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Martyn is laying in bed, but he can't sleep.
The moon is shining through the window of their terracotta shack. He stares up at the ceiling, because he doesn't know where else to look. Beside him, Jimmy rests peacefully, his back to Martyn. His thick, blonde hair, recently trimmed with the blade of Martyn's axe, sits flat against the pillow. He remembers, out in the hot sun of the badlands, chopping the golden locks short. He remembers how casually Jimmy asked, how comfortable he seemed. He remembered the shimmering metal near the skin of Jimmy’s neck.
He remembered the bitter cold of the mountains, biting at his fingertips and his nose, chilling him to the deepest parts of him.
For a moment, he's there. He's standing before the man who he so easily called his Lord, who he revered and loved as a God. The man kneels before him, looking down towards the altar they'd built together. He's holding the axe above his head, he's swallowing his fear, his pride, his loyalty, his love, everything he's ever felt, and then the axe is falling and there's nothing he can do to stop it.
There was never anything he could do to stop it.
He shoots up in bed, ears standing straight up, eyes as wide as saucers. Beside him, he feels his partner stir. Martyn’s hands fly to his mouth, but that serves to wake Jimmy up further. His face is wet. He's never been much of a crier.
“Martyn?” Jimmy murmurs, rolling over just enough to make himself visible, “Martyn, what's wrong?”
“Ren,” Martyn sobs out, “Ren, I'm sorry, I couldn't–”
“Hey, hey,” Jimmy mutters, finally sitting up next to Martyn. He pulls Martyn's hands away from his face and holds them in his own. “What's going on?”
“I'm sorry,” Martyn cries, “I am so sorry, my Lord, I didn't mean to– to love you, so much.”
Jimmy pauses for a moment, and then reaches a hand up to cup Martyn's cheek. “It's okay,” he whispers, “I'm here. I've always been here.”
“I don't know what to do.” Sobs tremble out of Martyn's throat. His body shakes, and he's not sure he's ever felt so weak. “I'm sorry. I can't stop loving you. I've tried, my Lord, but I–”
“It's okay,” Jimmy repeats, “You don't have to. It's okay if it hurts. I know what that's like.”
Martyn says nothing. He cries, for a long time, under the cover of night, and Jimmy holds him. Maybe, a million years ago, he would feel safe here, but he knows now that this is not safety. He cannot be protected by the love of someone who is doomed to fall. But, for a moment, he allows himself to be lulled by the arms wrapped around him. He allows himself to feel something adjacent to safety, something he can't put a word to but allows himself to feel despite that. The safety-like feeling floods his bloodstream, fills his lungs, and, before long, the tears on his face have dried. The moon still shines bright outside, and a breeze blows through the window.
Tomorrow, there will be war. Tomorrow, there will be pain. Tomorrow, there will be death.
Tomorrow, he will lose Jimmy.
Tonight, he pretends like he does not know this.