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The sea used to sing to Martin. But it has long gone quiet.
And that's okay. He has his lighthouse, now – illuminating the sea with its brilliant glow, nestled beside the waves like a child in its mother's arms – and he has Jon. Jon, who gave up his tail to chase Martin as he withdrew into the loneliness that grew without his coat. Who had lost his tail, dragging Martin out. Who loved him so wholly and so deeply that he abandoned half of his life to stay by Martin's side, after they had attempted to retrieve Martin's coat and found only the dust that it had settled into.
He has Jon. His husband. The thought makes him smile. He's okay, he tells himself-
But then why is he standing by the shore like this? Here, with his toes curling around the sand by the water's edge?
The full moon behind him casts a luminescence on the water that makes it seem, for an instant, as if everything below the surface is sparkling. The sea is somehow happy to see him, he feels distantly.
The waves caress the soles of his feet, and brush over his ankles. The wind ruffles the blanket in its place over his shoulders, the chill of the air slipping under it to ripple his skin.
Martin strains his ears. Somewhere on the edge of the breeze lingers a note he knows is there – a crooning, mournful, yearning song, that calls for a piece of itself that has been lost. It's there, though he feels it in his bones rather than hears it; the sound that fills his skull now is only the soft hiss of the waves.
No longer does the song of the sea course through his body, thrumming through every vein with each beat of his heart, which now only dances to its own melody.
Martin knows, if he tries hard enough, its sound, and the way it used to vibrate through his very soul – each nerve alight with the joy of living, of existing in the vibrant, rolling, unending mother sea that holds so much love under its surface. His bones know it, even as they support him on his two legs that beg to be formed into one. His breath knows it, as it tastes the salt of the air that used to mean home.
To his mind, however, the song is just out of reach. He could touch it with his fingers, he feels, but never grasp it. Never again hold it in his hands. His mind has forgotten the notes to the tune of his self.
He can't remember why he came down here, now. It's the middle of the night. Jon is asleep, all alone, inside their lighthouse. And here he stands, by the sea. Longing for it – longing for his lost, his abandoned home – when he should be longing for the home he has with his husband.
For a moment, though, the guilt that thought should bring feels just as out of reach as his song. Blurred – not obscured by the fog of the Lonely, but rather the forced priorities his mind has inflicted on him. The call of the sea is just as strong now, when he can no longer answer it, as it was before. It's only its voice that is silent.
His glasses are just beginning to fog up when the gentle click-clacking of feet and cane interrupts the steady flow of the waves. Even after such a short time spent growing accustomed to that noise, Martin already feels he knows it better than he knows the sound of his own heart (too foreign, too quiet, too lonely-). Jon.
A current of despair sweeps over Martin. Hopelessness, guilt- and then all of a sudden, a tide of dullness. As Jon's footsteps grow closer, the tap of his shoes morphing to a gentle thud against the sand, Martin finds he doesn't really care about all that anymore.
"Martin?"
And then Jon reaches him, and a warm hand rests on his shoulder, and it all comes flooding back.
He lifts his hand and wipes the tears he hadn't realised have formed in his eyes, under the glasses. "I'm sorry," he says shakily. "I'll be right back."
He can't quite bring himself to look at his husband, at that moment, but he can feel Jon's softening beside him, even as he senses the way his worry increases as he says in a tone sweeter and more understanding than Martin deserves, "Martin. What are you doing out here?"
Martin struggles to choke back more tears. He doesn't want to- he can't- cry about this. Not in front of Jon. "I just…"
He sighs, and tries to find a way to explain it. "I used to hear the sea… singing? It's stupid- but I thought… maybe I could hear it again? Now that it's quieter."
Now that the outside world is quieter, he means, and he can tell Jon understands. The Lonely was so dull – so quiet, too quiet – that the silence ate up any other sound like a vacuum. He hadn't understood the loss back then, had barely felt it, but now… He had hoped.
At last, he turns his head and allows his eyes to rest on Jon. The expression on Jon's face is too kind, too forgiving, and all he can offer in return is an apologetic, guilty smile. "Well.. I can't," he says softly.
He draws in a breath, and looks down at their feet, side by side. His own, bare and cool as they rest on the night-touched sand. Jon's, trapped in socks and shoes and promises that he shouldn't have given, that he has given and now pays for, for Martin's sake. There's nothing either of them can do to erase that, now, and Martin aches for him.
"Sorry… You're the last person who should hear me complain." Martin shakes his head ever so slightly, as if to rid himself of the mood he's fallen into, or the influence he's been caught up in. "Let's go back inside."
He's about to move, to treck back up to their lighthouse. But Jon turns to him, with a face of concern and a hint of something that could be indignation.
"Jon?" Martin inquires, confused and almost worried. "Are you al-"
Jon interrupts him. "I am." Suddenly, he half crosses his legs and drops to the floor, taking Martin's hand and tugging him down to join him. "Sit with me for a moment."
Martin jolts a little, unsteady for a moment before he crouches down next to Jon. Jon shuffles in close, and takes the blanket, beginning to wrap it around both of their shoulders together.
"Jon, I'm okay," Martin starts nervously. He wonders what Jon's up to, now. He shouldn't be out here, he knows – he shouldn't, and Jon shouldn't, because among all the other problems he's caused Jon there rests a chill that neither of them can quite shake anymore, and God knows Jon's gone through enough without pneumonia on top of it. "I just over-"
Once again, he's interrupted. This time, with a soft, "Shhh- Come here."
There it is – that quiet care, that evidence of a love that doesn't need to be spoken to make itself heard. He doesn't know how Jon manages it so effortlessly. Every expression of care that he gives, himself, is measured – calculated, not out of insincerity but a desperation and need to make it known that he loves, that he values Jon for all he's done for Martin and more. Every movement, every word, since they took up residence at their lighthouse, has been meticulously crafted in some vain effort to share all the feelings inside his heart. It feels manipulative – but on the other hand, exhibiting that sort of casual care is not something that comes to him naturally anymore. And besides… there will another time for such thoughts (as there always is).
It's only then that Martin realises he's crying. It takes a moment longer for him to realise why.
The blanket is wrapped so tightly around him, and Jon's hair flutters around both their heads, and if Martin could have heard the song again it is now drowned out by the material over his ears and the thudding of his heart in his chest, and some small, horrible part of him is bitter and resentful of Jon because Jon is the one doing this to him, Jon is the one blocking out his song-
Jon is the one sheltering him from the what ifs that can never again be. Jon is the one holding him as the curve of a wave used to, loving Martin in the way he needs to be loved at this moment. Jon is the one who chose Martin, and kept choosing Martin, and keeps choosing Martin.
Martin makes no effort to push down his tears. They rise in ugly sobs and hiccups, as Jon begins to sing.
"Idir ann, is idir as" he begins softly, in that siren's voice of his that dulls out the world around them in a way that used to scare Martin. Now, he only feels it wrap around him, as warm as the blanket that rests on their shoulders. The wind quiets at the sound of Jon's words, as if giving itself rest to listen in peace.
It doesn't stop the tears; Martin feels as if it's not quite meant to. Jon understands that he needs to cry now. So he does.
Pressing one dear, painfully loving kiss to the top of Martin's head, Jon continues. "Idir thuaidh is idir theas." His voice weaves around them like a protective net, a cloak to shield them from the dangers and the horrors outside. Too late, perhaps – but comfort is comfort, regardless of time or place.
"Idir thiar is idir thoir. Idir am is idir áit." The stars above seemed to soften their twinkling in tribute to the song that calls from below, and speaks of a life now lost.
"As an sliogán." Jon sings on, and Martin and the sea listen. "Amhrán na farriage. Suaimhneach ná ciúin. Ag cuardú go damanta… Mo ghrá."
And here, underneath the sky with its shifting hues that hint at a new dawn rising, it seems for a moment that the world slows down. Just to listen to one siren's song, as he consoles his husband for the loss of a home that he can now only reach inside his heart.