blond. His freckles are more of a vague idea than even a suggestion now. But, as Jon rests his cheek on Martin's shoulder, rubs little circles with his thumb on the back of Martin's palm, Martin grows a little more colourful by the time they reach Edinburgh Waverly.
His hair grows warmer and fluffier, his skin more pink, his freckles more stark. Even his eyes are brighter, a cosy hazel. The only feature of the Lonely left is a streak of white cutting through his fringe. Jon still doesn't let go of his hand.
From Edinburgh, it's another train to Glasgow Central, then a Caledonia Sleeper to the Highlands. Trains from dawn till dusk. Their cabin is small, but big enough. They don't stop for dinner—Martin claims not to be hungry, and Jon quite literally doesn't eat anymore—so they simply crawl into the double bed, tangled up in each other's legs and arms. Jon traces patterns over Martin's shoulder blades until he falls asleep, slow and even breaths rustling his hair. Jon follows suit moments after.
Basira had arranged a car to take them to the safehouse, told them what to say to let the driver know they were a friend of Daisy's. The driver doesn't talk to them the whole two hour's drive there; she chucks their bags in the boot, gets in the front, and waits for them to get in the back. Martin sits in the left backseat and Jon sits in the middle. The driver eyes their interlocked hands in the mirror before she adjusts it, then sets off. Martin holds his hand tight, resting his other hand over it. He stares out the window the whole drive, and Jon watches Martin. His eyes flick back and forth as he watches the rolling hills, follows the rain trickling down the glass. The corner of his lips turn up at the sight of sheep, alpacas, horses, highland cows. His cheeks turn pink when he catches Jon staring.
The safehouse was described as a cottage by Basira, but Jon thinks that's a bit of a stretch. The living room and dining room are one room, with a bathroom to the left and a bedroom at the back. The whole place is a bit dingy and musty. Dust sits on every surface, turning everything greyish brown. Luckily, Daisy keeps a seemingly endless supply of wipes and cloths just for the purpose.
They clean the couch and coffee table together, then the kitchen, then the bedroom, then the floors and windows. By the time it gets to the evening, they're too tired to do anything but have a half-hearted dinner and fall into bed. Martin sleeps half on top of Jon, and Jon doesn't mind the pins and needles in his fingers the next morning.
This is all to say, Jon doesn't quite know how they went from 100 to 0 in the span of one day.
The next day, Jon tries to hold Martin's hand again, and Martin flinches away with a nervous laugh and a red face. Over the day, there is lots of blushing and clearing throats and inching away from each other. It only gets worse through the next week.
Jon tries his very best not to Know what's going on, but as far as he can figure, Martin kind of stopped experiencing the human range of emotions when he was thrown fully into the Lonely. Not that it's all bleeding back into him, so too has his tendency to be a nervous, flustered wreck. It's incredibly endearing. But, also a little worrying, considering Jon did give him a whole 'I love you, let's run away to another country' monologue right before they got their train tickets.
So, Jon prepares for a slow journey of becoming accustomed to each other and getting comfortable. After two weeks, they work up to having a long chat about boundaries, especially regarding the bed, as Jon had moved to sleep on the couch that felt more cardboard than stuffing and it was destroying his back more than it already was. Actually sharing the bed is a whole other issue. Martin sleeps like a rock and Jon tosses and turns the whole night. He, luckily, wakes up early enough to remove himself from clinging to Martin's side — he would rather keep over than make him uncomfortable.
It's a long climb to the top where they reach cuddling on the couch and spooning in bed, and every time, Jon has to steel himself to not show how happy it makes him. If he gets too giddy, it might send Martin running. At least, that's what his brain keeps telling him. Either way, after a month, they spend practically every second of the day holding hands, or leaning on each other's shoulders, or folded up in each other's laps.
But still, it takes almost three months for them to kiss for the first time.
When it does happen, it's on a warm evening with golden light pouring through the windows, bathing everything in a golden light.
"Nice break from the rain," Martin mumbles after finishing the last dregs of his tea. Jon hums from his cosy spot under Martin's arm. The radio plays lazily in the background, tinny and static filled, struggling to reach them all the way out here.
"Well, that's Scotland for you," Jon sighs. "Rain and wind and sleet, and occasionally twenty five degrees and sunny."
"Wish we could have visited when we're not on the run." Jon hums again, feeling sleepy and warm in the sunlight (he supposes Martin was not entirely wrong about comparing him to a cat). He wants to keep up the nice conversation, but he's about this close to falling asleep on Martin's shoulder.
The song quietly fades out and back into a new track. Some retro tune that might have been a top 40. The speakers make the lyrics sound garbled, even through the Gaelic, but its slow and soulful plucked guitar still makes it out. Jon watches Martin slowly bounce his knee to the beat, tapping his heel against the rug in a dull thump. Jon smiles as he gets an idea.
With a sluggish reluctance, he untangles himself from Martin's arm, straightening out his jumper and skirt. He holds out a hand to Martin.
"Care for a dance?"
Martin's face lights up in an adorable bright pink, and Jon suddenly Knows that this is a daydream Martin has had for years. He fights down a little smile. He won't tell Martin that one (at least, not for a little while). Martin takes his hand and they stand up.
They fall into position easily; they interlock their right hands, Martin's left on Jon's waist, and Jon's on Martin's shoulder. They sheepishly smile at each other as they start to sway back and forth to the croning of the radio. It's an easy rhythm to fall into, even if Jon keeps accidentally stepping on Martin's toes.
The song fades into another, and another, and eventually, Jon has settled his head on Martin's chest. The sun has set, and the candles in the room are their only light. A faint wind whistles outside the windows, rustles the leaves of the trees. Jon looks back up at Martin, only to be met with adoring eyes and a gentle smile. He moves his hand from Martin's shoulder up to cup his cheek.
Ultimately, it's Martin who makes the move.
His arm winds further around Jon's middle, his hand flat against the plane of his back. He untangles their right hands to stroke Jon's hair out of his face, resting it on his neck after tucking the strands behind his ear. Standing chest to chest — or, as close as they can get with his stature — Jon is sure Martin can feel his heart pounding under his skin. If he does, he mustn't mind all that much, as he leans down and kisses Jon.
Their lips slot together like they were moulded for it, and Jon honestly thinks fireworks might be setting off, or the room is glowing pink, or whatever other cheesy garbage happens in movies. All of them, those sweet tooth rom-coms, he suddenly understands them. He understands why people write poetry in the instant Martin threads his fingers into Jon's hair.
Martin holds him close like he's something precious, rubs his thumb in a gentle circle across his temple. Jon slides his arms up to hold Martin around his middle, slowly rising on his tip toes so Martin doesn't have to lean over as much. The radio fades off into chatter between the two hosts and Jon hardly even notices. Martin's lips are soft and warm, his hands careful and reverent. They pull away from each other for just a second to breathe, then launch back in, holding each other tight.
It's everything Jon imagined and more. His skin tingles all over, but especially where Martin touches him. He's never been one for much physical affection, but Martin seems to have wriggled his way right into Jon's heart (he almost chucks up at how bloody cheesy he's gotten).
Jon very, very reluctantly pulls away after another few moments, his feet aching from standing on his toes, and he draws in a deep, shuddering breath. Martin's face is beet red, and Jon almost—almost—laughs. Instead, he smiles fondly and readjusts his squinty glasses.
"Sorry, I've–" Martin interrupts himself with a little chuckle. "I've basically destroyed your hair."
Jon just laughs, tipping his head forward against Martin's chest. The noise can most accurately be described as a giggle. Jon doesn't think he's ever giggled before. Martin laughs as well, louder than Jon had heard in what could be years.
They blow out the candles and get ready for bed not long after, bundling under the duvet and blankets, wrapped up in each other's arms and peppering each other's faces with kisses. Jon knows the peace won't last. But, right now, he decides to pretend it can last forever.
And it almost feels like it will.