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He had to tell Martin. Jon knew he had to say something soon, before things went too far in one direction or another. He should have said something already, if he was completely honest with himself, but there just hadn't been time.
That was a lie, actually, he thought. Certainly it wasn't in the beginning, there was a frenzy that left no good moments for in depth personal discussions. After escaping the Lonely with Martin in tow, and being told by Basira under no uncertain terms that it was not safe and they had to leave, she'd given them directions to Daisy's safe house in Scotland and shooed them away from the Institute as fast as humanly possible. They'd scrambled to pack, neither having been home in quite literally weeks, and booked the first available train tickets to Edinburgh.
The seven hour trip had been used for sleeping, at least in Martin’s case, with him resting his cheek on the crown of Jon’s head and very softly snoring while Jon held his freezing hand. Jon for his part did a very good job of not looking at anyone too hard and not talking to anyone, not even the old lady that sat across from them.
Jillian McCormac. 86 years old. Lives alone. She's going to visit her nephew before he passes away. She doesn't know he's as sick as he is, he's been lying to her in his letters about how bad the leukemia has gotten. Afraid of dogs, was maimed as a child and still has the scars on her right leg. Ask her about it.
Then they arrived, and they took another train to Aberdeen, and then two different cabs to an unnamed village in the middle of the highlands with no mobile phone service, no internet, and most importantly no Institute. There was a singular phone booth in town, by the post office, and a combination petrol station and diner across the street. A little further into the village were some amenities; a bookshop and a grocer and a few homes with businesses in the front.
Jon did his best not to Know too much- Caitlyn Bennet fell down a well when she was 12 and she nearly drowned, Archibald Wallace's wife died in 2014 and his house has felt far too big and quiet for him since then, twins Brodie and Eilidh Mitchell both have nightmares about the dark shadows in their shared bedroom swallowing them whole- as he and Martin rode the cab through the village and up to the cottage. It was a little ways past the pastures that surrounded them (Jon didn't fail to notice the way Martin's mouth tipped up at the sight of ginger highland cows lazily grazing in the fields), on a picturesque hill overlooking a moore in the distance.
It must have been a family place, Jon thought, perhaps inherited by a family member. He chose not to Look into it, to maintain some semblance of privacy on Daisy's part. It had electricity, shockingly, but also gas powered lamps presumably for emergencies, and the entire cottage consisted of three rooms. A kitchenette and sitting room combined together, a single bathroom with a claw-footed tub, and a single bedroom with an old creaky mattress meant for two. There was a television, one of the old bulky box ones that hummed softly with static when turned on, and a small collection of films and books for entertainment. Daisy had said she wasn’t a film person but Jon supposed anything had to be better than sitting alone in the middle of nowhere with your thoughts.
The first thing Martin did while Jon busied himself with the cab, tipping the driver extra to make sure he kept quiet about this place, was to drop their luggage and make a beeline to the kitchenette to make tea.
The first thing Jon did when he walked inside was watch Martin bumble around and get a feel for the state of the kitchen. He leaned on the wall, partially from exhaustion and partially because his leg was stiff from sitting in one place for nearly a whole day, and when Martin turned around their eyes met and color returned to his fog-chilled cheeks briefly.
“What?” Martin asked, shy and defensive. He hunched in on himself.
“Nothing. Just you,” Jon muttered.
“What about me?” Martin looked away and once again busied himself with cleaning the kitchenette. It was full of dust, and the faucet coughed a few times before it sprung to life and spat out some water to wash the chipped mugs with.
Jon didn't answer immediately. He walked up to Martin and snaked his arms around his middle. Or, well, tried to. Martin was a big man in almost every way, and Jon was what most would charitably call below average height. Georgie had once drunkenly called Jon “fun sized”. So instead of what he meant to do, which was wrap Martin up his arms and hold him tightly, Jon ended up just squeezing Martin from behind like a child hugging an oversized teddy bear they won at a carnival.
Martin's breath caught in his chest and he turned around in Jon's arms. His soft blue eyes, now cloudy and grayish like a misty beach, filled with tears behind the spiderwebbing of his cracked glasses lens. When had that happened? Jon felt a little sick at the thought that Martin had been hurt and he hadn't been there to protect him.
The Eye, ever unhelpful, fed Jon information about Martin that he did not want to know, at least not if it wasn't coming from Martin himself.
Martin's father Samuel left when he was 8. He said he was going for cigarettes after getting in a fight with his mother and never returned. Martin hates the smell of menthols.
When Martin was 12 he was hazed in gym class. His clothes were frequently stolen from him and flushed in the toilets in the locker room. One time a boy named Henry intentionally dumped an entire thermos of lentil soup on Martin. It was a Wednesday. Martin didn't tell anyone.
Martin lost his virginity at 15 to an older boy named Danny that used to pay him to do his homework. He broke up with Martin after he failed his exams. The smell of his deodorant still makes Martin sick to his stomach. Sometimes he smells it when he's in a crowd and panics.
Martin's mother collapsed when he was 17 and laid on the floor of their house for hours before he came home from school and called an ambulance. He dropped out afterwards to be around more, in case it ever happened again. It did, frequently.
She hates him she hates him she hates him so much, he's a mockery of the man Samuel was, soft and pliable and utterly pathetic, she can't stand to be around him, he's a worm wearing the skin of a monster and she wishes he'd just die already so she could at least get some sympathy from the nurses who putter uselessly around her in the home.
She's gone. Martin is glad. He hates that he's glad. He really is a monster.
Jon swallowed thickly and pointedly ignored it all. None of that was his business. Martin could tell him when he was ready, if he was ever ready. And if and when the time came, Jon would simply pretend it was the first time he'd heard of any of it.
“I'm glad you're here,” he said quietly, finally. He cupped Martin's cheeks in his hands, brushing his thumb over the stubble growing there. It was a texture Jon thought he could definitely get used to.
The tears fell from Martin's eyes and they didn't stop. Sobs built in his chest and wracked his frame. Jon pulled Martin down into his shoulder and tried not to wince when Martin grasped at him like he was a raft keeping him afloat in a storm-torn sea. Icy hands gripped at Jon's sweater as Martin wailed.
Jon just held him and failed to hold in his own tears.
By the time Martin had calmed down, the sun was started to fall. They were both utterly exhausted, having traveled through the night and all of the morning, but Martin couldn't seem to sit still. He continued to meander around their tiny shared space, dusting off whatever surfaces he could reach and making himself sneeze. Jon unpacked the tape recorder and set it on the coffee table. He pressed the button to turn it on after loading a fresh tape in, just to ensure it worked, and turned it off after Martin left for the village. He hadn't packed tapes. He correctly assumed they'd just manifest on their own.
Martin hadn't been happy about bringing it, but Jon figured it would manifest at the cottage either way. Besides, in the quiet of the Scottish countryside, the sound of a tape recorder clicking on was as good of a warning system as a siren.
They agreed to leave it on the coffee table, in plain sight. There it sat for days, unmoving and dormant. Even when Martin found an old radio packed away and fiddled with the antenna until they got a signal, determined to have something to fill the silence other than the same five movies on repeat. Even when Jon dropped a mug and promptly had a panic attack because he saw his shadow in the reflection of the kitchen window and all he saw was eyes. Even when they both wandered down in the middle of the night, eyes hollow from terror that followed them even in their sleep, and Jon sat on the sofa and stared at the horrid thing, so sure it was about to click and whir to life right in front of him, while Martin made tea that neither of them drank.
Even now, while Jon was sitting in Martin's lap with his lips on Martin's mouth and his hands in Martin's hair, the recorder stayed blessedly still.
Except a part of Jon wished it would turn on, if only to interrupt them. To distract them from the conversation that Jon needed to have but was too afraid to start. To save Jon the mortification of having to acknowledge his failings as a partner, as a lover.
The term made Jon's stomach flip. Martin's lover. Martin's boyfriend. How delightfully human of him.
He didn't mind this at all, really. Actually, Jon was enjoying himself quite a lot. Kissing was nice, Martin's lips were soft and warm on his own and the way Martin scooped Jon up into his arms like Jon was nothing made him nearly squeal like a schoolgirl. Martin had something of a sleeper build, the fat masking layers of muscle beneath that made Jon's heart race. He liked that strength.
It wasn't until Martin slipped his hand under Jon’s jumper that he remembered what snogging his boyfriend was meant to lead to. Ice cold panic ran down Jon’s spine and sent goosebumps across his body.
No, he thought after Martin smiled a bit into the kisses. He wasn't going to ruin this. Martin deserved a normal, healthy romantic relationship. He deserved a partner who could provide for his needs. Jon could be that partner, he just needed to set his mind to it. They could discuss it later, maybe.
So he found his resolve and continued on as if nothing happened.
If he put it out of his mind, Jon thought he might be able to enjoy the touching. Martin wasn't rough in any way, his strong broad hands were careful and his skin was soft. Jon could smell the eucalyptus lotion Martin put on after washing the dishes. And the touches were intermittently sturdy and feather-light, occasionally tickling Jon and getting him to squirm and giggle in a rather undignified way, which made Martin grin and light up the room more than the fire burning in the hearth could ever hope to.
Yes, the touching was enjoyable, as long as Jon didn't linger on how horrible his body must have felt to Martin. Covered in uneven scars and bone-thin, nearly skeletal. He could see his naked reflection in the mirror in his head, the way the gap between his ribs stood out and the textures of all the trauma his body had been through in the past few years.
That was a terribly unattractive image. Jon forced it out of his mind by imagining Martin instead.
He liked the way Martin looked. Even before he loved him, Jon thought that Martin looked like prime boyfriend material, so much so he'd been genuinely surprised when he discovered Martin was single. Round and soft, perfect for cuddling. A lovely button nose that ended in a slight upturn. Big sky blue doe eyes that once seemed so innocent and so eager to please. The innocence was gone now, and the blue skies had gone stormy over the years, but they were still Martin.
Of course Jon didn't need to imagine Martin. All he had to do was open his eyes, something he wasn't keen on doing. Keeping his eyes closed was the only thing steeling Jon's nerves.
Somehow Jon was so lost in thought that he was startled by Martin pulling his jumper over his head. The chilly evening air, spiteful of the fire they lit, hit Jon's bare skin and he shivered. He pressed himself against Martin's chest, seeking warmth and comfort.
Martin’s lips didn't return to Jon's mouth. Instead they moved on to his jaw, tracing the natural lines of his body and lingering on his neck. Jon buried his fingers in Martin's curls and earned a pleased groan for his troubles.
This was okay too, Jon thought. Martin could explore if he really wanted to, he didn't seem to mind the haggard state Jon's body was in. As long as he was happy Jon was willing. And it wasn't unpleasant, not really. Martin nipped at the crook between Jon's neck and shoulder; Jon shivered again and he couldn’t tell if it was Martin’s attention or the cold. He decided it was the former.
Martin pushed him back and in a fit of terror Jon latched onto Martin as tightly as he could. It got a concerned but ultimately lovely noise out of his boyfriend.
“Jon? Everything okay?” he asked. Jon ignored how badly he was shaking. He forced himself to relax his grip on Martin's jumper.
“Yes. Y-yes, I'm-” Jon's voice faltered and he cleared his throat to find it again. “I just wasn't… expecting that.”
Martin pulled away enough that Jon could see his face, and he was smiling. “Oh. Would it be better if I told you everything I'm doing then? No surprises?”
Jon fought the urge to burst into tears right then and there and nodded. “Yes, please, that- that'd be preferable.”
Something flickered on Martin's face, something that Jon read as “this is something we'll have to discuss properly later because I have questions” and promptly filled his stomach with ice. He chose to ignore it, focus on Martin's actual words and movements.
“Alright. I'm gonna lay you down on the sofa, and then I'm gonna bloody worship you,” Martin said in a low voice. Jon shivered once again as he was lowered back into the musty, scratchy throw pillows and Martin hovered over him to continue his oral explorations on the other side of Jon's neck.
For a brief moment Jon’s heart seized as he remembered how big Martin was compared to him. Martin could easily hurt him if he wanted to, snap Jon in half like a twig, smother him with a pillow, and Jon would be utterly helpless. He counted himself lucky that Martin’s only goal seemingly at the moment was to map out Jon’s upper body with his lips.
Jon tried to wait for the tight coil of fear in his gut to unravel and relax. He was supposed to be enjoying this. This was supposed to be nice, fun. As Martin moved down, past Jon’s clavicle and to his sternum, a whimper escaped Jon and he wished so badly that it was one of pleasure and not revulsion. He just kept carding his fingers through Martin's hair, unsure of what to do with his hands right now.
All of his nerves were alight now, hyperaware of everything he touched. Jon could feel the rough texture of the unprocessed linen cushions beneath him, the way his own hair was bunched up uncomfortably and pushed away from his neck. He felt sweat collect on his unscarred palm as he tried desperately to keep his hands busy and out of Martin’s way, and the lightweight touches and kisses Martin left everywhere on Jon’s body no longer were pleasantly ticklish but full of harsh static.
Martin’s hand traveled down his side, his thumb hooked inside the band of Jon’s joggers. The coil in Jon's gut snapped. He flinched with his entire body and if Martin hadn't grabbed the back of the couch he would have fallen off with Jon in a flailing mess of limbs as he tried frantically to get away.
“Jon! Are you okay?” Martin gasped. Jon sat on the ground, gulping down air desperately, and glanced at the recorder. It stayed mercifully still and Jon couldn't have been more relieved that whatever was on the other side of those tapes had no interest in his inability to be normal about snogging.
However, it did mean that Jon had no excuse for why he'd suddenly thrown himself on the floor to escape Martin's ministrations.
“I, er,” he said shakily. “I… s-sorry…”
He gratefully accepted Martin's help when the hand was offered, and the swooping sensation in his stomach when he was hauled to his feet briefly overrode the terror that had lodged itself there.
Only once Jon was safe on the couch did Martin ask. “What happened? Did I- I mean, did I go too fast?”
And Jon couldn't bring himself to look at Martin as he answered. “No, no, you were fine. It was… fine. I'm just… not used to being touched like that, is all.”
Jon hugged himself and shuddered as the cold crept along his exposed skin. He jumped a little when a warm weight unexpectedly rested on his shoulders. “Just a blanket,” Martin said, voice as soft as the wool that he draped over Jon.
The silence weighed on them, only interrupted by the crackling of the fire. It smothered Jon and wrapped itself around his throat like a snake suffocating its kill.
Where would he even begin?
Martin tentatively reached for Jon’s hand. “I'm here for you, Jon. I promise. Whatever- whatever happened, I won't be upset,” he said. Jon's chest ached with the tenderness that Martin treated him to.
“I-I… ah. I'm not sure…” Jon rasped out. He coughed into his hand in the hopes that he could dislodge the words caught in his chest.
“Take your time.” Martin smiled that sad smile that he'd given Jon the night before the Unknowing. A smile of unspoken pain. A tilt of his mouth that didn't even crease his smile lines.
Jon squeezed Martin's hand and took a deep breath. Then another. Then he opened his mouth.
“I don't, erm, I don't like having sex.” He cringed at the words that he forced out of his mouth like something bitter and crass, like a shot of whiskey with no chaser. He heard Martin take a breath and started talking again, to further explain himself before Martin got the wrong idea.
“It's not you! I swear on my grandmother’s grave, Martin, it has absolutely nothing to do with you as a person. It's me, I'm… I'm not right. My body doesn't react the way I'm told it should, and-and! And I never understood it anyway, outside of purely reproductive needs. I get more enjoyment out of a particularly good book, or a massage, or-or a song that agrees with me, and intimacy is more than just… just inserting peg a into hole b, after all, and-!”
“Jon! Jon, it's okay, I understand!”
Martin’s voice was shaking with laughter, and that was what snapped Jon out of the word vomit he'd worked himself into. He finally turned to look at Martin and his heart pounded in his chest to see him covering his mouth with his free hand, cheeks ruddy from trying to hold in his chuckling.
“Peg a in hole b,” Martin chortled under his breath. “Is that really how you see sex? Just fitting puzzle pieces together?”
Jon blinked and frowned. “Isn't it?”
Martin guffawed. “I mean, I guess. That's a very clinical way of looking at it, though,” he said. The mournful little uptick had turned into a full grin. Martin had such a pretty smile, but Jon didn't know what he was smiling about.
It waned though. “If you don't like sex, then why didn't you say anything?” Martin asked. “You know I would've stopped the minute I made you uncomfortable. You know that, right?”
“I know.” Jon hiked his shoulders up to his ears, feeling rather like he was being lectured. “I just… you were enjoying yourself and I wanted you to be able to have this… this one nice thing. You deserve it, you deserve someone who can give you what I can't.”
Martin's smile completely disappeared at that and Jon wished he'd kept his mouth shut so it wouldn't have left. “I'm sorry-”
“Now wait just a minute,” Martin said. “Jon, turn to me. You don't have to look me in the eye but I want you facing me for this.”
Jon thought he might be sick but he did as he was told and turned so he and Martin were facing each other. He looked at his own legs to avoid meeting Martin's eyes. There was a rip in the seam along the inside of his right pant leg, a few frayed stray threads hanging in the negative space. The fabric was pilling on the inside of his thighs, a product of years of friction.
Martin took both of Jon's hands. “Jon, I promise to you, you are enough for me. I don't need to have sex to be happy.”
Jon couldn't stop the wry grimace that twisted his face. He wished he could believe Martin. He wished time wouldn't make him a liar. He wished he was normal in at least one single way so they wouldn't have to have this conversation at all.
“What? What's the matter?” Martin asked. He ran his thumb over Jon's knuckles.
“They all say that, you know. That they don't mind, that it's okay. Eventually one of us gets sick of it, and then it blows up in our faces, and then I'm alone again,” he whispered.
“Jon, I would rather die than hurt you.”
“I know.”
“Is this about Georgie? Did she make a big deal out of it?” Martin's voice took on a harsh tone, almost judgemental.
Jon huffed out what could have been called a laugh. “Not in the way you're thinking. I told her up front on our first date and she made it her personal mission to ensure I was never in danger of ‘feeling obligated’,” he explained. “She was distant on purpose, afraid that she'd… impose herself on me unfairly. It was actually rather patronizing. By the time we broke up, we hadn't kissed in weeks and I'd taken to sleeping with a pillow between us so I had some semblance of a warm body near me. It wasn't our only problem but it was one of the bigger issues of our relationship. We get along much better as friends. Or, um, we did.”
“Right.” Martin adjusted his fingers slightly in Jon's hands. They were getting sweaty but he made no move to pull his hands away.
“Besides, I'd prefer to have a relationship fizzle out naturally than what happened with Harry,” Jon shrugged. He regretted bringing him up almost instantly. Martin squeezed Jon's hands, trembling ever so slightly from the stress.
“Who’s Harry?” It was difficult to tell if Martin was speaking slowly because he was confused or because he was trying to contain his emotions.
“Uh! No one. Not anymore, anyway. We haven't spoken since I was 19,” Jon said hurriedly. “It wasn't even that long of a relationship. I left after six months, I think?”
“Was he… as bad as Georgie?”
Martin's voice didn't lose the slow, careful cadence. Jon felt his heart tighten and he instinctively shrank into the blanket on his shoulders, pulling it closer around himself.
“Yes, but… in the opposite direction. I think he thought he could fix me.”
Jon left it at that. He didn't want to go into detail about the relationship. The screaming matches and the nights spent crying while chainsmoking an entire pack of cigarettes on the rooftop of the tenement by himself, Harry drinking and Harry liking it rough and dirty despite Jon's discomfort and Harry complaining that Jon wasn't enthusiastic enough for him. Jon didn't want to talk about how they'd broken up either, how he'd gotten back from his shitty retail job to all his things packed up and piled just outside Harry’s door, how he'd knocked on the door for an hour before Harry texted him to go away, how he'd gone back to his own flat just down the hall and cried himself to sleep, or how Harry had texted him not a week later drunk and wanting a warm body in his bed. Jon had been weak, desperate for affection and still not entirely sure what he had done wrong in the first place, and went over for the night. He didn't make that mistake twice.
Even with Jon's lack of explanation, Martin's voice got very dark. “That's horrible,” he growled. “There's nothing about you to fix.”
“That's, uh, that's very sweet of you Martin, but I'm far from a perfect person,” Jon countered.
Martin sighed. “I mean, that's true, but your sexuality isn't a personality flaw, Jon.” He squeezed Jon's fingers gently. “It's a part of you, a part I'm glad you're sharing with me, even though I do kinda wish you'd brought it up before I tried to get in your pants.”
Jon bowed his head in shame. “Ah, of-of course. I shouldn’t have… kept it from you. I just… I know you're going to want sex eventually and I don't know if I'll ever be able to give it to you in a manner that makes me comfortable.”
“So, what, you thought you'd just sacrifice your own personal boundaries to make me happy?” Martin asked, and even though it was phrased as an accusation it held none of the bite.
“Yes? Isn't that the whole point of a relationship? Sacrifices, compromises, things of that nature.”
“Not for things like this. That's for choosing which restaurant to go on a date to, or picking between getting a cat or a dog, or figuring out which pictures should be framed on the wall.” Martin let go of one of Jon’s hands, only to tuck a loose lock of hair behind his ear. He let his fingers linger there. Jon leaned into the warmth. “I don't want to have sex with you if you're not getting as much out of it as I am. I'll not treat you like some inanimate blow up doll. I know how to take care of myself if I need to, I'm a grown man with access to a shower.”
Jon thought he might cry, but from relief or fear he couldn't tell. He allowed himself to be pulled into a hug, grabbing at Martin's jumper and burying his face in his chest. “I don't want you to drift away from me again,” he admitted quietly. His voice warbled with the emotion he desperately tried to rein in. “I don't want you to stop… this.”
“Then I need you to tell me what you're okay with and what I need to avoid, and I need you to be honest about if and when you're uncomfortable,” Martin said. He rubbed Jon's back soothingly over the blanket.
Eventually, once Martin was certain Jon wasn't going to collapse into a heap of skin and bones and tears, he got up to make himself and Jon tea. He brought Jon his favorite mug, an emerald green thing with a chip in the handle that Jon could rest his thumb on perfectly, and his favorite grey tea. “That's the last bag, I'm afraid. I'll pop down to the village tomorrow and pick up some more,” Martin said as he sat carefully with his own mug, checkerboard painted with its lip wider than the base and a thick handle. Jon smiled with the fondness that bloomed in his chest.
They spent the rest of the night talking about boundaries and what Jon should consider a breach of previously mentioned boundaries. “It’s not like I never get the urge,” Jon explained. “It's just rare. I'm usually inebriated, or waking up from an… inappropriate dream. Neither of which I’ve experienced in a long time.”
“Well, I'm not going to get you drunk just to cop a feel,” Martin promised.
“I appreciate it,” Jon smiled. “Not that it’s ever an issue. I don't think we even have wine.”
Martin snickered and pressed a kiss to Jon's temple. He took to laying on Martin's chest, having put his jumper back on at some point, and reveling in the warmth. Once Martin had fully fought off the fog of the Lonely, his temperature had returned to normal, which meant he was essentially a living walking blast furnace. Jon soaked it up as much as he could, his tiny frame and lack of any body fat whatsoever guaranteed that he lost heat as quickly as his body produced it. He practically lived in woolen jumpers and flannel joggers now and cocooned himself in blankets whenever he couldn't be in Martin's lap.
“So this is fine?” Martin asked, arms wrapped around Jon protectively. Jon nodded and tucked himself impossibly further into Martin.
“This is perfect,” Jon whispered. He could lay there in Martin's arms until the world ended. “The kissing wasn't bad either. Or the touching. As long as, uh. As long as I don't have to look.”
“Is it the sight that squicks you out?” Martin asked gently.
Jon shrugged. “A little? I… I know I'm not exactly, well, conventionally attractive, so seeing you do those things was a little… disconcerting.”
“Not conven- Jon. Jonathan Sims.” The full name had Jon sitting up a bit to look at Martin in the face. He avoided eye contact, choosing to focus instead on Martin's nose.
“Yes?” he said cheekily.
Martin huffed. “You listen to me. Do you know how long I sat at a desk across the bloody bullpen, drooling over you because you are absolutely gorgeous? The amount of tea I wasted spilling my mug because I was too distracted staring at you is criminal, Daisy should've locked me up for that alone.”
“That was before my body became a living punching bag for the universe, I'm sure,” Jon said with a wistful sort of smile.
“No, absolutely not. Your scars are as much a part of you as your ridiculous stubbornness. They're handsome because you're handsome. End of discussion.” Martin kissed the end of Jon’s nose. “I won't make those lemon biscuits you like so much if you keep talking poorly about yourself.”
Jon gasped in mock offense. “No! Whatever will I do?” he said dramatically, draping his wrist across his forehead. He laid back on Martin again and went limp in a faux gesture of feint.
“Say one nice thing about yourself and I'll reconsider,” Martin teased. He hugged Jon close, twirling a curly lock of silver-and-black hair around his finger.
“Ugh, really?” Jon groaned playfully. “Very well. I… I, erm. Hmm.” He pursed his lips in thought, his mind drawing a blank. It had been a while since Jon thought in positives. “I have a… unique talent for getting into trouble.”
Martin laughed. “That's not a nice thing!”
“Well, it's not wrong either!”
“Try again.”
“No, that'll be two nice things.”
“Don't tell me you can't think of something else?”
Jon scoffed. “It's not exactly easy when you put me on the spot like that.”
“At least try? For me?” Martin batted his eyelashes at Jon and received a sigh of defeat for his troubles.
“Fine, fine. Erm. I am… I have… strong eyebrows?” Jon grimaced a little at how weak and unsure he sounded. It really wasn't that hard to find something about himself he legitimately liked, was it?
Martin tsked at Jon and kissed his cheek. “Acceptable. C-plus,” he said.
“C! I've never gotten below an A in my life!” Jon laughed, unable to make the outrage sound genuine.
“Then you better start learning to love yourself,” Martin said with a soft smile. He gently traced the stress lines on Jon's face, fingertips gentle in their caressing. Jon let out a deflating exhale.
“It’s… hard,” he admitted softly.
“I know. But it's okay,” Martin cooed. He pulled Jon in and tucked him under his chin. It was soft and warm, like everything else about Martin. “I'll be there to help you.”