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Jon passes a weary hand across his eyes as he trudges out of the lift behind Tim, who, despite the hideous day the four of them have just endured, appears to be possessed of boundless energy and is already several yards down the corridor.
“Sometimes I really do wonder why I like him,” Sasha mutters, eyeing Tim with disfavour. “It’s just insulting to have so much energy after… after that.”
“I feel violated,” Martin says, and shudders.
Jon merely sighs dolorously.
“Come on, guys!” Tim carols from the other end of the corridor. He appears to be performing a small ritual dance which is distressingly similar to… that. Jon averts his eyes. “Our rooms are here!”
“Well, thank god for that, at least,” Sasha says, and speeds up a little while Jon and Martin plod along in her wake.
“So, how do we want to split up?” Tim says, far too exuberantly, as they approach. “Elias is a cheapskate, so there’s only two rooms. You two mind if Sash and I take this one?” He taps with his knuckles on one of the doors.
Sasha brightens considerably at this suggestion. “Oh, excellent idea,” she says, and whisks one of the keys out of Tim’s hand.
“Ah,” Jon says, suddenly alarmed. “Actually, perhaps we should…”
“I don’t think…” Martin begins at the same time, his eyes widening.
“Brilliant!” Tim says, and dives through the door Sasha has just unlocked, grabbing her wrist and pulling her with him.
“Wait!” Jon cries after them.
Tim’s head pops back out through the door. “Oh, and remember Elias said we’re okay to make our own way home tomorrow, so there’s no need to hurry in the morning!” He bestows a wide grin upon them and tosses the second key to Martin, who catches it without any apparent effort. This is not attractive at all and in fact Jon doesn’t even notice it happening. Not at all. “You just snuggle up for as long as you like.”
And then he’s gone again. A second later, the door thunks shut behind him.
For a long moment, all Jon can do is stare at it in silence.
“Well!” Martin says at last, with obviously forced cheer. “Looks like we’re, er, in this room. Might as well… yeah.”
He turns to the door opposite the one Tim and Sasha just disappeared into and unlocks it.
“Let’s hope this place has better beds than it does conference room chairs,” he says, throwing a wry grin over his shoulder as he precedes Jon into the room. Then he stops, so suddenly that Jon almost walks into his back. “Oh.”
“Oh what?” Jon skirts around him and looks at the room blankly. “Oh.”
It’s not awful, as hotel rooms go. It’s modestly sized, but clean and impeccably made up. The bed has a veritable mountain of pillows, and there’s a kettle with what appears to be a generous selection of individually wrapped teabags and biscuits beside it. Even the curtains look as though they might do a moderately effective job of blocking out the light.
There’s only one problem.
Or rather, there’s only one bed.
Jon stares at it in dismay, but this, unfortunately, does not cause a second bed to spontaneously materialise before him.
“I’ll…” he starts, but the word catches in his throat, and he has to clear it. “I’ll take the…” Damnit, there isn’t even a chair. “The floor.”
“What?” Martin turns a horrified look upon him. “You will not!”
“Well, what do you suggest we do, then?” Jon says.
Martin sighs and rubs his forehead. “If you’re not comfortable sharing, then I’ll take the floor. I’ve got a lot more padding than you have.”
“Ridiculous,” Jon says, scowling. If Martin won’t let him sleep on the floor, he’s certainly not letting Martin sleep there instead. “There’s a perfectly good bed. We’ll both sleep in it.”
“And you’re… okay with that?” Martin says dubiously.
The idea is, in fact, making Jon feel hot and prickly with nerves. Nerves and… and something else. It’s just so intimate, sleeping beside another person, sharing space, sharing air, knowing what their face looks like slack with slumber, hearing the unconscious little sounds they make. Jon probably looks even worse asleep than he does awake. What if the sounds he makes are embarrassing? What if he snores? What if he farts?
“Yes,” he says, as firmly as he can manage with the hideous thought of Martin having to smell his fart in his mind. “I’m fine with it. Are you?”
“Yeah,” Martin says, surprisingly quickly. “I’m… yeah, I’m totally… yep. This is fine. This is good.”
“All right.” Jon moves to put his bag on the bed and opens it. “Do you mind if I shower first? I can still smell that stupid fire in my hair.”
“Oh! Yeah, please, go on,” Martin says, waving a hand. “I generally shower in the mornings anyway.”
Jon tries very hard not to picture Martin emerging from the shower in the morning, pink-cheeked and smelling fresh, his eyes bright with the promise of a new day, but fails, and flees into the bathroom before Martin can see how flustered he’s suddenly become.
*
The bathroom door closes behind Jon and a moment later the lock clicks into place. Martin heaves a little sigh and goes to sit on the bed with his own bag. One bed. One sodding bed!
Martin’s going to murder Tim and Sasha. He’s going to wring their interfering, matchmaking little necks with his bare hands. He’s going to watch their eyes pop out of their heads. He’s going to sneak into Tim’s house at night and chop up all his favourite shirts into fucking confetti, and then he’s going to go to Sasha’s and… and… and kidnap her kitten and hold it hostage until she agrees never to interfere in his completely lacking love life ever afuckinggain. Yes, that’s an excellent plan. He’ll even get bonus kitten cuddles out of it.
Of course, what this admittedly delightful plan fails to do is tell him what he’s supposed to do right now. The shower has already started running, so he only has a few minutes to get a handle on his rioting emotions.
He’s got to share a bed with Jon.
All night.
Okay, he needs to stop panicking. This doesn’t have to be a big deal. People have to share beds all the time for all sorts of reasons, and while it’s not the biggest bed Martin’s ever seen (that’s Tim’s), it is a perfectly adequate size for two people to sleep in without ever having to touch if they don’t want to.
It’ll be fine.
And at least he knows there’s no chance of him somehow giving away the fact that he’s completely and utterly head over heels in love with Jon. Jon is so oblivious that Martin could probably write I’M IN LOVE WITH JONATHAN SIMS in sharpie across his forehead and Jon would just peer at him, vaguely baffled, and tell him that he’s got something on his face. This would be very funny if it weren’t for the fact that Martin has an increasing suspicion that Jon isn’t so much oblivious to Martin’s feelings as he is utterly certain that nobody would ever fall in love with him at all, and that’s just sad.
Well, all right, it’s also a little funny. But mostly sad. Sure, Jon can be a bit abrasive when you first meet him, and it takes a while to see that underneath his brusque manner and stand-offish ways, he’s actually mostly just a prickly little ball of stress and anxiety. He means well, though, most of the time, and there’s a hidden kindness to him that he seems afraid to let anyone see. But most people never bother to look beyond the surface. In Martin’s opinion, this is a huge mistake.
Right now, though, it all works in Martin’s favour, since it means Jon has no idea of Martin’s feelings about him. He certainly wouldn’t have been so quick to suggest they share the bed if he did.
Or… maybe he would?
It might just be the natural optimist in Martin, which he usually tries to keep crushed down and immobile, though he hasn’t yet managed to destroy it entirely, but sometimes he thinks that perhaps Jon feels the same way. There’s a little smile he gets every now and again, when its just the two of them. It’s small but it’s so warm. His head tilts to one side, birdlike, and his bright brown eyes settle on Martin’s face, and Martin’s heart never fails to stutter over its next few beats. It’s one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen.
It's not just the smile, either. It’s the way he thanks Martin for his tea, and the way his face softens when Martin asks if he wants to get lunch with him. It’s the way he laughs, as though he’s surprised and delighted every time that Martin’s made it happen. It’s the tiny, brief touches he doesn’t seem able to stop himself from giving, on Martin’s hand, Martin’s arm, Martin’s back, although he always looks deeply embarrassed when he realises what he’s done.
And Christ, Martin hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Jon eating a piece of bread delicately right out of his fingers when he was ill a couple of weeks ago.
There’ve been clues, that’s all he’s saying.
On the other hand, maybe he’s making it all up. Maybe Jon would smile like that at anybody who made him tea. Martin’s the only one who ever does, so how would he know? Maybe Jon just doesn’t think Martin is funny and that’s why he’s surprised when he makes him laugh. Maybe Jon’s just the sort of person who touches everybo… no. Nope. That’s ridiculous. Jon loves being touched, at least by people he likes and trusts, but he hardly ever initiates it himself. Except with Martin.
No, Martin knows he’s right. Jon likes him, and he likes Jon, so in theory there’s really nothing to stop them from enjoying a long and blissful life together.
Or at least, you know, going on a first date.
And yet Martin’s been treading water for weeks now, going to lunch with Jon and making jokes just to see him laugh and basking in his rare smiles. He even gave him one of his jumpers, for Christ’s sake! Jon had just looked so cute in it, absolutely swimming, of course, because he’s basically a twig compared with Martin, but warm and cosy and hilariously embarrassed to have been caught in the act of jumper tealeafery.
The thing is, if he asks Jon out, Jon will have to say either yes or no. If he says yes, that’s great, obviously. Martin couldn’t be happier about the prospect.
But what if he says no?
What if he says no and nothing’s ever the same between them? What if it all gets awkward and weird and Jon gives his jumper back and Martin has to stop making tea for him because neither of them can bear being in the same room together? What if Jon doesn’t want to work with Martin any more because he’s actually read the signals all wrong and Jon was only ever tolerating him and he asks Elias to transfer Martin back to the library but Elias can’t because they employed Desiree in Martin’s place and she’s got actual qualifications and is probably a million times better at being a librarian than Martin was even after nine years working there and so Elias decides to just cut his losses and fire Martin and this time Jon doesn’t intervene because Martin crossed a line by asking him out and Martin can’t get another job and ends up living on the streets and Mum does too because Martin can’t help out with paying for her care any more?
Or what if Martin does it wrong and Jon just thinks he’s making a joke?
The bathroom door opens, and Jon comes out. He’s dried his hair and plaited it neatly down his back, and he’s changed into his sleep clothes, which, it turns out, are a t-shirt as hilariously oversized as the jumper he stole off Martin and a pair of shorts so short that, given the length of the oversized t-shirt, they’re only briefly visible at all when he bends to put his bag down by the bed and the t-shirt rides up for a moment.
Unable to utter a single word, Martin snatches his own bag up and flees to the bathroom.
*
Jon is seriously contemplating the idea of going across the corridor, banging on Tim and Sasha’s door until they stop whatever they’re doing and open it, then yelling at them for half an hour minimum. He doesn’t even care if they’re in the middle of having sex. He’ll make that sacrifice.
And he would absolutely do exactly that if it weren’t for what he’s bloody wearing. But it’s bad enough that Martin’s seen him like this. That Martin’s going to have to share a bed with him dressed like this. Well, semi-dressed. Why, why, why didn’t Jon just bring some sensible long trousers with him to wear to bed?
Because he assumed they’d each have their own room, that’s why. It had never occurred to him that they’d have to share at all, much less that he’d end up with Martin. That Martin would see him in the pyjamas that he now realises for the first time are… are ridiculous. The t-shirt is so large that it slips ludicrously off his shoulder. Off both shoulders when he isn’t being careful. And the shorts are… well, they look fine under a normal t-shirt, but under this one they’re literally invisible. Jon is basically half naked!
For approximately the duodecillionth time since he met Martin, Jon wonders despairingly why exactly the hell he is like this.
There’s nothing to be done about it for the time being, he realises bitterly. The damage has been done. Perhaps if he gets into bed now and stays under the duvet, Martin will forget about his state of undress. Although, judging by how absolutely, brilliantly scarlet Martin had been in the moment before he’d hurtled into the bathroom… well. Probably not.
Jon puts his hands over his face and groans loudly. This is a nightmare. Fucking Elias and his fucking team-building day. It wasn’t even needed! The four of them are already an excellent team! Even if they weren’t, Jon cannot imagine how writing a song with verses about each of their greatest fears would have brought them closer together. Nor walking out into the middle of the New Forest to do a ritual to cleanse themselves of those fears, for fuck’s sake. Elias probably just wanted to see them miserable, an ambition he achieved with the greatest of success.
The bathroom door opens and Martin comes out, clad in far more sensible pyjamas than Jon’s. A matching flannel set in green. They look cosy and warm and infinitely huggable. Wait, no, scratch that last part. If they’re being forced to share a bed, Jon ought at least to have the decency to act like a sensible adult instead of fantasising about being cuddled by Martin at every possible opportunity.
At least Martin’s face seems to have returned to its normal colour, although he’s taking very obvious care not to look anywhere close to Jon’s bare legs. Jon cringes. How had it not occurred to him, even for a moment, that they might have to share rooms? He’s making Martin uncomfortable by his mere existence, which is a new low for him.
“Hey!” Martin says, with slightly forced cheer. “So, um, do you want to go to bed? Go to sleep, I mean.”
His face is turning pink again, and Jon’s spirits can’t help but lift a little. He gave up keeping his log of Martin’s blushes once he’d filled up two whole notebooks, but they’re still impossibly endearing. This one is creeping further down his neck the longer Jon watches it, until it disappears under his soft green pyjama collar. Jon wonders how low it goes.
No, he doesn’t.
“Ah,” he says, scrabbling for a distraction as he realises he’s been staring at Martin’s neck for a small eternity. “I… no. That is to say, yes. Ah, that is… what… what did you ask?”
Martin’s mouth quirks up at the corner, which is, if possible, even more endearing. When did Jon stop being able to think about anything except Martin and how lovely and kind and gentle and funny and stubborn and strong he is? He doesn’t even want to stop! He likes this… this bubbly, zingy, pink-tinted obsession.
“I just wondered if you wanted to go straight to sleep,” Martin says. “Or if you wanted to, I don’t know, watch telly or… or talk, or something first.”
“Oh.”
Jon considers. He’s pretty tired. It’s been a long day, what with writing songs and then prancing about in the woods, and then Elias insisting on them all having dinner together and not letting them leave until after eleven o’clock. It may be the worst dinner Jon’s ever experienced, including the time he had a panic attack in a restaurant when he was nine and hid under the table, then knocked the whole thing flying when he stood up too suddenly. It had somehow broken the old lady at the next table’s leg.
He definitely should have crawled under the table this time. It could only have improved matters, especially if he’d managed to break Elias’s leg.
On the other hand, his brain is all alight with Martin, Martin, Martin, and he’s not sure that attempting to sleep right next to the object of his fascination will be particularly successful until he’s managed to calm down a bit. Perhaps half an hour or so to attempt to soothe himself would be helpful.
On the other other hand, were he to have three hands, half an hour probably won’t be enough. Half a year might not be enough. Maybe they should just get into bed and then Jon can at least attempt to sleep. Or, failing that, to at least not think for the entire night about what it would be like to cuddle Martin in bed, also for the entire night.
“Ah,” he says, a trifle hoarsely. “I… I don’t mind. Whatever you’d prefer.”
Martin hesitates a moment, and then comes across the room to sit on the bed next to Jon, pulling his legs up and crossing them in front of him. Even his feet are nice, broad and pink with neatly trimmed nails.
“We could talk for a bit,” he suggests. “I feel like I need a bit of time to wind down after today before I’ve got any hope of getting to sleep. What a nightmare, Christ.”
“Hideous,” Jon agrees. Martin gives him a small smile and his stomach immediately bursts out in giddy fluttering.
“Do you think Elias really thought that’d bring us together as a team or whatever, or does he just really, really hate us?” Martin says.
“Oh, he definitely hates us.”
“Yeah, I thought that must be it.”
“Although,” Jon muses. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he also thought those things would actually work. He’s a bit weird.”
Martin makes a face. “That does sort of check out, actually. Did he ask you at your job interview what your greatest fear was?”
Jon grimaces. “Yes. And he looked so happy when I told him. It was… weird.”
“Yeah, same. Not that I told him the truth, obviously.”
“Really?” Jon leans forward, interested. “Aren’t haunted dolls your greatest fear, then?”
Martin laughs, and Jon feels that high, giddy, swooping feeling again. He loves making Martin laugh.
“Nah,” Martin says. “I don’t really care one way or the other about dolls. But for some reason people always believe you when you say that’s what you’re scared of, so…” He shrugs.
“What is your greatest fear, then?” Jon says. Martin’s face falls a little. “No, you… you don’t have to answer that. Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Martin waves a dismissive hand. “It used to be people finding out about my CV, to be honest. I’ve been terrified about that for years. It still feels weird not to be. I…” He gives Jon a funny, almost shy look. “I didn’t expect you to be so nice about it.”
“Oh. No, I don’t suppose you did,” Jon says, suddenly unable to look Martin at all. He stares down at the sedate stripe of the duvet cover instead, all his giddiness seeping away. “I’m…” He hesitates. What would make Martin feel better? He doesn’t know. He’s bad at this. He’s bad at everything to do with people. He gives an awkward little shrug of his own. “I’m not a very kind person, I’m afraid.”
“Jon,” Martin says, quietly. He doesn’t look up. “That’s not…”
“It’s true,” Jon says, before Martin can finish his denial. Damn, he shouldn’t have said anything. He hadn’t meant to ask for pity or refutation, but Martin is kind and of course he wouldn’t let a statement like that stand. “It’s true, and it’s all right. I’ve come to terms with it. I try not to be actively cruel, although…” he grimaces. “Well, you’ve experienced for yourself that I’m not always particularly successful at that, either.”
“Jon,” Martin says again. Jon falls silent. One of Martin’s hands comes out and picks up one of Jon’s, squeezing it gently. “Jon, you are kind.”
He doesn’t want to contradict Martin and make him feel like he has to be even more reassuring, doesn’t want to make this into a whole thing, but still, he can’t help a small scoff. Martin squeezes his hand again.
“You are,” he insists. “Look what you did for me when Elias tried to sack me! That was…”
“It was nothing,” Jon mumbles. It was selfish, that’s what it was. He quite simply hadn’t been able to bear the thought of the archives without Martin.
“It wasn’t nothing,” Martin says sharply. Jon is startled into looking up at him. “Jon, you… god, you have no idea how much that meant to to me. Nobody’s ever done something like that for me before. It was…” He swallows suddenly, hard.. “It meant everything,” he says more quietly. “Everything.”
There’s something so raw and sincere in his voice that Jon can’t help but believe him. There’s a lump in his own throat, hard and painful. He swallows, forcing back the stupid, easy tears that are trying to rise to his eyes.
“Oh,” he manages to say. “I… all right. Thank you.”
He looks back up at Martin and almost loses his breath. The look on Martin’s face is… it’s strangely intense. He’s smiling a little and he’s got his head tilted to one side and he’s leaning forward a bit and there’s something almost… almost fierce about his expression. For one brief, heady moment, Jon actually thinks Martin is going to lean forward, closing the gap between them, and kiss him.
And then Martin shifts marginally, and he’s just wearing one of his normal, amused little smiles, the ones it almost feels like he keeps in reserve just for Jon, although Jon knows that can’t really be true. He wasn’t going to kiss Jon. Obviously he wasn’t going to kiss him, that would be ridiculous.
Still, it takes several long moments for his heart to stop racing.
*
Martin needs to get a handle on himself. He’d almost kissed Jon. He’d almost leaned forward and grabbed Jon’s silly, earnest, pointy little face and pressed kisses all over it. His heart is pounding. Even if there is a decent chance that Jon might agree to try dating him, the way to make that happen is absolutely not just swooping in and kissing him without even asking first.
He's not entirely sure what the way to make dating Jon happen is, but it’s not that.
If he was a braver man, he’d ask. Jon, can I kiss you? he’d say, and then Jon, because he’s Jon, would probably say, you mean may I? but then he’d get all flustered and pull his sleeves down over his hands and stare at his feet and…
Martin honestly doesn’t know whether he’d say yes or no. That’s what’s so terrifying about the whole thing. Jon is his favourite person in the whole world; how can he possibly risk destroying that? He’d have to be certain, and he isn’t.
He suddenly realises that he’s still holding Jon’s hand. It’s warm in his. Jon hasn’t pulled away. Martin wonders how long he wouldn’t pull away for, if he kept holding on, and for a moment is tempted to test it out.
He doesn’t, though. He moves their hands until they’re resting on Jon’s knee, and then gently pulls his back.
“You know, I think I could sleep now,” he says. He’s not sure he can, but if they stay like this, so close together, with Jon’s expression gone all soft and vulnerable, confessing his insecurities, or one of them, at least, and letting Martin reassure him… it’s all just a lot, and Martin isn’t sure he’ll be able to stop himself from blurting out all his feelings. At least with the light off he won’t be constantly caught off guard by the intoxicating sight of Jon’s skinny legs and knobbly knees.
“All right,” Jon says. He gives Martin a small smile that sets Martin’s heart thumping again. “Do you, ah, have a preferred side?” He gestures vaguely at the bed.
“Not really. You?”
Jon shakes his head, so Martin hops off the bed and goes round to the other side. It feels as though there ought to be a dramatic musical sting or something to mark the moment, but they both just pull back the duvet on their side of the bed and get in. There are a few busy moments where they’re both rearranging the pillows and themselves to their own liking, and then silence. Jon, lying primly on his back, turns his head to look at Martin, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Shall I turn the lights off?” Martin says. Jon nods, watching him, still silent. Martin wonders what he’s thinking. His eyes seem bigger than usual, wide in his thin face as he watches Martin’s hand stretch out to the light switch.
The switch clicks and the room is dark. Martin wonders if Jon’s face is still turned towards him, if he’s peering through the darkness to try to perceive… Martin has no idea. He shuts his eyes, blocking out the faint light that comes in from outside, and tries to relax enough to fall asleep.
He does not fall asleep.
Somehow, he’s even more aware of Jon, just a few inches across the bed from him, close enough to touch if Martin reached out his hand, than he’d been when the light was on. He can feel the slight warmth Jon’s body makes under the duvet. He can feel it through the mattress every time Jon shifts minutely. He can hear Jon’s steady breathing, slow and even, interrupted every so often by a slightly deeper breath or a small sigh. This is even worse than sitting with Jon’s hand in his, trying not to let his eyes linger on the sharp protrusion of his collarbone from the neckline of his t-shirt. It feels as though Martin’s entire body has become an antenna, finely tuned to every tiny thing Jon does.
He wonders what Jon would do if he did reach out under the duvet for his hand. No. No, he can’t do that. It would be nearly as bad as kissing him. There’d be no room for plausible deniability, no way to pretend it was just to comfort Jon or emphasise a point he was making. He’d be holding Jon’s hand for no other reason than that he wants to, and if Jon didn’t want to…
No.
Anyway, he thinks Jon might have fallen asleep. He’s stopped shifting around and his breath has been steady for a few minutes now. It’d be very weird to reach out and take the hand of an asleep person.
God, why did he lie down on his back? He never can fall asleep like this. But he’d been afraid that if he’d curled up facing Jon, it would have felt too intimate, and if he’d lain down on his other side, facing away from Jon, that would just have been rude. Which is ridiculous. It’s not like they’re holding a conversation. They’re sleeping, or trying to. Jon might even be succeeding. If he turns over now, will he wake Jon up?
This is daft. Martin’s never going to fall asleep like this. He shuffles round as carefully as he can until he’s lying on his side, facing Jon. As he settles again, relieved to be more comfortable, he thinks he hears a little hitch, a hesitation, in Jon’s breathing, and wonders whether he’s woken him up after all. But nothing else happens. Jon continues to breathe steadily, and Martin relaxes again.
He shuts his eyes, and this time he’s asleep within minutes.
*
Jon’s never been particularly good at falling asleep, and tonight is no exception. Or rather, it is, but not because falling asleep is easier. It’s harder. It’s much harder. Martin is right there next to him, radiating warmth and solidity and comfort. If Jon unlinked his fingers from across his stomach and let his hand wander across the bed, he’d only have to go a few inches before he encountered Martin’s. He wonders how Martin would react if he did.
Badly, probably. Jon mentally frowns at himself. Yes, Martin had taken his hand earlier, just before they’d gone to bed, but only because Jon had made a fool of himself and made Martin think he ought to comfort him. He certainly doesn’t want Jon pawing at him in the dark while he’s trying to sleep.
Jon stares up at the ceiling. It’s lit with a faint orange glow from the street lamp outside, not really bright enough to see anything by, but enough to be distracting. If he lets his eyes go unfocussed, he can almost imagine that there’s a face in the shadows over there in the corner, gazing down at the bed with unnervingly large eyes.
He blinks, and the face is gone. This is stupid. He needs to try and go to sleep. Perhaps if he mimics sleep, his body will be tricked into unwakefulness. It’s worked before, not often, but occasionally. It’s worth trying.
Jon shuts his eyes and breathes as slowly as he can. He finds himself matching his breaths to Martin’s close beside him, or trying to. Every minute or two, he loses the rhythm of it and has to huff a breath out quickly to adjust back. It’s still soothing, though. He can feel the tension of the day slowly seeping out of him.
He wonders, dreamily, what Martin would say if Jon asked him to lie on top of him. Martin is so much bigger than he is, so much heavier. Sometimes Jon gets all his pillows and cushions and blankets and piles them on top of himself in bed. It helps him get to sleep, but it’s also difficult because every time he wakes up and needs to change positions, the pillows and cushions and blankets go everywhere and he has to spend ages retrieving and rearranging them all. Sometimes they fall off without him even moving. At least half the time, it ends up taking as long to get to sleep as it would have without them.
It'd be different if it was Martin on top of him. Or any other person, of course. Except not anyone else. Just Martin. If it was Martin, he wouldn’t end up scattered around the room every time Jon shifted. Even when Jon had to get up, Martin would just have to roll back on top of him when he got back into bed, and they could both fall asleep again.
That’s stupid, though. It used to infuriate Georgie when Jon had to get up to change position several times a night. She’d ask why he couldn’t just turn over like a normal person, if he had to rearrange himself. But it doesn’t work. Turning over in bed just ends with your pyjamas getting all twisted up around you, or you forget a limb or two and wake up hours later with a dead foot or an arm that aches all day because you slept with it wonky. It’s no good. The only way is to get out of bed and rearrange yourself properly. But it’s a very annoying habit and Jon doubts that Martin would be any less annoyed by it than Georgie.
Beside him, Martin turns over. Like a normal person, without climbing all the way out of bed to do it. Naturally. He gives a heavy sigh and settles himself in his new position, and when a tiny gust of air ghosts over Jon’s cheek, he realises that Martin is lying on his side now, facing him. He’s much closer than he was before, which Jon is sure wasn’t deliberate, but the warmth coming off him is wonderful. Jon always ends up too cold in bed, except with the aforementioned heap of accoutrements stacked up on top of him.
He’s not cold now. He feels warm all the way down to his feet.
Martin’s breath is slowing even further, and evening out. He’s fallen asleep, Jon realises. Lucky bastard. Of course, his thoughts won’t have been going a mile a minute just because he was lying next to Jon, which probably helped. Even now, Jon is wondering whether it would be too weird if he slid across the bed just an inch or two. Not close enough to actually touch Martin, but just to be… closer.
It would be weird, he’s pretty sure. Probably a bit creepy, too. He heaves a little sigh and tries, once again, to match his breathing to Martin’s. It’s harder now that Martin is breathing slower. Martin must have bigger lungs than he does, he supposes. Is that what affects how fast you breathe? Jon doesn’t actually know. He’ll have to look it up. It’s soothing, though, to breath slowly and deeply. Despite himself, Jon’s body does, eventually, begin to relax. His eyes grow heavy and close of their own accord, and his hands, linked over his stomach, slide down to his sides, and then he’s asleep.
*
When Martin wakes, he’s warm. Very warm. He’s shifted in his sleep so that he’s half on his side and half on his front and his arm is wrapped tightly around something.
Or, no. Someone.
He peels his eyes open rather reluctantly, because he’s also extremely comfortable, and finds his vision obscured by something dark and soft. For a moment he just blinks, confused, and then he realises that it’s hair.
Right.
Right.
He’s at a hotel in the New Forest and he had to share a room with Jon, share a bed with Jon, and that means…
Yeah, that means it’s definitely Jon he’s lying half on top of and has his arm firmly clasped around. It’s Jon’s sleep-ruffled curls that are spread lavishly across his face. It’s Jon who’s plastered against his front, his legs tangled with Martin’s and his face pressed into Martin’s shoulder. It’s Jon’s breath that’s puffing out in a slow, warm rhythm over his neck.
Martin lies there, frozen. Or rather, cooked to a solid crisp, because Christ Jon is warm.
What is Martin supposed to do now? He supposes he should extricate himself from Jon, as gently as possible so as not to wake him up, and get out of bed and start the day. He isn’t sure what time it is, but there’s bright sunlight streaming in through the curtains, although not much sound other than some particularly noisy birds shouting nearby. No people though, or not that Martin can hear. That probably means it’s fairly early. Although this is a pretty rural area, so maybe it wouldn’t be very noisy anyway. Honestly, Martin has no idea. He’s only ever lived in cities.
He definitely should get up, though. It’d be pretty embarrassing if Jon woke up while Martin was still cuddling the hell out of him.
Only…
Look, Martin’s only human, okay, and he’s been more less (mostly more) in love with this man for months now, and the truth is… well, the truth is that he doesn’t really want to get up. He wants to stay right here where he is for as long as possible, with Jon semi-pinned beneath him and his arm tightly around Jon and Jon’s hair in his face and Jon’s face, invisible, smushed into his pyjama top.
It's so nice like this. And it’s not like he’s doing anything bad. He isn’t entirely sure how they ended up this way, but it definitely wasn’t on purpose, so it’s not as though he can be blamed. Is it? This is probably the only chance he’ll ever get to wake up cuddling Jon in his whole life. He wants to make the most of it.
And… that’s exactly why he shouldn’t. Jon isn’t awake to consent. Martin doubts this was any more deliberate on his part than it was on Martin’s. If they’re going to cuddle… well, the bare minimum requirement, really, is that both of them should be awake and have agreed to it.
He sighs gustily, and some of the hair covering his face wafts away, leaving his vision significantly clearer. He still can’t see anything of Jon except the top of his head and one bare arm, which is resting over Martin’s side and, oh, he realises for the first time, feels like the hand is loosely gripping at a bit of the back of his pyjama top. He’s not just holding onto Jon, Jon is holding onto him.
Martin does not get up.
*
Jon is waking up. This seems cruel and unfair. He does not want to wake up. He never wants to wake up. He’d never admit this to anyone out loud, of course. What respect he does still garner from his colleagues is predicated on their assumption that he is a professional who is good at his job and works hard and…
It’s too early in the morning for words like predicated.
Jon gives himself over to attempting to fall asleep again. It ought to be easy. He’s far more comfortable than he usually is upon awakening in the morning. He’s wonderfully warm and his enormous stack of soft furnishings must have somehow stayed on top of him all night, because there’s a heavy weight pressing him down into the mattress, deep and soothing. His head is cradled comfortably and his face is burrowed into something sturdy yet yielding, something warm that’s rising and falling almost as though it’s breathing.
The memory of everything that occurred yesterday evening is suddenly and unexpectedly downloaded back into his semi-conscious mind. The hideous team-building day that preceded it. The miserable meal with Elias presiding. Tim and Sasha vanishing into one of the hotel rooms, leaving the other for Jon and Martin. Falling asleep with Martin close beside him. Waking up at least three times to turn over. The final time, he’d lain back down on his side, facing Martin, and his breath had caught as he’d gazed at the soft, smooth lines of Martin’s face in repose.
He must have moved sometime while he was asleep, or Martin did. Either way, they’re hopelessly entangled now. One of Martin’s arms is round him, holding him close and tight, and their legs are all mixed up, and that means it must be Martin’s chest that Jon’s face is snuggled into. His breathing is slow and relaxed, and now that Jon is awake enough to notice it, he can feel Martin’s heart beating steadily. He has his own arm snaked around Martin, a bit of the soft flannel of Martin’s pyjamas clutched in his hand.
Jon hasn’t felt this good upon waking up in years. He wonders what time it is. It can’t be too late, or Martin would surely have woken up, too. There’s time for Jon to enjoy it for a little longer. He shuts his eyes again and lets his body stay loose and tranquil, enjoying the feeling of Martin’s weight on him, his arm holding him, the steady, rhythmic beating of his heart.
For a moment, he tries to imagine what it would be like to wake up like this every morning, but it makes his insides do an awful painful clenching sort of thing and he has to stop. Some things are just too big and wonderful to imagine even in the relative safety of your own mind. He starts matching his breath to Martin’s again, slow and soft and deep. It’s nice.
It’s wonderful.
*
Okay, Martin needs to move. This is getting ridiculous. It’s been… well, he’s not great at keeping track of time when he doesn’t have some kind of clock around, and he isn’t entirely sure where he left his phone last night, but it must have been at least twenty minutes since he woke up. He has to move before Jon wakens too and realises what’s going on.
He’d thought, a few minutes ago, that Jon was waking up, but all that had happened was that he’d sighed against Martin’s neck, uncurled and re-curled the hand that’s grasping Martin’s pyjama top a few times, and then gone still again.
It had been absolutely precious.
But this is silly. Martin has to be strong. He has to move. He has to not take advantage of Jon’s sleepiness to get secret cuddles with him.
It’s time.
He heaves a little sigh of his own and starts to pull back the arm that’s around Jon. To his surprise, Jon immediately makes a funny little grumbling noise and pushes his face harder against Martin’s chest, his own arm tightening around Martin.
Martin stops. Jon, too, goes still.
Experimentally, Martin moves his arm again, this time to put it back where it had started, holding Jon firmly against him. Jon gives what Martin can only interpret as an immensely satisfied exhale. Obviously he wants Martin to continue holding him, even if he is asleep while making this preference clear, and Martin is a weak, weak man. Who is he to deny Jon? It’s like when a cat falls asleep on you: illegal to move it.
So he stays still.
*
When Martin moves his arm, Jon thinks he must be waking up and, although rather disappointed that his furtive cuddling session is about to be cut short so quickly, gives a quick rub of his face to Martin’s pyjamaed chest just to fix in his memory the sensation of how it felt to be pressed against him so closely. But then Martin stops, and his arm slips back around Jon, and Jon simply can’t help his little sigh of relief. Even if Martin wakes up properly soon, at least he has a few more minutes of this heaven.
It occurs to him, after a while spent in a dreamlike half-sleeping, half-waking state, to wonder what time it is. He didn’t set an alarm last night, and although his phone is lying on the bedside table behind him, Jon has no intention whatsoever of moving to reach for it. He isn’t going to end this bliss a second before he’s forced to. With his face buried in Martin’s chest and Martin’s arm lying across him, his vision is completely dark, so even the light levels aren’t giving him an idea of the hour. He got up three times during the night, he’s reasonably sure, so it’s probably morning now, or at least morning-adjacent, but it could be any time between six and eleven. Hell, for all he knows, he slept so well pinned underneath Martin that he’s slept all the way past lunch time and into the afternoon.
Martin probably wouldn’t sleep that late, though. Or would he? Jon’s always had a vague impression that Martin’s a morningy sort of person, but now that he thinks about it, he’s not sure Martin’s ever actually said so. Maybe he sleeps until four in the afternoon every weekend. Jon certainly wouldn’t know if he did.
Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. Elias’s dreadful team-building event is over and they have licence to meander home at their own pace, so they can stay here, wrapped around each other, for days if they want to. Or at least until the hotel staff decide enough is enough and come to kick them out.
He hopes that doesn’t happen. It would be rather embarrassing. Not quite embarrassing enough to make Jon want to move, though.
He’ll damn well stay here as long as he possibly can. It’s the best thing that’s happened to him in recent memory.
*
Jon seems to have dropped completely back to sleep, as far as Martin can tell. Every now and again, his breath will hitch a little, or he’ll wriggle slightly, although the wriggling only seems to mould him ever more closely to Martin, but he always returns immediately to his stillness.
It’s lovely, if Martin’s being completely honest with himself. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jon so relaxed, so soft and pliant. Maybe that time he got drunk and laid himself across Martin’s lap like a cat demanding to be petted, and oh, it had been a terrible temptation to obediently pet him. But Martin had still thought, back then, that Jon barely tolerated his presence.
He knows better now. Jon more than tolerates his presence. He actively seeks it out. He smiles at Martin and makes dry little jokes and pays attention when he talks. Sometimes the amount of attention he pays is slightly intimidating. He likes Martin’s jumpers. He likes Martin.
And Martin likes Jon. God, he likes him so much. This, getting to hold him and make him feel safe and comfortable, even if it is while he’s asleep, makes Martin feel as though he won’t need to eat for days because the pure joy he’s feeling will sustain him perfectly. Jon fits into his arms as though all his edges and angles were carved out specifically for that purpose.
Martin needs to pull himself together and stop being so maudlin. Only how can he, when Jon is right here in his arms, utterly trusting, utterly relaxed? It’s impossible.
So he lies there and lets himself enjoy it. He counts out Jon’s breaths, his heartbeats. He catalogues each time Jon’s hand in his pyjama top uncurls or curls up. He holds his breath when Jon sighs against his neck.
He lets the time stretch on and on and on.
*
Jon is going to have to move soon. He’s never resented his stupid inexplicably painful legs more. At least, he thinks it’s pain, but sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between actual pain and mere discomfort. Either way, even with Martin’s deep, delicious weight on him, he isn’t going to be able to stay in this position for much longer.
Still, he thinks he can grit his teeth and bear it for a few more minutes, and he’s damn well going to, for as long as possible. He shifts his hips slightly under Martin, twisting a little to the right, which provides a small measure of relief. It’s staying in any one position, no matter how comfy, that always does for him.
It’s a good thing Martin’s asleep. If he wasn’t, he’d probably think all this wriggling around was very odd. Of course, if he wasn’t, he’d have rolled off Jon in horror long ago.
Very belatedly, it occurs to Jon that it’s probably a bit weird that he’s sneaking cuddles from Martin without his knowledge. There’s no way Martin would be all right with any of this if he knew about it.
Fuck.
Maybe he wouldn’t mind. Maybe he likes a bit of night-time snuggling. Maybe it’s actually comfortable lying half on top of Jon. No, even at his most self-deluding, Jon can’t make himself believe that. He’s bony and knobbly and pointy and can’t stay still for longer than about thirty seconds in a row. Georgie used to joke that hugging him was like hugging a restless sack of bones, and Jon doubts it’s got any better during the intervening years.
That’s two reasons to move, now, and while his own pain is no more than an inconvenience to be ignored for as long as possible, Martin feeling upset or angry about being taken advantage of can only be regarded with the utmost seriousness.
Why did Jon have to think of it? He’d been perfectly happy before that. But now that he has, he knows exactly what the right thing to do is.
Of course, he’s been stealing cuddles for the last, god, how long has it been? Half an hour? An hour? Somewhere in between, Jon thinks. Probably. And, surely, Martin will be just as distressed whether Jon has hugged him for forty-five minutes or fifty.
Five more minutes won’t make any material difference.
*
Martin holds still as Jon squirms again, puffs out another little sigh against Martin’s neck, and falls still. He’s moving more and more often, now, and Martin knows that his lengthy secret cuddling session is drawing to its inevitable close.
At least he’ll always have the memory of this, of what it’s like to hold Jon so close. He wishes he could see Jon’s face, what it looks like lax with sleep, but he’ll take what he’s got and be grateful for it.
Another small wriggle, another sigh, longer and gustier than the ones that preceded it. Yeah, Jon’s definitely waking up now. Martin ought to move, ought to end this before Jon can realise what’s going on and be upset by it.
Although, it surely can’t do any harm to let Jon have just a few more minutes of sleep. He needs it terribly. There are always dark shadows under his eyes and a bone-weary slump to his posture. This is probably the best he’s slept in months, maybe even years, something Martin tries very hard not to feel too proud of.
He knows he’s making excuses. He knows this is wrong. He knows he should move.
Just five more minutes.
*
Jon’s legs are practically burning now. He’s clenching his teeth to keep from making a sound. It’s no good. No matter how wonderful it feels to lie here surrounded on every side by Martin, he’s got to move.
At least with Martin still dead asleep he doesn’t need to put on a pretence of having just woken up. He wiggles himself out from under Martin quite easily, for all the man’s lying half on top of him, and lifts his head, only to find that Martin is staring at him with wide blue eyes.
Jon is not particularly adept at looking people in the eye and usually fakes it by staring at their mouth, instead, when they’re talking to him, but for a long, suspended moment he seems caught in Martin’s gaze. Their faces are unnervingly close together, but Jon doesn’t move. The change in position has already given his legs some relief, so he doesn’t need to, and Martin’s lips are slightly parted, his cheeks flushed and his hair ruffled and sticking up in odd places. Jon has never seen him look more lovely.
He clears his throat. This is getting embarrassing.
“Um,” he says, and then winces. Oh, yes, um. Very suave. Very not pathetic. It seems to galvanise Martin to action, though. He sits up and moves away from Jon so fast that he almost falls off the edge of the bed.
“Sorry!” he says, saving himself just in time and going even pinker. “I, er, I… I only just woke up, actually. I hope you didn’t, er…” He tails off, looking agonised. “Actually, I think I’m going to go and have a shower.”
And he dives off the bed, snatching up his bag on the way, and disappears into the bathroom, leaving Jon to ease himself more slowly into a sitting, and then a careful standing position. Neither of his legs gives way, which seems, on the whole, like a victory. Jon walks the short length of the room several times until his legs feel more or less normal, and then sits back down on the bed.
At least the whole pretending-to-wake-up thing hadn’t gone as badly as it could have. Martin doesn’t seem to have noticed anything out of the ordinary, although his reaction to finding himself all snuggled up with Jon proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that he never would have agreed if he’d had the choice, which does make Jon feel extremely guilty. He should have stopped it before. He’d known he should, but…
But it had been so nice. And now he’ll always know what it feels like, to be held by Martin. That’s something. It’d be nicer if it didn’t come along with a heaping ladleful of shame and remorse, but Jon is practically always feeling shame and remorse about something. It’s not fun, but he’s used to it.
When Martin comes out of the bathroom, fully dressed and smelling of something sweet and fresh, hair still damp from the shower, Jon avoids his eyes and slinks, still torn between delight and misery, into the bathroom to brush his teeth and get changed.
*
When Martin comes out of the bathroom, Jon can barely even look at him. He keeps his head ducked down as he sidles past Martin to go into the bathroom himself, and Martin feels his stomach sinking. Shit. What was he thinking, letting himself hold onto Jon all that time? Of course Jon is upset about it. Of course he feels uncomfortable around Martin now. How could he not?
God, Martin is such a fool. Why couldn’t he have thought his choices through just, like, a tiny bit? He had, though. He’d known he was playing with fire and he’d done it anyway because fire was beautiful and warm and felt wonderful nestled against him and Martin is weak and selfish and stupid.
He makes the bed as neatly as he can, even though he knows the hotel staff will just strip it anyway, because at least it’s something to do with his hands while he’s waiting for Jon to emerge from the bathroom.
It even occurs to him that he could just… leave. Elias has already paid for the rooms, so there’s no bill to settle, and they don’t have seats booked on any particular train home. He could walk out of here and Jon would come out into an empty room and when they see each other on Monday they can just pretend that nothing ever happened, that they didn’t wake up wrapped around each other, that Martin didn’t pretend to sleep for like an hour just so that he could stay like that for as long as possible.
But he can’t. Even if he’s completely destroyed any chance of Jon liking him romantically, he has to try to salvage their friendship. It’s too precious not to.
When Jon comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later, clad in a pair of neat black jeans and a t-shirt that’s a lot more sensibly sized than his night-time one, although Martin’s pretty sure it’s still a size or two too large, Martin takes a step towards him and says,
“Jon?”
Jon stops. For a moment he seems torn as to whether he should look at Martin or continue to avoid his gaze at all costs, but eventually he does lift his eyes to Martin’s face. That’s a bit of a relief. Maybe he hasn’t wrecked their friendship completely. Martin takes a deep breath.
“I just,” he begins. “I, um, I wanted to say sorry.”
Jon blinks. “What?”
“For, um, you know, this morning,” Martin explains. “You know, us waking up all, um…” He waves a vague hand. “You know.” He can feel his face getting hot again. He’s making a hash even of his apology, although in the plus column, Jon doesn’t actually look angry.
In fact, now that Martin is noticing, he’s actually smiling. Just a little bit, with one corner of his thin mouth, but it’s unmistakeably a smile.
“Oh,” Jon says. “I, ah, I wasn’t… I’m not upset about that.”
Suddenly Martin feels quite gloriously happy.
*
“But,” Jon continues. Martin’s face falls slightly, so he rushes to explain. “I owe you an apology too.”
Martin stares at him. “You… do?”
“Yes.” Jon’s face is growing rather warm. “I… the, ah, the waking up situation, it was… I’m afraid I’d actually been awake for…” At the last second, he chickens out, unable to bring himself to confess the truth. “A few minutes. I should have extricated myself or… or made you aware, or… something. It wasn’t… I’m sorry.”
To his surprise, Martin actually laughs. He claps a hand over his mouth quickly, as though it’s taken him by surprise, and says,
“I was actually awake for… for a couple of minutes before you moved, too,” he admits. “So, you know, um. It’s fine.”
“Oh,” Jon says, suddenly a little relieved. He isn’t the only one who was weird! Admittedly Martin only was for a few minutes, whereas Jon was for what he reckons to be approximately an hour, but still. Maybe it was never as bad as he’d thought. He’s never been very good at predicting what other people are going to think is acceptable behaviour and what isn’t.
He finds himself smiling at Martin again. It’s so hard not to, and he isn’t very invested in trying. Martin is the sort of person who ought to be smiled at as often as possible.
“So,” Martin says. “I guess we should see if we can remember the way to the train station. Or we could…” He cuts himself off, looking uncertain.
“We could what?” Jon says.
A flood of colour sweeps Martin’s face. “Well, we don’t have to be back in London for anything special, or I don’t anyway, and this place seems sort of… nice. We could always hang around for a bit and explore. You know, without Elias constantly breathing down our necks and interrogating us about what we’re most scared of. Might be nice.”
Jon gives a small snort of laughter, and Martin grins at him.
“I don’t have anything special to get back to London for,” he says, and discovers that he can’t even pretend to look Martin in the eye. He lets his gaze settle on the tidy expanse of duvet, instead. Martin must have made the bed while he was in the bathroom.
“Cool,” Martin says. “So, um, does that mean you want to?”
Jon hesitates, though only briefly. For some reason, it feels as though he’s agreeing to more than simply wandering around a picturesque village with Martin for an hour or two. But it’s not as though he’s going to say no. Obviously.
“Yes,” he says, lifting his gaze back up to Martin’s face. “Yes, that sounds very nice. Let’s do that.”
Martin beams, big and bright and beautiful. It’s the sort of smile that makes Jon feel happier just from being in the same room as it. He swings his rucksack onto his back and opens the door, holding it for Jon.
“Cool!” he says, as Jon goes through it. “And hey, maybe we can come up with some sort of plan to get revenge on Tim and Sasha for pulling that stunt with the bedrooms.”
Jon finds himself grinning back at Martin.
“What an excellent idea,” he says. “I’m sure that between the two of us we can come up with something appropriate.”
“Exactly,” Martin says, closing the door behind them and falling into step beside Jon.“Something they’ll never see coming.”
“Perhaps involving rats,” Jon suggests thoughtfully, and Martin gives a splutter of laughter.
“If you want to wrangle rats, then by all means,” he says. “But you’re on your own if you do.”
Jon finds himself grinning. “Fair enough. Something else, then.”
“Something else,” Martin agrees.
He smiles at Jon, and Jon smiles back, and they stroll down the corridor towards the lift together.