Archive of Our Own ^beta

They get to Scotland late.

No later than Martin might normally stay up on a — Wait. Christ, he’s not even sure what day it is, actually — Well, it’s no later then he’d stay up on any day of the week, he supposes. It can’t even be past midnight yet, but after the last handful of days, a heavy curtain of exhaustion hangs over him.

Martin feels — god, he’s more tired than he can remember feeling in his entire conscious memory of being a person, and that’s including when he was 16, before he dropped out, when he was trying to juggle two jobs and classes. He can’t even remember the last time he slept. He’s not sure, over the last few weeks or months or whatever he started getting in deep with the Lonely, if he even really slept at all. He can’t say if he’d really needed to. 

It’s all just been… one big, messy blur. 

(He never meant to lose so much of himself. He didn’t even notice it happening until he realized how much of himself he wants back.)

There’s stars in the sky up here. More than Martin’s ever seen in his life, going from city to city. Martin thinks, vaguely, if he were more alert, more in his body, that he would really, really love that. Maybe later, he tells himself. For now, it’s enough to watch Jon curse under his breath as he tries to unstick the old, creaky lock with one hand, to follow him inside still holding the other.

“Um.” Jon says, standing in the entryway, looking small and lost in the dark.

“Lights,” Martin suggests. It’s the first thing he’s said in… hours.

Jon starts, just a little.  “Right.” He nods. “Lights. Good idea. Uh…”

He fumbles along, running his free hand over the walls, but there’s no overhead lights in the hallway. The doors to the kitchen and the living room sit opposite each other, and after a moment’s hesitation he leads Martin into the kitchen.

Martin’s just glad to have a place to set his bag down. He sighs as the weight finally drops off his shoulders. He still has a duffle with all his clothes out in the car, but right now the idea of going back out and bringing it in feels next to impossible. He still kind of feels like his brain is lagging about two steps behind his body.

Jon finds a switch on the wall and flips it on. Dusty orange light flickers and spills over them, and even its vague dullness is a shock to Martin’s eyes after the long drive in the dark.

“Here, um—” Jon stops again, stepping in a sort of awkward half-circle until he’s stopped by their linked hands pulling him back.

“Would you like your hand back?”

Jon gives him a face, and says, empathically and severely, “No.”

“I mean, just an offer.” He might be close to smiling? “Might make things easier.”

“I’m quite alright like this—”

“— ‘cause, like, I might need my hand back eventually.”

“Mm… maybe. We’ll see,” Jon tells him.

Something in Martin shifts, settles. His shoulders sag with relief. He does smile then, albeit faintly, and looking down at his shoes when he does. He swings their hands between them like they’re kids. He feels younger than he has in a long time; the newness and immediacy of his emotions feels like something long lost to time being dragged back up.

Slowly, Jon lets out a breath, steps in close, squeezing Martin’s hand.

Martin, inadvertently, shivers.

Jon notices, because of course he does. He’s a person who notices Martin now. “Oh, are you— are you cold?”

Martin has been cold down to his bones for months. “I’m a bit chilly, I guess.”

“Ah, right. Here, let me— I’ll go and see if I can find a, a blanket, or something—”

He makes to leave, and even though he was the one who suggested it at first, suddenly the idea of Jon dropping his hand and leaving him here to go search through the dusty old house alone becomes absolutely intolerable to imagine. His breath catches in his throat, and his grip on Jon’s hand tightens, vice-like.

Jon looks back to Martin, blinking, wide-eyed. “Martin?”

“Don’t go,” Martin blurts, too tired to curb the sudden, raw vulnerability. “Stay with me.”

Something delicate and bright flashes across Jon’s face. He nods, stepping in closer to Martin. “Alright.” He takes Martin’s other wrist in his free hand, slides both his hands slowly up to Martin’s shoulders, pulls him in so gently, breath ghosting Martin’s ear. “I’m right here.”

Martin breathes out, a long, rough sigh, bending slightly to drop his head onto Jon’s shoulder, lets himself be held. When they pull back, Jon’s fingers linger on Martin’s arms, the heat of his hands permeating through the thick fabric of Martin’s coat and jumper all the way down to his skin. He’s not sure if Jon just naturally runs warm or if Martin’s colder than he thought.

“What if I… make us tea instead?” Jon offers gently.

“You— oh.” Martin looks down at his hands. He’s not sure why, but that’s what really does it. Convinces him this is real; Jon loves him just as much as Martin does. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Jon gives him a shy smile.

“I-I have tea in my bag,” Martin offers. “I… brought some.”

Jon’s smile blossoms from timid to full and all-encompassing, so deeply fond it burns almost as much as his touch. “So among the things you deemed essential to bring with you while going on the run to another country, you picked tea?”

“Absolutely.”

It feels good, to make Jon laugh; happiness sits so lovely on Jon’s face. Martin bites the inside of his cheek. “It’s coming in useful now, isn’t it?” 

“You’ve got a point there,” Jon tells him, straightening up again.

Martin has to let go of Jon to pick up his bag, unzip it, and pull out the box of tea bags he’d packed. He fumbles with the zipper, fingers numb, and eventually just leaves it sitting open on the table.

“Um.” He holds the box out to Jon. “Here.”

Jon’s fingers cover his as he takes it. “Thanks.”

Daisy’s cupboards are surprisingly well stocked — not with any food Martin can see just yet, but with more cookware and dishes than Martin would’ve pictured when he heard the word safehouse. He has to boil water in an old pot on the stove, but at least the stove works, so. Martin counts it as a win.

“Ah,” Jon says, frowning as he puts teabags into two mismatched cups and fills them with hot water. “I don’t think there’s likely to be any milk or sugar?”

Martin hums. “S’okay. Just nice to have something warm.”

The look Jon gives him is so overwhelmingly gentle Martin has to look away. “Right.” Jon clears his throat. “Yes. That’s. Good, yes.”

A moment later, a mug appears in his eye line, steaming and golden brown. Slowly, Martin reaches out and takes it. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Jon says, “a-anything you need.”

The scary thing is, Martin thinks he really means that.

They sit together at Daisy’s rickety old table, and Martin realizes, absently, that he doesn’t think they’ve ever just… sat down and had tea together. God knows Martin’s brought him enough tea to drown an army, and they’ve gone to cafés and delis, even a few pubs with Tim and Sasha back in the early days. They’ve had lunch and drinks and even a few quiet, memorable dinners together back when Martin was living in the Archives.

But… this? Just sitting together for the sole purpose of being together and enjoying a warm drink? This is… new.

The tea is bitter but hot, burning in a way that’s not actually unpleasant. It leaves a nice pit of heat in his belly, reminds him it’s possible to be warm. Except, no. He looks up at Jon over the top of his mug, finds him already looking back at Martin. Jon’s been reminding him that all night, hasn’t he?

Martin shifts his mug over to one hand, reaches the other across the table. Just to see. Without hesitation, Jon reaches back, curling his fingers around the back of Martin’s palm and holding on firmly. 

That’s how they stay until both their cups are empty. It’s almost a shock when Martin raises his mug for a sip and finds he doesn’t have any tea left.

“Oh.”

Jon looks up at him. “All done?”

“Heh. Yeah.”

“Right. Should we— I mean, we should probably…” He makes to stand, pushing his chair back. “Check out the rest of the place?” 

“Jon.” Martin snatches Jon’s wrist before he can leave the table. His voice is rough; exhausted. “I’m— I’m so tired, and… cold.”

“Oh.” Jon nods, with that little crease that he gets between his eyebrows when he’s taking something really serious. And there’s his hand in Martin’s again, gently squeezing his fingers. “Okay, how about we just… go to bed, and figure everything else out later.”

“That sounds…” Martin breathes out about a ton of weight. “Yeah. Please.”

“Alright.” He takes Martin’s mug out of his hands, brings them both to the sink to be rinsed later. Jon holds out his hand again. Martin takes it, lets Jon pull him up to his feet. This close, Jon has to tilt his head back to look Martin in the face. “Bedroom?”

“Bedroom,” Martin agrees.

The cottage is dark outside the little bubble of kitchen warmth, but there’s not a lot to trip over in the one little hallway that runs from the front door all the way to the back of the building. The bed in the back room is unmade and dusty, but right now it looks like a miracle to Martin.

“Here,” Jon says, “there’s sheets in the closet, why don’t you go get changed and I’ll make the bed up?”

Martin’s too exhausted to acknowledge the fact Jon’s just Beheld the location of the linens, and just nods. His dufflebag with most of his clothes is still out in the car, but he has a few big shirts in his backpack that he can use to sleep in, and it’s not like he ever wears anything more than boxers and a T-shirt to bed if he can get away with it. Maybe if he were more present right now he’d be embarrassed about that, but after you look at someone and see him down to his core at the lowest point in your life it’s kind of hard to get self-conscious about him seeing you in your underwear.

The bathroom’s just off of the bedroom, so Martin can hear Jon moving about on the other side of the door even once he’s closed in. It’s comforting, the sounds of domesticity, even when he’s this exhausted. Martin avoids the mirror while he changes — not because he has any particular problems with how he looks. Just because for the past few months, half the times he tries to look at himself there’s nothing but fog in the reflection, and he doesn’t think he can take that right now.

Jon’s gingerly fluffing the pillows when Martin comes back out, brow furrowed like he’s deep in concentration. It’s so helplessly cute it burns him, just a little, somewhere in his chest. He clears his throat, and Jon stills, looking up at him.

“Er.” His voice cracks. “Y-your turn.”

“Ah. Yes.” He straightens up, smoothes the wrinkles out of his shirt. “Thanks.”

Jon’s about to shut the bathroom door, and Martin’s brain snaps alert. “I, I have a shirt you can borrow. To sleep in.”

Jon goes very still, hand poised on the doorknob. 

“I mean, y’know— only if you want,” Martin goes on, brain just now catching up with his mouth. “You don’t have to.”

Slowly, Jon unfreezes, turns around to look at Martin with something like awe on his face. “N-no, I… That sounds nice. I’d like that.”

“Right.” Martin half didn’t expect him to say yes, and it takes him a few seconds to startle himself into motion and dig a second T-shirt out of his backpack. He doesn’t even check to see what’s on it, but it feels soft, so. Good enough.

Jon takes it from him carefully, looking down at the bunched up fabric in his hands like it holds one of the secrets of the universe. He swallows. “Thank you.”

Martin nods, once, looking down at the floor. “‘Course.”

He keeps his eyes lowered until he hears the bathroom door click shut again, then lets his shoulder slump, twisting his fingers up in the hem of his shirt. If he wasn’t so hollowed out right now, he might find a way to panic. There’s been more intimacy crammed into this one night than Martin’s had in the last five years of his life combined.

Martin crawls up under the covers — covers that Jon so carefully made up for them. The pillows are surprisingly firm, and the thick quilt he dug up is patterned in almost obnoxiously cute floral fabrics. 

Cozy, he thinks. 

He likes it.

Even though he has plenty of time to prepare himself, the sight of Jon coming out of the bathroom wearing his shirt very nearly takes Martin’s breath away. It’s big on him, obviously. It’s even big on Martin when he wears it, so it hangs nearly to Jon’s mid-thigh, short and bony as he is.

Martin doesn’t realize how openly he’s staring until Jon frowns, fidgeting nervously. “What?”

Martin blinks, but he doesn’t look away. He’s trying to be braver, now. “Nothing. Looks good.”

“Oh.” Jon’s face dissolves into something soft. His voice, when it comes back, is even softer. “Thank you.”

They look at each other. Martin has missed that face more than he can say, and he thinks he could keep looking for an eternity if he wasn’t at the absolute end of his rope. He holds out his hand. Jon startles minutely, and crosses the room, sliding his fingers into Martin’s as he climbs up onto the bed. The warmth of his palm is becoming familiar to Martin; maybe eventually it’ll start to feel like some of that warmth belongs to him.

Jon pulls the covers back on his side, nestles into bed beside Martin. There’s some solace in the fact that this— the sharing of the bed— goes without saying. That they don’t have to make it a thing. Martin doesn’t know if he has the energy to ask Jon to stay, and he definitely doesn’t have the energy to actually talk about this right now. It’s nice to know this closeness is implicit.

“Oh, Christ,” Jon says, making Martin start.

“What?”

“The light.”

“The— oh. Right.” Martin frowns. He forgot to flip off the overhead light before he crawled into bed.   “Here, let me—”

“No, I can—”

“No, Jon—”

But Jon’s already slipping back out of bed. “I’ve got it, Martin.”

Martin swallows. “Okay. Thanks.”

They leave the kitchen light on down the hall and the bedroom door open deliberately. Martin might feel silly with anyone else, but they know better. There are monsters in the dark— in the Dark— that want to hurt you. That actively, maliciously want to hurt them, specifically. That want to hurt Jon. So, it’s okay. When it’s just them, they can be 31-year-old men who still use a nightlight unashamedly.

In the near-dark, Jon lays back down next to Martin. Martin turns so they’re facing each other on their pillows, faces only centimeters apart. Jon’s eyes search Martin’s face, and he brings his hand up, gently holds Martin’s cheek. 

Martin holds his breath. Out here in the countryside, the quiet feels louder than the ever-present hum of London activity ever was. The only sounds are the faint hum of wind and the occasional rustling of the sheets. His touch is so lovely, his eyes so soft… for just a second, Martin thinks Jon might be about to kiss him. 

But he doesn’t.

He just brushes his thumb along Martin’s cheekbone, pushes his hair off his forehead and behind his ears, and lets his hand fall back onto the mattress between them. “Goodnight, Martin.”

Missing the contact already, Martin takes Jon’s hand and laces their fingers together. He squeezes. “Goodnight, Jon.”

—

Martin doesn’t know what time it is when he wakes up, but outside the windows it’s still heavy with darkness. He can’t remember what he was dreaming about, but the spike of adrenaline crescendoing in his chest is making his heart race fast enough he can feel his pulse behind his eyes.

His palm is sweaty but empty; sometime, while was asleep, he must’ve managed to pull his hand out of Jon’s, because it’s tucked up close to his chest. Jon’s hand, looking so spindly and lovely and bare, rests just where Martin left it on the sheets between their bodies. 

Jon never exactly looks peaceful in sleep — Martin has heard the tapes, he knows what Jon Sees in his dreams — but he does look deadly still. Washed out and pale in the sliver of pale light coming in from the hall around the bedroom door, he might as well be—

In another bed, hooked up to monitors that read nothing. No heartbeat, no oxygen intake—

Too desperate to feel ashamed, Martin tugs Jon’s wrist into his hands. “Jon,” he whispers, croaky from sleep, and… probably something else. “Jon, wake up.”

Miraculously, Jon’s eyes blink open, wide and alarmed. “Martin?”

All the breath leaves Martin in a rush, and he shuts his eyes against the uncomfortable pressure building up in his sinuses. “Jon.”

“Hey.” The bed creaks, Jon’s weight shifts, and a second later Martin feels gentle fingers on his face. “Are you— is everything alright?”

Martin blinks his eyes open to see Jon, hovering over him, worried and still hazy from sleep. He opens his mouth to say something; to say anything, even though he doesn’t have an inkling of what that might actually be… Except all that comes out is a strangled, half-choked sob. 

Oh, he thinks, dimly, that wasn’t meant to happen.

Jon sucks in a sharp breath, eyes going wide. That’s all Martin can take; he squeezes his eyes shut again and hides his face in his hands. If he has to watch Jon be silently concerned for him for another second he thinks he’ll lose it entirely.

It backfires. Instead, Jon’s hand circles loosely around his wrist. “Martin,” he says, hushed and unbearably gentle, “Martin, what’s wrong?”

Martin shakes his head, turns to bury his face in his pillow. God, there are actual tears now, budding in the corners of his eyes. Shit. All he needed was just— just some confirmation that he isn’t alone. That Jon’s still here with him. He doesn’t need— doesn’t know how— to break down in front of him.

Jon tugs on his wrist. “Please, Martin. Can you just… tell me what’s wrong?”

Martin finally gives in and lets him tug his hand away from his face. He thinks he’s got himself under control; his eyes still sting, but he doesn’t feel any tears threatening to spill over. His throat is still uncomfortably tight, but he’s been worse and still managed to talk through it, so he thinks he’ll be okay.

“Er.” He clears his throat. “B-bad dream.”

Jon’s fingers brush delicately along the inside of Martin’s wrist, nearly crumbling all his defenses. “I’m sorry. I-is there… Do you need anything?”

“I, I just. I just needed to know— to know you were still here.”

“I’m still here,” Jon tells him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You looked so—” Martin’s voice cracks, and he takes a long, deep breath before continuing. “When I woke up, and you were still asleep, it just… it looked like when you were. W-when. It just reminded me of… the hospital after, um.”

“… After the Unknowing?”

Martin just nods. Barely above a whisper: “Your heart wasn’t even beating.”

“It’s beating now.”

“Yeah. Just… needed the reminder.”

“Well— Here.” Jon lies back down facing Martin and takes his hand. Steady and slow, he pulls it to himself, guiding him until Martin’s palm is flat against his chest. “See? Still beating.”

And… it is. 

Under Martin’s fingers, he can feel Jon’s heartbeat, fluttering steadily behind his ribcage. “Oh,” he breathes softly. Almost without any conscious input, his hand curls into Jon’s shirt (his shirt), and then he’s pulling himself closer, shoving his head down under Jon’s chin, until they’re pressed snug up against each other, chest to chest.

He feels Jon’s soft exhale ruffling his hair, and then Jon folds his arms around shoulders, wrapping him up in a gentle yet firm embrace. “It’s okay.”

And Martin thinks it’s… so stupid, that that’s what gets him. Yanks the stopper out and makes the tears start flowing, fast and abundant. There’s no hope of stopping them now; all he can do is bury his face in Jon’s neck to muffle his awkward, sniffling sobs.

It’s been a long time, since he’s cried. He hadn’t even been able to dredge up any real tears when his mum died. He’d cried a lot at Jon’s bedside, at first, but even that had stopped after awhile. Eventually the fog had started creeping in, cotton-ball stoppers in his tear ducts plugging everything up at the source, numbing him from the inside out. He thinks the last time he really, really cried might’ve been… Tim’s funeral?

It kind of feels like — as cliché as it sounds — the dam has burst on everything he’s been bottling up for the last year of his life. He’s just… too exhausted, too raw, too vulnerable, to try and stop it anymore. Not when Jon is here being so tender with him, letting Martin feel his heart beating and holding him when he’s scared and sad. Has anyone ever done that for Martin? Held him to make him feel better?

The thought just makes him hold on tighter; fingers bunching in fabric so tight his knuckles start to hurt. He feels Jon’s hand on his back, rubbing up and down between his shoulder blades. They stay like that until Martin runs out of tears, out of energy. It’s so still and quiet after all the fuss that Martin might think Jon’s fallen asleep, except for where his fingers are still moving on Martin’s back.

Slowly, Martin picks his head up. Meets Jon’s eyes in the dimness. He swallows. “… Is this okay?”

Jon looks at him. And looks at him. And it only feels human, especially when his eyes fall to Martin’s mouth, and he thinks — maybe now? Is this happening now? Until Jon picks his eyes back up and nods. “More than okay.”

So Martin slowly lowers his head back down to Jon’s chest. Shimmies until he can hear his heart beating in his ear. He hooks an arm around him and squeezes, just a little, just enough to remind him they’re both here. Jon’s arms slide back around his shoulders, more securely this time, holding on just as tight.

“I’ll be here,” Jon whispers.

Martin hums. “So will I.”

Martin feels the way Jon seems to deflate under him as he sighs out in relief. “Good.”

If he weren’t so tired, Martin thinks he might smile. They stay like that until Martin fades back into sleep.

—

Martin is alone when he wakes up again. 

Surprisingly enough, his first instinct isn’t to panic. Instead, he just feels… hollowed out. It’s not the gnawing emptiness of the Lonely, but just. He’s so spent, after last night, after the past few days, he doesn’t have the energy for panic yet. All he can dredge up is the dull pull of want; it would’ve been nice to wake up in Jon’s arms, is all.

He pushes himself up against the wall, leans over to pull his glasses off the nightstand. The panic doesn’t start to come until he calls out a croaky, “Jon?” and gets no response but the shifting of an old and empty house around him.

He could get up. Could go look for him. Maybe he’s just down in the kitchen, or the living room, and he didn’t hear. Jon’s hyperfocuses are a force to be reckoned with; you could knock a building down around him and he wouldn’t notice if he’s found something to hold his interest. But Martin forgot to put on new socks last night, and he’s worried that if he steps down, barefoot and alone, the cold of the hardwood floor will seep all the way up into his bones and never leave him again. 

He’s so sick of the cold.

He’s about to call out again, hopes his voice will carry, will come out as more than a choking, echoing fog, when the bedroom door swings all the way open and there’s Jon, standing with arms full, his suitcase in his left hand and Martin’s duffel in his right. His eyes meet Martin’s, and he stops.

“You’re awake,” Jon says. 

Martin nods, because words seem to have fled him for the time being.

“Sorry, I was— don’t think I’ve brushed my teeth since we left the Lonely, and…” He awkwardly holds his arms up. “My toothbrush was still out in the car.”

Martin nods. “Right.”

He carefully sets their bags down inside the bedroom doorway. “I was hoping you wouldn’t wake till I got back.”

Martin nods again, but before he can say anything, Jon crosses the room, wraps his arms around Martin’s shoulders where he’s sat at the edge of the bed, and pulls him in.

“… Good morning.”

Martin has to swallow, twice, before he quietly slips his arms around Jon’s back. Sitting down like this, Jon’s taller than him, and it feels… different, but safe, to let Jon fold him into his arms like that.

“Morning,” he finally manages to croak out.

Jon pulls back after a moment, hands sliding up his arms, onto his shoulders, and up until he’s holding Martin’s face in his hands, thumbs alighting delicate as anything on his cheeks, fingertips folding just behind his ears. And — there it is again. That feeling that Jon is about to kiss him. He really looks like he might.

But he doesn’t. Again.

Martin tries to tell himself it’s fine, but this early it’s harder to ignore the way his heart plunges.

“How did you sleep?” Jon asks, letting his hands fall away. “I-I mean… after, well. Any more bad dreams?”

Martin opens his mouth to say no, that the rest of his night was just fine with Jon there to hold him through it. What winds up coming out is: “Why won’t you kiss me?”

“Uh.” Jon blinks.

“Oh, god—” Martin’s eyes go very wide. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— I mean, you don’t have to, I just— it keeps seeming like you’re going to? And then you don’t? And I just— if it’s not going to happen, i-if I’m wrong about— that’s okay, really, but can you just. Tell me? Because I, I— I would really like—” Martin, finally seeming to regain some control over himself, snaps his mouth shut, eyes and hands falling down to his lap. After a handful of agonizingly quiet seconds pass, his eyes dart back up to Jon almost of their own accord. “… Sorry.”

“Ah, no, it’s…” Jon meets his eyes, but his expression is unreadable. “You don’t need to be sorry. Uhm…”

“You don’t have to— god, that was— it’s early, I’m wasn’t thinking—”

“No, no.” Then Jon’s hands are on his face again. “It’s, um. I-I do want to. K-kiss you. Quite a lot, actually.”

“You do?”

“I-I really do.” Jon nods. “I suppose I just… I wasn’t sure if you were… ready? Your hands are still… so cold, I thought— I didn’t want to. Push. A-after, um.”

“… The beach?”

Jon purses his lips and nods.

Martin swallows. He bites the inside of his cheek. “I-I don’t think that… trying to keep your distance is going to help me get over the Lonely any quicker.”

Jon hums. “I— yes, I suppose that makes sense.”

Martin slips his hands up to Jon’s wrists, holding his hands in place. “I-if you’re worrying something might be pushing me, you could just… ask?”

“I… could.” Jon nods slowly. “I. I will.”

Martin’s almost surprised when he feels himself start to smile. “Good.”

“Uh.” Jon’s face flushes dark in the morning sun. “Should I— should I ask now?”

Martin huffs out a quiet laugh. “Maybe we should brush our teeth first? I mean, if I’m setting the time tables here.”

Jon gives him a look so heart-meltingly soft Martin almost forgets everything he just said and leans in right here. “That’s probably a good idea.”

They take turns in the bathroom. Martin wants to shower the sea salt grit out of his hair, so he lets Jon go first and takes the second go. When he comes back out, pink-cheeked and refreshed, Jon is in the kitchen clattering around in the cupboards. Martin walks in to find him rinsing a pair of mugs in the sink, the same old pot from last night heating water on the stove.

“You’re making tea again.”

Jon turns to face him. “I am.” He shuts the sink off, dries the mug in his hand on an old dish towel. “Still no sugar or milk, but…”

But Jon is making him tea. Not because Martin is in danger of fading away and needs something warm, but just because. Because he wants to do something nice for them both. 

“I think, ah. Not much to eat, but if you’re hungry I think there’s still half a bag of crisps in the car from last night, and maybe— Ah!” He cuts off when Martin comes up behind him and wraps his arms around Jon, squeezing his middle perhaps a bit over-enthusiastically. Jon laughs. “I almost dropped my cup, Martin!”

Martin drops his head onto Jon’s shoulder, grinning into the fabric of his shirt — Martin’s T-shirt, which he is still very much wearing. “Sorry.”

Jon huffs, leaning back into Martin. His body is so warm, Martin feels a bit like a cat in a sunny spot. “You don’t exactly sound too apologetic.”

Martin heaves a big shrug so Jon can feel it. “Maybe not.”

Jon’s skinny shoulders shake as he laughs. “Devious. May I get back to it? The water’s boiling.”

Martin hums. “I dunno…”

“Martin.” Jon turns his head, so Martin can feel his breath on his ear. “Will you look at me? Please?”

Martin reluctantly picks his head up, meets Jon’s eyes. He’s looking back with something shining and golden in the soft set of his smile, the way his eyes crinkle just so around the corners. If they live long enough to get wrinkles, he might get proper smile lines. Martin hopes he gets to see it.

“Hello,” Jon says softly.

“Hi,” Martin breathes, full of wonder.

Jon twists in his arms until they’re face to face. He brings his hand up, rests his thumb feather-light on Martin’s bottom lip. Martin stops breathing entirely, but all Jon does is swipe over the corner of his mouth. “You had a bit of toothpaste. Just there. I got it.”

Martin makes a sound like all the air leaving a balloon very quickly. “Bastard.”

Jon chuckles. “Martin, I need to get the stove! I’m not going to kiss you with the water about to boil over.”

“… Oh.”

“So can I…?”

“Uh.” Martin swallows, drops his arms, slowly steps back. “Go for it.”

Jon smiles fondly at him, then he goes about pulling two more teabags out and filling the cups with water. He leaves them to steep, turns around, leans against the counter to look at Martin.

“Happy now?” Martin asks.

Jon’s smile blossoms into a grin. “Happier, anyway. Can I kiss you now?”

“Oh.” Martin nods. “Yeah.”

So Jon does. Standing on his toes to reach, one hand on Martin’s face, the other on his shoulder, he fits their lips together. It’s very chaste, and very sweet, and it leaves a flicker of flint-spark heat on Martin’s lips. His eyelids flutter as Jon leans back.

Jon’s fingers dance along his skin, eyes searching Martin’s face. Humiliatingly, Martin feels his eyes start to well up again. After last night, you would think he’d run out of tears for the foreseeable future. Jon’s eyes widen, and he opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but Martin stops him by pulling him into another kiss, chasing that warmth.

This one is — different. Deeper. More needy. Martin wraps his arms cloyingly tight around Jon, and Jon’s snake around his shoulders. He hums into Martin’s mouth, curling his fingers into his still-wet hair and pressing in for kiss after kiss after kiss, messy and desperate and so, so tender.

By the time Martin has to pull back just to breathe, he feels like he’s on fire. His skin is burning, something hot and heavy smoldering inside of him, suffusing a sharp, prickling pain out through his belly to the tips of his fingers, his toes, his cheeks. He shakes with it, just a little, a sporadic tremble in Jon’s arms, like numbness giving way to pins and needles when you finally come inside after a long time out in the cold.

Jon looks at him like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, wipes an errant tear from under Martin’s eye. “Okay?”

Martin nods. He opens his mouth, but what winds up coming out is, “I love you.”

Martin doesn’t want to say the noise Jon makes is a whine, but it comes close. “I love you,” he says, “Martin, I love you so much.”

They pull each other close again, Jon reaching up and Martin dipping down. They hold onto each other like that, swaying a little on the spot in the sudden warmth of the morning. Sun shines in on them from the window. It smells vaguely of dust and bitter tea and the teatree soap Jon brought with them.

Head on Jon’s shoulder, Martin mumbles, “your tea is going to over-steep.”

“That’s okay,” Jon murmurs back, “I’m really quite content right here. Are you?”

“Y-yeah. This is good.”

“This is good,” Jon agrees quietly.

He doesn’t know how many good moments they have left, but they’ve earned this one, so he’s going to hold onto every bit of peace they can scrape together and not let go.