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There were good and bad days for Jon. On good days, he could easily drown out the constant thrum of information against the inside of his skull, repress the guilt he felt whenever he closed his eyes. He could forget the ghost of pain that shot through him whenever he ran a finger across his scars. On days like that, he smiled more. He felt like a person.
Today was not one of those days. He knew it was going to be bad when he woke up with a blurry spot in his vision. Martin was already puttering around the kitchen, which he Knew but couldn’t hear. That was the second sign.
It was also the last thing he registered before his head erupted into throbbing agony. Helpfully, he Knew that migraines could last anywhere from a few hours to days. He muffled a groan in his pillow and screwed his eyes shut.
Martin was likely to come in any minute now. They had plans to take a walk down to the pond now that it was warmer, and he no doubt wanted to ensure Jon still felt up to it. Martin would understand if Jon told him he didn’t feel well enough to go. He would shut the blackout curtains, bring him tea, and reassure him that “the pond isn’t going anywhere, Jon, just rest up.”
And Jon would feel guiltier than ever. He held his breath and swung his legs out of bed.
Fifty-four muscles are used to move from a sitting to a standing position .
Fantastic. So it was one of those days. He panted for a bit, staring at the ceiling, before thrusting himself upwards and coming to a stand.
He teetered dangerously, his head empty of everything but pain. He pressed his palms against his eyes before shuffling to the wardrobe.
The trousers you’re looking for are second from the top.
He snagged them, along with a shirt he identified by touch. He tugged them on, giving his pyjamas a half-hearted toss at the laundry basket in the corner. As a final touch, he snagged the sunglasses on his nightstand, fumbling them on before exiting and walking to the kitchen.
Martin had the curtains pulled and a pan of eggs sizzling merrily on the stove. “Morning!” His voice was endearingly chipper and Jon forced a smile as he sat down at the table.
He is worried about you.
The sun was far too bright, even through the shades. Jon closed his eyes, trying to steady himself. He hoped the glasses were dark enough to keep Martin from seeing.
They aren’t.
Martin scooped some eggs onto a plate with a piece of buttered toast and slid it in front of Jon. He frowned. “Are you feeling alright?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” He picked up a fork and turned to his plate.
The mill that ground the grain chewed a man to pulp three days later. They had to hose him out of the gears. The chicken was torn up by a fox. The farmer buried it because he couldn’t salvage the meat. The-
“Jon? Jon, can you hear me?”
He snapped his head up, then groaned as a fresh wave of pain protested the movement. Martin was staring at him with a concern that nearly made Jon nauseous. He didn’t deserve pity, not after everything.
“Are you sure you’re alright?”
“I’m fine .” More guilt washed over him when Martin pulled back by a hair. “Just a bit of a headache, is all.”
Martin hummed and pressed the back of his hand to Jon’s forehead. It was mercifully cool and he had to stop himself from leaning deeper into the touch.
“You have a bit of a fever. I think we should stay home today.”
“No, no.” Jon forced himself upwards. “You’ve been looking forward to this all week.”
He made it all of three steps towards the door before stumbling. Martin ran to catch him.
The man who lived here before you died this way he fell and no one knew how bad the damage was until he fell asleep and never woke up-
Martin was leading him to the bedroom, murmuring soothing words, one hand on his back.
“I’m fine,” Jon insisted as he was gently moved to sit on the bed.
“You are not fine, you are going to lie down and let me take care of you.”
“The pond,” Jon protested. “You wanted to go to the pond. You deserve a break, you deserve to be happy.” He left the I don’t to linger in the air.
“Jon,” Martin answered haltingly, “how do you expect me to be happy if the love of my life is in pain?” He pulled Jon in closer to his side, and Jon went willingly. “Can I do anything to help?”
“No, it’s just- it’s all too much. I think too much, I See too much, I Know too much. I can’t seem to shut it off.”
Martin nodded. “I think I might have something. Can I try?”
Jon made an affirmative. Martin stood and shuffled over to the dresser, rifling around in the sock drawer before withdrawing a large handkerchief. He sat back down and reached for the sunglasses before hesitating.
“May I?”
Jon nodded and Martin took the shades, folding them neatly on the dresser before shaking out the handkerchief and knotting it over Jon’s eyes. He slipped two fingers under the fabric to test the tightness before slipping his hand into Jon’s.
“Is that alright?”
Jon considered the blindfold for a moment. It didn’t shut out the Eye completely, but it dampened the flood of information to a hum that, while uncomfortable, was at least more tolerable than it had been. It also blocked out most of the last traces of light, significantly reducing triggers to his migraine.
“It’s- it’s better. Thank you.”
“Of course,” Martin hummed. “Do you want me to stay?”
Part of Jon, the part that still felt guilty, protested. He didn’t deserve this, didn’t deserve someone as good as Martin. That he had to control himself instead of alienating the last person to care even a bit about him with his clinginess.
The part that won out leaned into Martin’s shoulder and nodded.
When he woke up later on, it was with his head on Martin’s chest, who was snoring softly. Well, he thought. If we’re both still here . He smiled and drifted back to sleep.
Martin had his bad days, too. Days when the fog clouded the edges of his vision and left his chest a hollow drum when he breathed in. Days when it covered him like blanket he could curl under and days when it filled his lungs so deep he feared it would suffocate him.
He hated to admit it, but it had been nice for a time. The ability to slip away, unable to be perceived or judged or a burden had been a comfort for a while. He still felt the want to, sometimes. But now, with Jon by his side, bumping hips while they negotiated the kitchen together, holding hands while they walked, curled into each other like halves of a whole, he feared giving into the call of invisibility.
On bad days like today, he would do the next best thing and lay in bed. He couldn’t find the energy to move his limbs from their uncomfortable position, much less get up and dressed and ready to face the day.
So he lingered, lights off because Jon hadn’t turned them on when he left that morning, and focused what little motivation he had on pushing away the coils of fog he feared were curling around his ankles.
He half-jumped when Jon rapped lightly on the door. “Martin?”
Jon . His wonderful, ridiculous boyfriend who Martin absolutely did not want to see him like this. Jon worried too much already, he did not need to be burdened with Martin’s inabilities. “Fine,” he called.
“You’re not.” His matter-of-fact tone betrayed the heavy concern in his voice.
“What did I say about Knowing things about me?”
“I didn’t have too,” and if that didn’t strike Martin like a knife through his heart then nothing would.
“Martin, I’m coming in.” He did, opening the door as little as possible and stepping in quickly to keep the sudden light from hurting Martin’s eyes.
Martin half-heartedly attempted to pull the covers over his head, like he was a child playing hide-and-seek. It was useless, he knew that, but he couldn’t face Jon’s look of abject pity knowing that he was the one causing that distress.
He felt the mattress sink as Jon settled next to him. “Can I do anything?”
Martin shook his head. “Just one of those days,” he answered, injecting artificial cheer into his voice. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Martin,” Jon said gently. “When I’m having ‘one of those days’, what do you do?”
“I- Jon, it’s different.”
“How?”
“I don’t mind doing that for you-”
“And why would you think I feel any different?”
He held Martin’s hand, bringing it up to his lips for a kiss. “Martin, if I didn’t want to take care of you, I wouldn’t be here. You know me well enough to be sure of that. I am here because I love you, and I care about you, and I don’t want you to be alone if you don’t want to be.”
Martin didn’t say anything, but he did squeeze Jon’s hand.
“Now, I can bring you a cup of tea and some food. Is that what you want?”
Martin took a deep, steadying breath. “Could you just- stay here?” He sniffed, trying desperately not to let the tears into his voice. “I don’t want it to take me again.”
“Of course.” Martin heard a rustling sound as Jon settled into the bed next to him, not once letting go of his hand.
“Can you just talk about something? Anything you want, really, I just- I want to hear that you’re still there.” For the split second after he asked, Martin feared that he had said too much. There he went again, inch for a mile. He chided himself. Jon didn’t want to hear him asking for this, didn’t want to be bothered by him-
Jon cleared his throat. “You know, I read an article earlier today on an ancient grave found in Sweden. DNA analysis of the remains indicate that they were a biological female, which completely changes previous evaluation of gender roles in Viking society, in addition to totems found depicting women in battle gear-”
Jon continued to ramble about the archaeological ramifications of the discovery, answering what questions Martin asked as his explanation ran deeper. Martin curled closer to Jon, tucking his head under his boyfriend’s chin and listening to the steady whistle of his breath.
Not once did Jon pull away, and not once did they let go of each other’s hands.