Work Text:
Tick, tick, tick, tick…
Martin glanced up from his book at the old clock across the room, distracted and barely able to focus on the words he’d been trying to read for the last fifteen minutes at least. That’s how long it’d been since Jon had shut himself in the bedroom to read a statement, and the distance, though short, was doing something to Martin.
He should be finishing up any moment now, he thought hopefully, forcing himself to look away from the time and turning the page of his book. There – another chapter done. The plot of it was…somewhere in Martin’s mind. If he thought hard enough about it, he could…sort of pull together some details? Oh, who was he kidding. With a frustrated groan, Martin flipped back to the start of the chapter. He’d read it again. That was fine. It was just that – being apart from Jon; it made him a bit antsy, okay? And honestly, Martin felt it was quite justified. After everything that had happened to them – Martin getting lost in the Lonely, Jon continuously throwing himself into danger, and oh yeah, dying – having some separation anxiety was probably the least worrisome trauma response he could be having, thank you very much.
Anyways. Fifteen minutes. Jon would be back cuddled up to his side any minute now. All he needed to do was get back to his book and those minutes would fly by.
If he could actually focus on the book, that was.
Martin painstakingly pored over two more pages, deliberately forming each word in his mind in an attempt to actually retain the material instead of just mindlessly staring at it, before looking up again. About five more minutes had passed, and still there was no Jon. Martin frowned, biting his lip. Maybe this was just a particularly long statement? Or maybe Jon was just caught up in some detail or another, trying to do some supplementary research on his phone. While working with Peter, Martin had tried not to overhear the others’ gossip; but one of the bits he hadn’t managed to avoid was something about Basira being satisfied with the minimal amount of follow-up work Jon was asking her to do – leading him to believe that Jon hardly bothered with follow up at all these days. But maybe this statement had a particularly interesting location or artifact, and Martin knew how his boyfriend could be with things like that. Though it pained him slightly to do so, he’d give it a few more minutes. That would surely be enough.
So the clock ticked on, the minute hand moving ever forward and still, Jon did not emerge. After another page or two of trying valiantly to read Martin sat up from where he’d been slouched on the sofa, set the book on the coffee table, and resorted to the more useful pastime of anxiously twiddling his thumbs instead. Maybe Jon was just…needing some space? Maybe the statement was particularly intense, or hit on one of Jon’s own fears, and he just needed some extra time to decompress. Was Martin a bad boyfriend for not having checked up on him by now? His leg bounced up and down, up and down, and his glances at the clock came quicker and quicker until finally becoming a full-on stare. Surely there was a good reason Jon was nearing thirty minutes in the other room, when a statement should only take about fifteen. Right? Surely there was nothing to be worried about?
But as the clock kept ticking, and Jon kept not coming back , Martin decided to hell with all this sitting and waiting – he was at least going to knock on the door and ask if he was alright; for his own sanity, if nothing else. If he continued doing what he was doing for any longer, the sitting and waiting would surely turn into coming up with all the different ways Jon could be dead or hurt in the other room, something Martin was not eager to spend his time fantasizing about. So – time to get up.
“Jon?” He called out, standing and approaching the closed bedroom door (Daisy’s cabin was not large, and the distance not long, though the rooms were soundproofed enough that Martin couldn’t hear Jon read aloud if he did so quietly enough; a small blessing). Knock knock knock – he knocked gently when he reached it, not wanting to startle him. “Everything alright?”
“Don’t come in!” Jon’s answer came muffled, through the door, though also urgent and immediate. There was the sound of paper scattering – so much for not startling him. But Martin’s brow furrowed. He sounded… okay , not like he was in any pain, or like he’d been crying, or anything like that. He just sounded…maybe a little panicked?
“Okay…is everything alright?” Martin repeated himself, frowning.
“Y-yes. Fine. I, um, e-everything’s uh, fine,” Came the response.
Convincing, Martin thought. “O-kay,” He said again, dragging out the vowels. “Do you, do you need anything, or…?”
“N-no, I don’t – I don’t think so. Um. Just…”
“Just…?”
“Just…d-don’t come in!” Wood groaned against wood – the chair being pushed out from the desk, Martin assumed; then hurried footsteps fell, and he recognized the creak of the bed frame as Jon presumably settled on it. And then from there…nothing more. Just silence.
What the hell was going on?
“Jon, I don’t want to like, undermine you or anything but, are you sure? You just, you sound like you’re panicking over something.”
“No, no. I-I’m fine, Martin. Really.”
Martin’s lips turned even further down at that tone of voice. That was the tone Jon always took on when he realizes his facade is slipping; when he wants to sound like he’s got everything together when in reality, everything’s falling apart. The same tone of voice he’d used when he told Martin and Tim, all that time ago, that yes, they really should go home, because Jon’s not feeling well. It all but confirmed to Martin that something must be really, really wrong – or Jon was planning on doing something really, really stupid.
Either way – he wanted in that room.
“Okay. Well, I’m just going to be straight with you, Jon – I don’t believe you. You’re making me more worried about you, actually.” Martin touched his hand to the doorknob. It didn’t have a lock on the other side, did it? He couldn’t quite recall. “Can I please come in?”
Silence from Jon. Martin prayed to…something, though he didn’t know what, that it was because the other man was considering something other than a staunch “no.”
And by some blessing – it turned out he was.
“Alright. Um,” Jon started, and was his muted voice shaking? “I um, I suppose you can.”
Martin breathed a quiet sigh and pushed open the door — if there was a lock, it thankfully wasn’t turned. The sight that welcomed him into the room suggested that his concern may have been justified. The pages of the statement lay scattered across the floor, a paper trail starting at the now-empty desk and leading Martin’s eye to where Jon hunched over himself on the bed, back to Martin and the door. His hair, which had been tied up when he first left Martin’s side, now hung loose around his shoulders in brown and silver coils. Though he couldn’t see much of him like this, seeing Jon so…protective, seemingly of just himself, opened a pit in Martin’s stomach. What had happened?
He walked slowly toward the bed, pushing the pages of the statement away from him with a socked foot so as not to step or slip on them. As the distance between him and Jon shortened, the pit in his stomach only grew. Something was definitely wrong. He could see Jon’s knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them, with the sleeves of Martin’s yellow jumper tugged all the way over his hands. It struck Martin, then, that with Jon’s forehead on his knees like this, his hair a curtain around his face, he couldn’t see any of Jon’s skin. Thoughts of a Stranger in his place flit through Martin’s head, but he quickly shook them away. He’d heard Jon’s voice through the door. That counted for something, right? But even Jon’s crew socks, normally neatly folded around his ankles, had been tugged up all the way. Not a single stretch of skin was visible.
Martin swallowed anxiously, before opening his mouth to speak.
“Hey,” He started, settling next to Jon on the bed and reaching out to touch a hesitant hand to his shoulder. “You okay?”
As soon as Martin’s hand made contact, though, Jon flinched away harshly. “Don’t touch me,” He snapped. Then, brokenly: “I-I-I’m sorry. I – please. D-don’t touch me, please .”
Martin pulled his hand back. “It’s okay,” He tried to soothe. Beneath the jumper, Jon’s shoulder had felt like flesh, not plastic, so Martin was soothed in the fact that there was probably no Stranger danger – ha – here. “What’s going on?” He asked. Still, though – he wanted to see Jon’s face.
Jon stuttered out a single “I–” before shuddering. He shook his head, and though Martin couldn’t see it he could imagine Jon biting his bottom lip viciously, as he tended to do when holding words back. He didn’t say anything more.
“Jon,” Martin tried, but –
“I can’t,” Jon interrupted. “I c-can’t. Show you.”
“Why not?” Martin asked.
“Because it’s horrible.” With the hand closest to Martin, Jon reached up to his hair and started tuggling at a dangling curl. His fingers – brown, human – barely emerged from the jumper’s sleeve, the back of his hand still hidden away, and Martin sighed as Jon’s knuckles paled with the strength of their grip.
“Hey, let’s not do that? Please?” The last of his worries about the Stranger fell away – now he was only focused on Jon’s wellbeing – as Martin reached out to nudge Jon’s hand away. Yes, Jon had asked him not to touch, and he wouldn’t! Not for long! He just knew Jon, and knew this particular habit of his, and knew that unless Martin forced him to let go himself Jon was going to keep pulling. He’d touch his hand long enough to free his hair, and then he’d let it go. That was all he intended to happen.
One hand went to rub at Jon’s fingers, coaxing them to uncurl around the hair, the other to slide down the back of Jon’s hand to his wrist and guide it away. Though the second hand couldn’t have slid more than a few milimetres before he tore it away in surprise at what felt like Jon’s skin moving.
“Jesus!” Martin yelped, yanking his hands back, then shoving them forward again to investigate. Jon tried to jerk his hand away, curling in tighter on himself, but it was too late – Martin had already pushed back the sleeve of the jumper, had already seen what Jon had been hiding. “Oh, Christ, Jon,” He swore at what he saw: a large eye, blinking at him — he must have touched the lid — and nestled in the center of Jon’s shaking hand. It wasn’t the Stranger he needed to be worried about, so it seemed – it was the goddamn Eye. “What happened? ”
“They’re everywhere,” Jon whimpered, now that Martin had seen, seemingly unable to keep the words from tumbling past his lips. “My hands, my face, my neck, t-there’s even one on my ankle, I-I can’t bring myself to check the rest of me even though I can feel them, Martin, I can feel them blinking and looking and I can see through them all and it’s all so disorientating and–and–I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do,” He babbled, his voice breaking on the last syllable.
"Hey, hey, hey, Jon, it’s okay. W-we’ll figure this out,” Martin interjected, wanting to comfort him more but having no idea how. He reached around Jon’s shoulders in an attempt to pull him into a hug, but still Jon resisted, keeping his head down and face hidden while bracing his hands against Martin’s chest and pushing himself back.
“I’m turning into a monster. It’s – ha – it’s finally happening. Everyone knew it before but now, now everyone can see it.” He wrapped his arms around himself once more, but tighter, fingers digging into the meat of his thighs.
“Jon, listen to me. I love you. You’re not a monster. Not to me.” Martin said firmly. Was this really all he could do to help? Was there really nothing he could offer but words? Was there nothing he could do to make them go away? Martin thought back to all the statements he’d ever read or heard, trying desperately to think – had any of them ever had something like this? Ugh – he clenched his jaw. If they had, he couldn’t remember. And Jon still wouldn’t let Martin hold him, so – he’d have to make his words work. He could at least use them to try and show Jon that even if he was going to be freckled with weird, supernatural eyeballs forever now, that didn’t change how Martin felt about him. There was no question about it. Martin would still love him, extra eyes and all.
“I am, though,” Jon bemoaned. “You don’t have to say that just to try and…” He trailed off, shaking his head once more. “You can’t change my mind.”
“Maybe they’ll go away,” Martin tried. “How long has it been? How long have they been there?”
“I don’t – I don’t know. I didn’t realize they were there until I finished the statement, and by then there were already so many, I-I-I don’t know when the first one appeared.” Jon had finally, finally lifted his head from his knees, but he still very pointedly looked away from Martin. “Martin,” He said, “What if they never go away?”
Martin shrugged, almost nonchalantly, though he felt a bit silly when he remembered Jon couldn’t see him (or maybe, through a new eye, he could). “Then I guess I’ll just have a boyfriend with a few extra eyes.”
Jon turned the slightest bit towards him. “It’s more than just a few,” He warned.
“Good thing I’m not scared, then.”
Nothing, for a moment, and then Jon sighed a shaky thing, and slowly pushed his hair back behind his ears. He turned to face Martin fully, and…now Martin could see them. There were new eyes splashed across his forehead, his cheek, and finally his delicate throat; some the same size as the old ones, some varying degrees of smaller. Jon looked at him, every single eye, and instead of the despair Martin expected, they all held the hint of a challenge. Prove it to me, they said. Prove that you could still love something as foul as me.
Gentle as ocean waves on a still, windless day, Martin placed his hands on either side of Jon’s face, spreading his fingers where needed so as not to press down on any eyes. They twitched, shivered, and Martin could feel the relentless gaze of Beholding cataloguing every brush of his fingers; every shift of his clothes as he breathed, slow and steady; every movement of his own two eyes as he took in the sight before him: his Jon, terrified and Marked and yet still, as stubborn as ever.
Though he wished Jon would pick another battle to be so firm on – Martin had never loved him more.
He brought his lips down on the center of Jon’s forehead, just to the right of one of the new, staring eyes. It slipped closed when Martin kissed him, along with all the others – lids fluttering like butterfly wings – except the two that were only Jon’s, which continued to watch, and watch, and watch.
“I love you,” Martin said as he pulled back and met those eyes. “I always will.”
Jon opened his mouth and with it the new eyes began to blink open again, one by one. But before he could say anything, Martin gathered him close – careful not to crush any of the eyes he felt twitching beneath Jon’s clothes – and simply held him.
Jon sighed, any protest he might have had washed away by the gentle waves of Martin’s love for him. Instead he just circled his arms around Martin’s waist. “I love you too,” He said into the crook of Martin’s neck, his head settled there. There was an extra set of eyelashes tickling Martin’s skin. The feeling was strange, coming from places Martin knew they shouldn’t, but nothing about this would be strange enough to scare him off. He wouldn’t let it.
After all, this was still his Jon.