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The thing about being in the middle of nowhere, Martin had come to realize, was the fact that everything was quiet. Prior to the events of the past year, such silence had been utterly foreign to him. He was raised in London, the furthest cry from a noiseless city he could think of. Even on the nights he would have considered quiet, there was always that constant hum of people being… Well, people . Never was an evening truly free from the passing of traffic, the shouts of intoxicated friends, or the distant thrum of indiscernible music.
None of that existed here.
Perhaps a few weeks ago, Martin would have loved it—embraced it even. But with the fog that still clung to the corners of his mind, all it served to do was unnerve him. He still found himself needing proof that he'd really made it out, and the lack of any nearby life besides that of the only man who seemed more tangled up in this than he was… Needless to say, it wasn't helping the matter.
The other thing that did nothing to calm his lingering sense of dread was the fact that Jon couldn’t seem to decide between fussing over him and leaving him alone entirely. If Jon did nothing but fuss, Martin could chalk his behavior up to smothering guilt, something he knew Jon felt about a lot of things. If Jon entirely ignored him, he could just give in and let the humming silence call to him in its noteless song the way it had done for months.
But the pestering didn’t let him zone out long enough, and the quiet spells didn’t keep him engaged long enough. So this was a dilemma. What Martin needed was a choice, but all he could focus on was that damn silence.
It was on one such night that, like every other moment Jon wasn’t trying to shove poorly steeped tea down his throat or asking if he needed “just one more blanket” despite already having nine of them on and three more within arm’s reach, Martin found himself staring out the window into the field that went on a hundred meters or so before tapering out into a dense cluster of trees. The nearest life was so far out…
Except Jon.
Martin could see him in the garden, sitting down on the wrought iron bench and staring upward. He couldn’t actually see the look on the man’s face, but he could picture it anyway. Serene, probably, but not enough to cancel out the permanent worry lines etched into the outer corners of his eyes.
Martin only realized he’d walked outside when he found himself sitting on the bench next to a surprised Jonathan Sims. “Hi,” he mumbled, almost shocking himself more than his conversation partner.
“Hi,” Jon echoed. He was silent for a minute before finally speaking up again. “Enjoying the evening breeze?”
It didn’t look like that was what he’d meant to say, but Martin answered him anyway. “It’s cold.”
Jon frowned. “Do you need-”
“No, Jon,” Martin interrupted. “I don’t need another blanket.” He had two wrapped around his shoulders. “What are you doing out here? I thought you were…” Come to think of it, what had Jon been doing?
“I was reading earlier,” Jon answered, not fazed by the way Martin trailed off. The conversation was trivial anyway, it didn’t matter what he had been doing. What mattered was that it was being talked about, and that this was a conversation. “But for some reason all Daisy has on the shelf is Murder on the Orient Express , which I’ve already read, Pride and Prejudice , which I do not want to read, and the instruction manual for the refrigerator. Not much of a selection, I’m afraid.”
Martin’s laugh was hollow, but still there. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me as much as it should. She’s a weird one, even if she does a good job at hiding it.”
“Yes, that is true.” Jon sighed, face downturned. “I do hope she’s alright. She… she’s done bad things, but she isn’t a bad person.”
Martin just nodded, not sure what to say. They were quiet for a while, but Martin found that even the soft breathing of another person was infinitely better than the sounds of an empty house.
Jon piped up after a while. “There’s no light pollution out here.”
“Hmm?” Martin hummed questioningly, snapping his attention into focus at the sudden words.
“There’s no light pollution,” Jon repeated. “It’s dark enough to see the stars in real detail. It’s beautiful.”
Finally, Martin looked up. Really looked. And Jon was right. The stars glistened like a million distant specks. He’d never seen stars quite like this before. “Whoa,” was all he could manage.
He’d hardly had a second to take in the beauty of what was above him that the weight of Jon’s torso against his side came as a complete shock to Martin. Jon leaned closer, pointing up at one of the many patterns in the sky. “That one’s Pegasus,” he explained. “See the box and the lines branching off of it?”
It took Martin a moment, but he eventually found what Jon was referring to. “Yeah- how is that a pegasus, though?”
Jon chuckled. “I’m afraid most constellations don’t quite resemble what the name indicates they would. Look- There’s Cassiopeia. Over there’s Draco, and there’s Ursa Minor.” He pointed out all the different shapes.
Martin hardly noticed the time flying by. He listened to Jon explain all the different myths and stories behind the stars. They talked about life. About fears, and hopes, and desires. They sat quietly together until the cosmic wonders that brought them to the garden blinked out and the sun peeked up over the horizon.
But Martin hardly minded the lack of sleep, nor the quiet as the sun rose. He’d been raised in London, a place where silence was foreign, but so were stars. Maybe, with the right company, being out here was manageable. Maybe, despite everything, he was allowed to feel safe.