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A couple years ago, he would’ve been nearly in awe of the scenery in front of them - long stretches of country road, dotted only by small villages and half obscured by the rolling hills beginning to grow over the horizon, making everything feel ever so slightly claustrophobic. Cozy.
A couple years ago, he would’ve been enamored with the quaint road-sign that told them of the little mom-and-pop shop coming up, and the messy, local-poster-dotted-front-windows, and the half-dead garden boxes out front, still holding onto whatever dying fall foliage they could.
A couple years ago, he would’ve loved this sort of thing.
It…almost hurt, that it didn’t bring up more than a dull, vicarious sort of ache, now. But it was still…nice enough. Under the current. He still liked it. Just couldn’t…feel it, really.
Couldn’t feel it at all.
But that was fine - he’d take that. It was still leagues better than anything the past year had offered, so…
So it was fine. It was nice, even. In a superficial way.
Even if the twinge came up, almost vicarious, nostalgic, to actually feel it - he couldn’t…let it. Not yet. If he did, he probably wouldn’t even make it out of the car before it all came crashing in. And he certainly wasn’t about to cause another commotion. Jon had had more than enough to deal with, from him, over the past day and a half.
The past year, really.
Ha.
He sat still just a second longer than Jon did after the car came to a rolling stop - it jolted down into the quiet and dimmed the world down to what was right in front of them, rather than the idle music and the hum of the engine that’d colored the last few hours. It was just the idle chirping of some morning birds, let in by the half-rolled windows, the thin whistle of a slight breeze, and…their breathing.
Jon’s, mostly.
Martin…sort of had to keep reminding himself to, and even then, it kept coming out too quiet. Almost not there.
He was breathing, at least. And that was a good thing, probably. And the store had a nice little handpainted sign, proudly displaying McMarland’s Curios, and Jon was lightly grumbling something Martin couldn’t quite catch as he fought his way out of the car - his leg was definitely bothering him, if that look was anything to go by…
(Martin had told him they could take turns driving, but he’d refused, and -)
And it was all good. All fine, even.
Lovely.
As long as he remembered to breathe.
He pulled in a concerted inhale, staring just a little too long at the handpainted sign, and thinking about nothing, as much as he could. The paint was chipping around the latter letters, gold and green and coming off in large chunks. It was almost serene. Almost homey.
Bright.
…Almost too bright.
He forced himself out of the car, too, a few seconds after Jon did, and pretended his limbs worked just as well on purpose as they did on autopilot. He still ended up standing, and working the knot out of his back with a few odd movements, and Jon smiled at him as he came around to his side of the car, tucking the keys in his pocket in a smooth motion.
“Do you want to go in with me?” Jon asked, quietly, casually. “Or stick outside for a moment?”
He also briefly admired the hanging sign, with its rusted-out chains and antique wood, for just a second. Then he was looking away, not really lingering at all on it and its odd, homesick implications, and was instead focused in on Martin.
(He tried not to shrink back from it. Tried not to lean into it too hard, either. Just balance. In, and out.)
Jon simply watched him for a second, expectant, before he remembered he was probably supposed to, well…respond, and he offered a quiet shrug, as decent a smile as he could manage.
“I’ll come in, I guess. Probably better for both of us.”
Another breath. A shift of his weight, just to feel it. He watched Jon’s eyes catch on it all, the proof. He still wasn’t sure if he minded. He was never quite sure if he minded Jon keeping an eye on him, like that - through all the years, it’d remained just as consistent and lingering, like a dull pressure, both comforting and stifling. A little like being trapped, but with enough room to breathe. And he’d never really been able to decide if he actually liked it, or if it was just enough of a price to pay for being noticed. Cared about. It had to be a little uncomfortable, for it to be his.
“Besides -” He pulled in another breath, focused on it, and forced his body to feel a little more present, in all the ways he could. Gravel under his feet, cold air against his face, too-long hair falling into his eyes. He was real, and he was alive. Still. Still who he was supposed to be, apparently. He was still someone who, theoretically, liked little knicknacks. And needed to use bathrooms. That sort of thing. “Looks like they might have some nice stuff, anyway. Shops like these always do.”
“Mm.” Jon hummed, and nodded, once, apparently satisfied, before he shook a bit more of the tension and ache out of his shoulders. He took a slow step forward, eyeing the shop almost warily, before softening with a relieved sigh. “It very well may.” He offered, almost a little…amused. Romantic, if one could ever ascribe that tone to Jon’s voice.
Actually -
Actually, yeah. Romantic was a good descriptor. Man was a proper sap, at this point. At least, more than Martin was, anymore. (And what a great thought, that was…)
He didn’t think too hard about it as he followed Jon past the half-dead flowerboxes, in through the slightly-cramped doorway, where the little bell above chimed out a welcoming, light trill. The sole person situated within the building - and they could see almost all of it from the doorway, as wide open and cramped as it was - was a somewhat bored looking cashier, leaned back in a ratty chair behind the counter. They looked up at the sound, vague confusion giving way to an instinctive, yet not ingenuine, smile. It softened a bit as they took them in, eyes flicking quickly between them.
He brought up an answering smile, placebo as it felt.
“Welcome in!” They piped, far too bright, even with the slight rasp of their voice, and straightened up a bit in their chair. “Bit early to be seeing anyone yet, but we are open.” There was a pause, a small shuffle as they sat up a bit more, scooted forward. “Forgive me if I’m not quite awake enough yet, though - haven’t got my coffee fully down.”
He heard Jon smile in response, a little crackle of the corners of his lips, and he knew the tight, light expression that was on his face as he responded, even without seeing it.
“Ah, that’s - that’s quite alright. We were honestly just passing through and figured…well, might as well stop. We’ll do our best not to bother you.”
“Ey, no sense in that. I’ll be here if you do need me, but take your time.” They echoed back, easily, with a casual gesture towards the rest of the store. “I’m certainly not going anywhere - plenty to look at here, anyway.”
Open as it was, with rows of freestanding shelves along the middle and a few more concerted, themed areas around the sides, it was packed full of things - from a shelf full of solely farmhouse themed decor, to another of novelty knives with names engraved on the hilts, to one with what looked to be daily conveniences. It was jam-packed with things upon things upon things, and the entire atmosphere was just…
It was a little overwhelming, actually. If he let himself register it.
It was so different, compared to his office. To his flat.
To the purposefully barren desk he’d lived at for the past how many months, and the impersonal, shared cot that’d been just another spot to rest and wait for a few moments, and the barren walls that mocked him with the plain, dark wood paneling.
It was bright, here, and there were trinkets. Small figurines of chickens and cows, and a magazine shelf with various outdoorsy issues, and a box full of glittering, polished stones. It was quaint.
It was alive, in so many little ways, and…
God, he could remember why he’d loved these sorts of things, back when he still fit in with them. It was nice, homey. Comforting, in all the little details. It was something so intrinsic and pure, just getting to enjoy the small details of life, with all the personality and meaning that came attached to them. Knicknacks with kitschy themes, and smooth rocks that just screamed gift shop, and throw blankets with all manners of patterns. There was one he could see even from the far end of the shop, with some very loud plaid pattern printed on it, almost iridescent purple and pink, with thin lines of blue mixed in.
That definitely wasn’t his taste, ha. But…a lot of the stuff in here was. Would’ve been, before. And maybe -
Maybe it still was. Maybe he could let it be. Maybe he was allowed to, now.
“Right, so, ah hm. Actually, excuse me…do you have a restroom?” Jon asked, in a quiet, thinking voice, lilting up a bit at the end as he looked over at the cashier again, taking a few more steps into the space. Martin followed, off to the side, veering towards a little rack of gardening supplies, poking at some of the hanging yard decorations idly, just…just to see. The metal of the one ground-stake was rounded on the edges, the line of metal entirely harmless, and the yellow of the petals on the - what, tulip? yeah, tulip - was vivid. He could imagine it staked in some old lady’s yard, hovering over flowerbeds lush with thriving marigolds and yarrow and accidental dandelions and it made his stomach lurch a little. He held it for a second more before letting it fall back to dormancy, and busied himself with examining the other knicknacks, actually on the shelves. Jon shifted again, mumbling something as the cashier responded, and there were footsteps, coming closer, after a moment. He didn’t look up, instead focusing as intently on the little cow figuring in his hands, with its ceramic clean and unchipped, brand new, but still oddly nostalgic.
“They said there’s a washroom in the back, so I’ll be nearby, but, ah -” Jon started, eyes locking onto the little figure for a second, his mouth growing into a tiny smile that stopped his words for a breath. A welcome interruption, actually. He forced the words back to life, trying his best to keep that constant, anxious edge out of them. “Will you be alright? Call if you need me? At all?”
Martin huffed a little bit, offering a sideways glance up to Jon, and placing the cow gently back into its spot. It almost toppled some others, his fingers still just a little to numb to be entirely dexterous, but it all ended up back in place, safe and solid. “I’ll be fine, Jon. You don’t need to worry. Promise.”
It was quieter than it maybe needed to be, and gentler, and a little more…unsure, really, than he wanted it to come out. But Jon met his gaze easily, assessing for just a moment, before he nodded hesitantly, and looked away.
“I’m still going to, obviously. But - alright. Alright. I’ll be right there, if you need -”
“Jon, I’ll be perfectly fine.” He laughed a little, smiling the words, and refusing the rush of absolute care and the dual, competing tide of intense numbness that swept over him, immediately after it. Balance. “I promise I’ll interrupt your piss if any spooky things come out of the woodwork. Pinky promise.”
Jon huffed lightly, shifting his weight uneasily for a second, before just…settling.
“...You better.” He said, simply, and then it was the tentative footsteps away, slow and hesitant at first, but settling into an easy rhythm, a little uneven on his bad leg, easily enough.
…It was nice to have a back and forth like that, again. It was nice to be cared about. It was like being flayed alive, yeah, but…but there were little bunny figurines, colored pastel and white, and maybe that made it a little easier. It was still a horrible, devastating idea that Jon cared at all, let alone enough to worry about being gone for like two minutes, in one of the most mundane situations imaginable, but…it was nice.
He pushed the rush of emotions down again, tamping it down into a compressed little layer of anxiety, dread, grief, love, all wrapped up in the lining of his stomach, the sinew of his chest. And he made his way to the next display that caught his eye - that small rack of multi-tools with the named handles, that every small roadside shop seemed to have, for some reason. A few seconds of scanning, spinning the little display around to see all the options, and - no “Jon”s. Jonathan, and John, but…not Jon. No Martin, either, actually -
There was a Peter, and a Tim. No Sasha. No Elias, but there was a Jonah, ha -
He, uh…
He probably shouldn’t have been looking at those, actually. Felt a little like tempting fate, after everything. Even he could feel the dread of it, dulled and hazy as it was, still lingering. No use thinking on it too hard, when they had a simple goal to pursue, right then. Make it to the safehouse. Get comfy.
Live enough that it’d hurt, worse, when it finally all crumbled -
But…no. No.
There was nothing to say it was going to go to hell, and it wasn’t like they were in much more danger than they’d already been in, the last three years, and - and it’d be fine. They just had to make it to the safehouse. He just had to look at little trinkets, and breathe, and remember he wasn’t dead yet.
Easy.
…Easy.
The aisles were small, a little cramped, but he ambled through them for about a minute before those familiar footsteps came back, quiet, and he felt Jon’s presence come up behind him. It was both immediately comforting and immediately nauseating, in a small way, but - but he didn’t pay attention to that bit. Wasn’t like it was the first time being around Jon had made him feel a little sick.
“Find anything decent?” He asked, voice soft, a little loaded. It attempted to sound casual, but didn’t quite make it. It was one of those searching questions, the litmus test for how much of Martin was left, that Jon had been not-so-subtly sneaking in, over the past thirty-six hours or so. He didn’t mind them, really. Even if it felt like a test he couldn’t really get a passing grade on, at the moment.
Not that Jon really commented on it, but - well, he didn’t like seeing that tight, tense look in the corners of his eyes, the slight frown that baked into his face. He didn’t like seeing Jon worried, even if it felt a little…oddly validating. Nice. He still didn’t like it, and it’d be easier if Jon just didn’t care, and -
Nope.
Nope.
“Nope. I mean, some cute stuff, but I hardly think we need to worry about decorating, just yet.” He offered, hoping his voice didn’t sound too tight, and that the slight crack of his back as he straightened back up distracted from it, maybe. Or at least that, if Jon heard it, he really wouldn’t comment on it.
He was…a little desperate to not have another heart-to-heart just yet. It was better if the care stayed confined to the edges, leaking in just through the margins, right then. Just for a bit, at least.
Jon made an odd little hum behind him, picking up something from a shelf that was layered in a thin sheen of dust, examining it for a moment, and Martin honestly couldn’t tell what it was as he turned back to face him. Apparently Jon couldn’t really tell, either, and he put it back after a second.
“I mean…” Jon started, low, with his eyes scanning over the various odds and ends, not landing on anything particular. That was, until they snapped up to Martin’s face, a little too open, a little too soft. Crinkled at the edges, with the ghost of a wry smile. “Nothing says we can’t make the hunt house cozy. I think it might help, actually.”
He bit down the laugh that tried to bubble up at that, and at the sudden realization of just how absurd this all was. Jon agreeing to decorate their - their house together, temporary as it may have been. Them being together there, at all. Just getting to discuss knicknacks and curiosities, mulling over it like it was domestic and normal, and -
And he thought he’d be dead, by the end of last night. Had practically planned on it.
…And now he was looking at themed mugs with Jon, in a little shop in the depths of rural Scotland.
“R-right. I mean, I guess -” He took in a sharp breath, let the laugh break out a little, and pretended it was for the right reasons. It sorta was, just a tiny bit, now - “I have Peter’s wallet, still, actually. Sooo -”
Jon chuckled, sending him a solid stare, eyebrows hiking up enough to make the wrinkles in his head honestly a little comical. God, he missed seeing that. It was different to see it with an expression of bemused disbelief, rather than a scowl. It was nice, though.
“You have his wallet?” He asked, halfway between wary and thoroughly amused. Martin just smiled back, rummaging into his pockets to check, and -
“Yeah! And it’s mostly just cash - he would just, like - give me a couple hundred pounds in cash, sometimes? For whatever - one time, he wanted coffee, and he just -” He laughed, a little too loud, maybe, and shook his head. Distracted himself with the mugs, and not the thought that the man he was talking about was dead. Beyond dead. Eviscerated. As good as that was, it still felt…odd. It still twisted a bit in his stomach, made him feel a little nauseous. “I honestly don’t think he knew what the average price of a coffee was. He gave me like, 50, just for that.” He pressed on, and turned one of the largest mugs around, examining the scattering of garden snails crawling along the bottom, with little smiles. Cute. There was another, smaller, with brambles and berries reaching around the whole thing, and that one was honestly a little more like something he’d like. Hm.
“...Good lord. Well - that’s useful, I suppose? But -” Jon started, a little looser, a little lighter, but still with a quiet tone that had something bitter under the current. “- well. I suppose it’s just useful. Good for something, at least.” It went dark on the last bit, muttered rather than aloud, and Martin didn’t bite back the smile at that.
Yeah, okay. It was nice hearing Jon all…all protective. It was nice, now that it didn’t seem entirely hopeless.
It was…nice.
Jon moved up beside him, arms brushing together in a sort of nothing-touch that still sent shivers through him, the sudden warmth more than he was used to, and he started turning the mugs, too. Picked one up, examining it closely. The inside was coated with a thin layer of dust, just barely there, and he wiped a finger through the rim of it, eyeing it. “This one is nice, don’t you think? And sort of matches yours.” He mulled, quietly.
“Mine?” Martin asked, half-there, and entirely too distracted by Jon just…looking like that. With the light coming in from the half-fogged windows, dull with condensation and nothing else, catching on his nose and through the strands of his hair, as the sun rose just a bit higher in the sky. With an old band hoodie draped over his form, oversized and hanging oddly, but comfortable. Looking down at a mug with thistle along the sides, appreciatively.
He almost choked on it. But Jon just aimed a glance over it him at the question, and flicked his eyes down to the cup, still in Martin’s hands, quickly.
“You’ve been holding onto that one for a good moment. I assumed you, ah…liked it?” He tested, voice lilting up a little. Martin fought back the odd rush of - god, almost panic at that? At being noticed, and at - at Jon paying attention, more than he did, and - and he hadn’t even realized he’d still been holding that one, cradling it in his hands, close to his chest, while he ogled at Jon a bit.
“Ah. I - I, yeah. I think I do. It’s…simple, but nice. Quaint? I think? Just, ah…nice.” He muttered, barely more than a whisper, and he definitely wasn’t feeling prickling at the back of his eyes, sudden and sharp. At the thought of him and Jon having matching mugs. Of Jon choosing one to match his.
“It is.” The man smiled, easily, and - reached out his hand, tucking his own mug into the crook of his arm for a second, and -
And asking for his. So they could carry them around the store. And presumably buy them, and take them to their new house, and -
God.
Fuck.
He was, ah -
He was having a little trouble breathing. Remembering.
But - he forced up a smile, swallowed hard, and handed it over, shaking his head slightly, and forcing out a small grumble, some half-there protest that was more out of instinct than anything. Jon just raised his eyebrows at it, some insistence at let me care about you, let me be with you that went unspoken, but had gotten to be more and more of a familiar notion, very quickly, over the past day. The past year, if he’d bothered to look hard enough at Jon’s expressions, on the odd times that they had met and Martin hadn’t been able to veer away, escape quickly enough.
He smiled, feeling too tight, and let out a sigh.
“S-so. Uh. Should definitely wash those pretty thoroughly. And, uh - we need to get, like, dish soap and stuff, right? All the toiletries. I know I didn’t pack any, but I mean, I wasn’t paying that much attention, and -”
Jon hummed, nodding his head lightly to the right, gesturing at something. It made a strand of hair fall into his face, and he brushed it away, blowing lightly when the motion proved unsuccessful, and Martin tried very hard not to have his heart explode.
“I didn’t grab any, either. Figured we could get some once we got closer, and - well, it wasn’t really the top priority, at that moment.” He mused, voice just a little more solid at the end. He pushed past Martin, brushing gently against him as he slid through the small space, and -
He was not going to die of a heart attack from that. No fucking way. Even if it - even if it felt like it.
“Awesome. Lovely. Uh - y-yeah.” He whispered, although Jon was already far enough away to not hear it. The convenience shelf was right up against the front window, a small display with all the small-scale amenities one could ask for, almost all travel sized and definitely not enough for any substantial amount of time. But…enough for a bit. Probably.
Jon picked up a box of toothpaste at random, and two toothbrushes, the only kind they had hanging there. He held up the toothpaste with a questioning look, silently asking.
Martin was a little too overwhelmed with the whole of it all to do anything beyond nod, smiling a bit. He honestly couldn’t care less what brand of toothpaste they got. He’d even take fucking cotton-candy kids toothpaste, if he was buying it with Jon. If it was going in their bathroom, where their toothbrushes would probably sit together, and -
He -
He had to stop thinking about it. He had to. The wash of apathy was surging in after every thought, trying desperately to claw him back down, to settle his mind back into uncaring distance when faced with the overwhelm of care. The thought of it. The intense emotion pulling back up in sharp jabs and bursts, far, far too bright and vivid after so long of dull, grey existence. It felt a lot like being stabbed, but he preferred it to the haze. At least now, he did. And it was so difficult to balance, and it still hurt, and -
And he didn’t care which brand of toothpaste they got.
The very limited hair care rack got a few muttered comments from Jon and automatic responses from Martin, light as he could make them. It was all much the same, until Jon handed him a bottle of two-in-one shampoo and conditioner, face serious and looking up at him from where he was crouched, once again questioning.
That - that brought him back a bit, actually.
“Jon, we’re not getting a two-in-one.” He laughed, a little sharp and bright, disbelieving. He knew Jon wasn’t one for self care, but -
His brow furrowed in, a small frown dragging the corners of his mouth down. He blew the strand of hair out of his face again, stubborn thing, and it was far too much. But it was two-in-one, and that made it lighter.
“Why not?” He asked, voice entirely serious, genuine. “It always works. Efficient.”
“Jon, it’s not -”
“I know, I know.” Jon laughed, after just a second of what have must have been a pretty concerned expression on Martin’s face, and the frown turned into a wry smile, sweet. Sweet. “Sorry, I just thought it’d be…funny, I don’t know. I promise I’m not that ineffectual at tending to basic wellness.”
…Right.
Right.
Jon was joking with him about shampoo, with a tiny little smile, and it was off-kilter and quiet and normal. He rolled his eyes, shaking his head, and crouched down to be next to the man, focusing his gaze on the different offerings, rather than continuing to look at that hopeful, hidden expression Jon was just barely keeping down.
“I really don’t think that’s true, Jon. But -” He sighed, picking up one bottle, scented with honey and shea butter. Best of the bunch, from a quick glance. “At least you don’t use two-in-one. I think… I think that’d be a dealbreaker, actually.” He huffed, and it felt off, trying to be light. But it still came out. It still…felt easier than it maybe should’ve, with him.
“Oh, really?” Jon laughed, almost accusatory. He took the bottle from Martin’s hand, flicking the cap open, and bringing it up to his nose. He made a considering, vaguely positive face, and then…held it out for Martin to smell, hovering in front of his face.
He leaned in, just enough to smell it, and -
And it was on his nose.
Wet, a little cold.
He made a face, instantly moving to wipe it off, swat away the bottle gently, but…
But Jon got there first. An easy motion, like it’d been done a million times - just a thumb gently brought to his face, wiping the offending dot away. Like it was nothing.
He wished it felt like nothing.
It was -
It was a lot? It made him feel like he was burning alive? Like he was drowning, and he knew what that felt like, now. He swallowed, hard, but had to bite back a goofy, idiotic smile.
Jon didn’t even seem to realize he’d done it, just chuckling a bit in that fond way, before he wiped his finger off on his trousers, probably staining the material. But he didn’t seem to mind. He just smiled a little, raising an eyebrow in question, and Martin had to consciously beg his heart to slow, just a little. He didn’t have to stop the smile, though.
“So - uh, sorry. Thoughts?” Jon asked, easily.
(...It was then that he realized he - he couldn’t smell it, actually. Couldn’t smell it at all. It was just…nothing. Even when it’d been a little too close, ha.
Which, that was…probably fine. Probably. Just lingering effects, and it made sense, and -
Well, Jon had made a pleasant face, and it was inoffensive as far as scent notes went, so…he just nodded, a sideways little considering expression for a second, and a shrug.)
“I’m, ah, I’m good with it if you are. I’m not picky.” He forced out, and it at least sounded like he wasn’t dying. Wasn’t trying to piece back together the disparate pieces he was made up of, now - all nebulous and not quite fitting back together right.
“Besides two-in-one.” Jon teased, smiling a little wider.
“Yes, besides two-in-one. God.”
It was too easy, and it hurt.
Jon sent him a look, a little smug and playful, and straightened back up. He held a hand out for Martin to take, helping him up, and…he only hesitated a moment before he took it, ignoring the burning that came up at the contact. Just the same way Jon ignored the shiver that ran through him, instinctive. They were both good at looking past the little pains, by now.
“Well, that works, then.” Jon affirmed, solid. “We can grab that set, and we’ll be good on the basics. Can get the bigger stuff once we get into the village nearer to the town, if need be. I’ll grab a few other small things, here, but, ah - should be good.”
“...Right. Yeah, I think so. It’s, ah -” He laughed, taking a step away, in a random direction, hoping that there wasn’t a blush showing on his face. Hoping that the desperate overwhelm wasn’t showing either. “It’s good. Sounds good.”
(Did he even blush anymore? He couldn’t feel the heat of it, but it was so much a part of him that he had to be conscious of, to hide, but everything felt a little burning, at this point, and…and maybe he was. Or maybe he got to just feel it, and actually hide it, now.)
He’d gotten awfully good at hiding, lately.)
He ran away to look at the wall of blankets, speedwalking past Jon and pretending to suddenly be very invested in the array on show.
…They were really soft, actually. Neat. Lovely.
He leafed through the folded ones on the little counter, flipping through the different patterns without much thought, as Jon followed behind him, quietly. He didn’t say anything, but the presence was there, strong, and - he pretended it was only comforting, and not at all panic-inducing, in that odd, dual way most things were, now.
He focused on the blankets, fingers still a little unwieldy, but alive enough to feel the edges, the textures, and flip through.
Plaid, plaid, solid bright blue, some birds - mourning doves, if he remembered correctly? Pretty, that one. He lingered on it for a moment, but moved on quickly enough.
More plaid. Another one - flannel, which really shook things up, wow, and -
And, oh. That one was actually nice.
A cornflower blue throw, with a scattering of sunflowers lacing the whole of it, pale leaves decorating the spaces between. It was ungodly soft, even compared to the rest, and he ran his hand over it for a second longer than the others, tugging lightly to dislodge it from the pile. It came easily enough, and he pulled it free, accidentally unfurling the entire thing, and -
Fuck, he was going to have to refold it -
He sighed, stepping back just a bit, to look at it appreciatively for a second. Might as well, when it was already out. Jon hummed beside him, approvingly.
“Might be good to have some more blankets, actually. I grabbed one larger one, but it’s quite old, and the throw I grabbed is - ah, I, er - I think I spilled tea on it a while back? So it’s not exactly new, either. Might be nice to have something properly clean. Nice.”
Martin swallowed, tracing the sunflowers with his eyes.
The stalks were winding and a little nonsensical, a little dizzying in an entirely mundane way, and he once again ignored the prickling that came up at the back of his eyes.
He blinked it away, humming a short sound, and shaking his head. For some reason.
It was more automatic than conscious, but he could feel the edge approaching, and it was sharp. It was just…a little too much. A little too big to be easily blinked away, like the mugs. That was something he couldn’t have rebuked - they needed dishes, probably, but they already had blankets, so -
So no. No. He couldn’t do this. Not this one.
“Nah, it’s…it’s alright. I mean, if…if, uh, you want one, go ahead. Pick a pattern. But I think I’m good.” He muttered, and quickly began to fold the thing back up, as best as he could. It came out uneven and with all the edges overlapping odd, because folding in midair was difficult, and he wasn’t paying as much attention as he maybe should’ve been, preoccupied, and his hands were starting to shake just a bit, and -
He didn’t offer any resistance when Jon lightly took it from his hands, sending him an odd look, coupled with a disbelieving little hum. But he didn’t push it as he perfectly folded the thing, tucking it in against his chest to get the edges straight and to balance it correctly, in a practiced motion. It came out just right, and he - very hesitantly, shooting Martin another questioning glance - placed it atop its original pile.
He looked like he was going to say something, but…he didn’t. He knew better, probably, given that Martin could feel the overwhelm leaking out a bit into his expression. He didn’t say a word, but he did move a little closer, tentatively leaning in.
“I could, ah, use a smoke, if you want to just - get out, for a moment? Take a break?” He whispered, voice entirely neutral, and hiding the true intent very well. But Martin knew it as well as he did. He knew that tone.
He looked away, a sudden rush of guilt climbing up his throat to choke him, making his eyes blur a bit with the threat of something, and…he shrugged. Swallowed, gave out a small sound that didn’t quite make it to being a word. He tried again, and it at least came out a little better. Quiet, but normal enough.
“I’m good, Jon. If you want to go out for a smoke, feel free. I’ll just, ah…I’ll just be here.”
Jon looked at him for a long minute, and he saw his hand twitch, almost about to reach out. Connect the few inches between them, standing so close.
He didn’t stop the slight step away, the pull back, and Jon, thankfully, got the message. (Reluctant as he seemed to really accept it, eyes going just a tiny bit wider, flickering over his expression with mild concern.) He…stepped a bit back, as well, after a second, and Martin had to fight the instinctive, vindictive of course that cropped up in his mind, sharp and acidic. Of course he’d move away. Of course he wouldn’t want to be near you.
…It was getting a little harder to not lean into that side of things. The haze. The comfort of knowing it didn’t matter at all.
This was just…a little too much. All at once. It was easier to let the haze dull the edges, and it was so familiar, but -
God.
“...Alright. Alright. The smoke can wait.” Jon hummed, quiet, slow. He took a deep breath, examining Martin closely for all those signs, and…acquiesced. Redirected, to another shelf, with a lot of nothing on it. More knicknacks. Seashells and seaglass, and hand-carved wooden animals, and a little hanging rack of postcards covered in idyllic scenery. A lot of stuff. A lot of life, entirely inconsequential.
He kept his breathing steady and just followed, silent. Jon mused over things for a few moments before standing back straight, ambling his way over to a few more shelves, with some mild comments that thankfully didn’t need any real response. Martin had the feeling he was talking just to offer his voice, his presence, more than anything. He was grateful for it, even if it felt a little…sharp. Even if the hope, the subtle insistence of it, felt dangerous.
He was buying shower products with Jon. Looking at blankets, and not discussing the fact that they apparently had one main blanket. Following him around a store in the middle of fucking Scotland, with nothing but the few possessions they’d grabbed before they’d fled after Jon had saved his fucking life, and it was all going to hell, but it was fine -
He just…breathed.
He -
…He let the quiet dim it out. Just a little.
Just a little, with the cool settling over him like a damp towel, when he had a fever. Calming.
The edges went a bit hazy, the colors dulling down in that miasmic way they did, just enough to act as a sheen, rather than a distraction - curtains pulled tight, with just the hints of light showing through.
It wasn’t much, but it was…something.
He could let himself have that. Just something.
It was…fine. Fine. Totally fine. He wasn’t going to panic over this. He’d survived worse than…than coming back from the edge. He’d done it enough times to know the routine, by now; all the dips and floods of emotion, of regret, of relief, of the sheer enormity of life, drowning him. This was just a lot more intense, and he could sort of feel the ocean water in his lungs, his nose, burning. He could sort of taste the salt. He could sort of feel Jon’s stare on him, quiet and assessing and worried, and it all…hurt. A little bit.
It hurt more than the other times. It meant more than the other times, because now, he actually had something to live for, other than just obligation.
He had a life -
He breathed. In and out.
He had a life waiting for him. Even if he shouldn’t have.
That - that had to be enough.
“Martin?”
It was enough.
“Martin, here - I’ve - can you hold this, for just a moment? I-I’ve got the rest of it, but…I think we should grab some plates, as well? I saw a few over there, and they mostly match, and - I can just grab them quickly, and then we can get going again.”
Jon’s voice was too quick, a little worried, a little dull, but then…when wasn’t he? Worried?
When wasn’t he - ?
He almost flinched against the cold feel of ceramic against his skin, gently handed over, and he briefly wondered where he was before he felt the automatic, affirmative nod he gave on instinct, and saw Jon’s poorly concealed bleeding heart staring up at him, eyes squinted with more than a little concern. He knew where he was. He did. It was just that…it didn’t make sense. Being there, with Jon looking up at him like that, rambling about - plates -
…But it was an excuse. Because Martin was making things worse, again.
Ha.
He, uh -
…He was fine, though.
He just had to hold the things - the mugs. The mugs.
The matching mugs, and the conditioner, slotted into the crook of his elbow. Jon had the other things tucked against his chest. Little bottles of toiletries, and two small, iridescent things he couldn’t quite place, through the blur.
He just had to hold his things, and breathe, and it was fine. Jon was doing his thing.
He smiled down at him, knowing it didn’t reach the rest of his face well enough to actually be believable, but…Jon accepted it with only a slight frown.
Neither of them was going to push it, not then. Not in the middle of the goddamn store.
“Sure, Jon. Just - grab whatever you’d like. I’m, uh -” He took in a breath. His voice was too airy, a little weak. He wasn’t sure how noticeable it was, but he could certainly feel it. It took too much force, too much pressure, to get the words out. It felt like everything in him just wanted to be quiet. Like he was going to be crushed from the inside out, if he tried to be too real. Too present. “I’m cool with anything, really.”
Jon just nodded, and the shampoo almost slipped out of his grip, but he held onto it tight - too tight - with that worried look just deepening a bit. Then he nodded, once, and looked around, scanning the rows for where they were before, and…he was off. Familiar footsteps, echoes that Martin had gotten used to only imagining, and - the clink of ceramic, the slide of plates being held together, and what was probably a muffled, quietly muttered damn.
But there was no crash.
It was fine. No danger.
No crash.
Jon was fine, and - he was fine, and it was -
He could wait. He was good at waiting.
He just held his cups, and stared at the postcards - the printed, flat image of the lochs and the rolling hills. The birds. The idyllic houses, cozy. The ocean, lapping at the shore.
Too bright. The sky, in those. Too clear.
Jon was back before the haze could slip into anything worse, and he was relieved of the conditioner. The cups stayed, clenched maybe a little too tight in fingers that didn’t quite want to let go. Too stiff. Then there was a gentle hand on his arm, leading, and -
The counter was metal.
Dingy and faded, not too shiny, and with nice little placemats shaped like daisies under the different business card holders. Crocheted.
(He used to crochet. Wonder if he ever would again. Wonder if he remembered how. Or if that part of him had been lost, too. If it’d been taken.)
The names on the cards meant nothing to him; all just local businesses with their odd, niche little services. There was a junk removal service by a man named Gerry. That was neat. Wonder if he used fire. No other names, though.
Nothing funny. Nothing connecting. Nothing that meant anything.
“You guys find everything you need?” The cashier asked, easy, and a little too loud. Or maybe he was just too sensitive to the noise, at the moment. The whole of it was a little overwhelming, in general, and the lights were a bit too bright, even faded and dulled out by the sheen, but -
It was fine. Really.
Brains did odd shit when you were stressed, and he was, maybe understandably, stressed. Just stressed. About - about things. Real things. Real things, in addition to the stupid, tiny, inconsequential things, like spontaneously running away with Jon and having matching dishes. Like having a soft blanket with flowers on it. Like having a quaint, safe home, where he actually felt loved for the first time in his life, even when he’d done nothing to deserve it -
“Yes, I think so. Quite a nice little shop, you have. Plenty of variety.” Jon offered back, settling all the goods onto the counter and reaching over to grab the few Martin still had, as well. The incidental touch as he made his fingers unstiffen, let go, wasn’t pleasant, but it was grounding, in a sort of painful way. Just for a second, until it fled, and his hands were empty, and he just had to stand there, staring, and offering a quiet smile when the cashier shot him a friendly glance.
Perform. Pretend.
…It was okay.
He could…do that. Just had to breathe. Smile.
“Oh, it’s not mine, really, but thanks! My uncle owns it. We make do - it is sort of, ah, yeah - a variety. You’re well right on that front. Basically a hub for a lot of local creators…It’s nice, as far as it goes.” They responded, slowly rifling through the items, punching the numbers in manually off of all the tags, into an ancient looking register. The dishes were gently wrapped, double wrapped, in thin brown paper, scrunched up to keep them from clattering once they were lowered into the bag. “Don’t usually get a ton of business, but what we do get is good. Mostly quiet people looking for something to pass the time on the way to somewhere else.”
A click. A rustling. A plastic bag full of things they’d bought together.
He didn’t look too hard on it. Tried not to, at least.
“Quite.” Jon responded, not unkindly, but…clearly with his mind elsewhere. He simply watched them bag the last few items, pulling out his wallet in any easy motion that, for some reason, brought up a subtle spike of dread in Martin. He lightly grumbled without thinking too much about it, getting Jon’s attention, and taking just…a second too long to pull Peter’s money out of his pocket. He handed it over with a quiet nod, and Jon just looked at him for a second, before letting out a small huff, eyeing him. He squinted for a second, oddly pained, but then let out a breath, slow. By the time he looked back at them, the odd expression was gone, entirely concealed.
It all lasted maybe fifteen seconds, but it felt like a lot longer.
He didn’t understand it. That expression. But that was probably fine, too.
“Ah, uh…how much was it, again? Sorry.”
“£25, even! Discount on the dishes, and because I don’t feel like counting change right now - even twenty-five.” They grinned, chuckling a bit, as they quickly counted the bills Jon handed over. “We’ve been trying to get rid of some of those mugs forever, as I’m sure you, heh, noticed, so it’s honestly doing us a favor. It’s a shame, really - lotsa nice ones, but most people have way too many mugs, already. They’d been sitting there a while, though, so definitely make sure to give ‘em a good wash.”
There was a moment, then - the slide of plastic bags over the counter, easy, and he mindlessly grabbed one, feeling the weight of it, far too heavy, in his hands. There was a subtle clinking sound as Jon grabbed the other one, sending him a worried look that was probably a little too obvious.
“Will do. Ah, well, er - thank you. Have a good day.” Jon offered, not quite looking at the cashier, and they sent a small wave back, turning back to grab something or other from the bottom of the counter, already a little distracted. They were smiling, though.
Genuinely.
…They didn’t know what was out there.
Ha.
They, uh…
They didn’t know.
Maybe they never would.
Maybe they’d live their entire life, free from it, and - and it would never matter to them. Maybe it’d -
He didn’t fight the gentle hand over his back, light and easy and wrong, as Jon mumbled something soft he didn’t catch. He just followed, staring at the ground, stomach a little sick around all the nothingness. The vacancy, shifting and turning, nauseating. He just followed, letting his mind hollow out to the subtle pattern of the tile floor, and the odd step down to the asphalt outside, and the feeling of sunlight, too bright, that pierced through the haze just a little too much for comfort.
There was a voice, far away and faded, rounded through the way his ears weren’t quite good at picking up the words anymore, and -
And a hand on his face. Two, actually, with Jon’s face directly in front of his, as soon as they were round a corner, a little hidden from the direct line of sight of the main entrance. He was on his tiptoes, and the slight breeze was blowing that stubborn piece of hair into his face, but he didn’t fix it. His eyes were wide with concern, and he was saying something, low and concerned and just a little bit panicked. Martin swallowed, getting the horrible feeling that he really should’ve been paying attention.
But it was fine. It was just a little dull, and just a little quiet, and they were just going to die together, now, instead of alone.
It’d all be fine.
“Martin. Come on, look at me, please -”
He felt the scoff, shaking him just a bit with the roughness of it, but he couldn’t really hear it. He didn’t need to. It’d be fine, and he didn’t need to worry about it. It was going to end one way or another, and it didn’t matter how much it hurt in the meantime. He wouldn’t get his hopes up. He wouldn’t bother to pretend they’d ever get to actually spend months using those cups. It. Didn’t. Matter.
“We’re going to the car, alright? Just - just come with me, please. Please. H-here, I - I’ve got you.”
A hand, too small and too gentle as it shifted to his back, but just as light as always. Trusting that he’d simply listen. That he knew the way ahead.
“I’ve got you. You’re here with me, and I’ll be damned if I’m letting that thing take you away again. You hear me? I’m not letting it. You’re staying here with me.”
The door opened for him, too loud, the metal hinges creaking stubbornly. He just stared for a long moment, mind not processing the new scenery - the curve of the scuffed leather seats, the bulk that was the backpack he’d shoved down in the footrest area. He didn’t move, but turned to Jon, just…taking him in for a moment. His brow was furrowed in, strong and sharp, and his mouth was in a tight line. His hair was a mess. More strands, now, pulled out in front of his face.
Worried.
Terrified.
He…didn’t stop himself from reaching out a hand, to brush it away.
It didn’t matter, did it?
Jon could wipe shampoo of his nose. He could brush the hair behind Jon’s ear.
They’d both die, anyway.
It’d always been borrowed time, and it was easier to just…sit with that. Let it all mean a little bit of nothing. Instead of hoping.
He smiled, and Jon gave him an utterly gutted look, eyes wide and searching. Coming up empty.
“Of course I’m staying.” He muttered, quiet. It was too soft, maybe, but it was difficult enough to force words out at all. It was easier to let them bubble up, roll over, fall down into soft tones, without much substance. He ran a thumb over Jon’s cheek, testing, and there was movement, barely a blur, barely a pressure, as Jon’s hand wrapped over his, holding onto his wrist, tense. Those eyes kept searching, narrowing down in some emotion he couldn’t be bothered to dissect, and Jon swallowed, hard.
“Promise. It’ll be okay. It’s just -” A breath, too hard to think about. To force. But it shifted through, natural enough on spasming instincts, just enough left of them to keep going. He let it. He let it be easy, in what little way it could. “Its just a lot, right now. But it’ll be fine.”
“Martin, you’re shaking. You’re pale as a ghost, I don’t - I don’t think it’s alright.” Jon whispered back, voice a little panicked. The grip on his wrist tightened a bit, a spasm, and the slight, slight pain of nails digging into his skin jolted reality back, just a little bit.
Just…a little bit. Enough for the nausea to spike up again, and for his body to feel a little too real to be purely theoretical. To not be his anymore.
…Maybe he was shaking. Could see it.
Trembling.
When he looked.
That, ah…that wasn’t good, probably.
He pushed out another breath, trying to force it, actually, and met Jon’s eyes. The smile didn’t come easy, but he managed it, tight. It wobbled a bit, though, with Jon’s eyes boring into his, that grip tightening just a bit.
…It was dripping back in, just a little, as Jon focused on him. Horribly dripping, staining the walls with water marks and trails that would grow mold, and - and it was just the colors of the outside world, the light too warm against his skin, the dig of nails into his wrist, loving. Pulling him back. Keeping him there. It took a long moment - far too long, hovering, with the pressure building in his head, on the back of his neck, and the bits all fading in one by one, until it snapped -
He took in a stuttering breath, legs feeling a little weak, all at once. The car door was enough to lean back against, for just a split second, before Jon caught him, gently guiding him to actually sit, as the world spun - too fucking bright and vivid and real, and aching through every fiber of him.
He -
He was shaking.
Fuck.
It was freezing, even in the sun, and Jon’s hands burned against him, and he didn’t have the guts to push him away. Not really. He’d never had the guts to do it properly. Not without being sedated into it.
It was sharp, coming back down. Jittering, and fucked, and far too real. It kept coming in, in drips and jolts and absolute drops in his stomach, making him feel like he was going to actually vomit.
Stupid fucking idea, to even let the haze in a bit -
God, he was a fucking idiot -
“It’s okay. Come on - just, just sit. God, you’re - okay. Okay. Are you - are you okay to sit? Just sit? I’ve got you.”
There was a flash, colors and blurs, and then Jon was leaning in, too close to be comfortable for him, and his back was going to hurt, and -
There were arms around his shoulders, tight.
Tight.
Enough to hurt, to maybe even bruise, and Jon’s face was buried in his neck, one hand moving up to hold the back of Martin’s head. To card through his hair, gently. He was half kneeling against the frame of the door, crouched awkwardly, but it hardly mattered.
…The shaking, the spinning, didn’t stop for a good few minutes, and Jon mumbled a lot of things Martin didn’t quite catch. The overwhelming apathy slipped away, bit by bit, as it settled into something more akin to a balanced, reasonable amount. For who he was, at least.
He choked on a breath as it all crashed in, again, but - it didn’t reach. It didn’t settle in, too far. It was the thought, but not the feeling.
…They were really away. Safe, as they could be.
And it - it wasn’t a guarantee that they’d die soon. That this time was doomed. It wasn’t. Even if it’d happen eventually, it -
They could have a life. Between now and then.
They could -
“S-sorry.” He forced out, far more broken-sounding than he wanted it to. Jon just pulled him closer, a bit, squeezing tightly once, before pulling back to look at him. Just a few inches away, with a tired, almost accusatory expression laced in with the grief, now.
“Don’t you dare apologize for that.” He spit, without much acid, and with a good deal of worry to replace it. Martin just swallowed, conscious, and focused on the lines of Jon’s face. The divots of worm scars that caught the light, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the way his jaw moved as he mumbled something else, something soft and broken. Given the half laugh at the end of it, maybe some unbalanced joke.
He breathed, deep and stuttery.
…And he leaned forward, just enough to press a feather light kiss to the top of Jon’s forehead.
The man tensed for just a second, hands curling and then opening against Martin’s back, in his hair, but…then he melted, all at once, and leaned, ever so slightly, into it.
Martin could hear him breathe, feel the movement of his body through where they were touching, and it was…enough.
It was.
…It took a few more minutes for it to turn back to something close to normal - for the idle, occasional sounds of cars passing to feel real, grounded. Rubber on asphalt, metal careening down country roads. For the birdsong, distant and almost constant, to register as actual life, just a little distant from him. Just unseen, a little hidden.
It took a few minutes - but it did click back in, and it became a little less necessary for them to be pressed together, with their limbs interlaced, loose and caring. Those anchors could be pulled up from the depths, let them keep moving forward. Let time pass, again, really.
Eventually, Jon pulled back enough to stand, his hands lingering lightly on Martin’s shoulders, hesitant to let go.
They did after a beat, though, and he stepped back fully, and Martin finally, finally felt like he could actually breathe.
“Are you, ah -” Jon started, low, hesitant. He took another step back, stretching his back as much as he could without being obvious about it. Martin still heard a slight crack. There was something taut and uneasy in Jon’s expression, beyond just…standard worry. But he couldn’t place what it was. “Are you alright for just a moment?”
“Ah, um…” The world still a little too vivid, but…stable. Stable. Enough. “Yeah. I’m - I’m good.”
Jon looked at him for a long, long moment, and…nodded.
“Alright.” He breathed, ever so softly. Then, a little louder. “Alright. I will be back in less than a minute, and you better still be there when I come back. Okay?”
It was only half a joke, and it landed sideways, but it did still land. Martin smiled, the levity something to latch onto, at least. It was easier to focus on that than…everything else, really. Stupid half jokes, shining through the residual panic, the racing that he could feel in his chest, only now conscious enough to properly feel.
It was okay, though. Really. He’d be fine for a moment. For a lot more moments, probably. He wasn’t on borrowed time, anymore.
“Promised I would stay.” He muttered, quiet. At Jon’s slightly stricken expression, that joke decidedly not landing, he continued - “Honestly, Jon. I’m good for a minute. Go ahead. Do your thing. I could use a breather, anyway.”
He had to fight the urge to apologize again (which definitely would’ve made Jon stay and not do whatever it was he needed to do, actually), but he did, and Jon…nodded once again, looking away with a slight twitch of his lip.
“...Alright.”
He turned, hands clenching and unclenching just a few times, like he always did when he was nervous, and cast a glance back, once. But then the slight tension was broken, and he was speedwalking towards the store again, determined. Quick.
Efficient.
…It probably was less than a minute, and Martin had just about managed to get himself fully inside the car, getting just as far as deciding whether or not he cared about buckling up, with his hands shaking too much, still, to really do it, and -
And Jon was back, with a familiar piece of fabric between his hands, perfectly folded.
He slipped into the driver’s side, very much not looking at Martin for a moment, and with a very tight expression on his face. He swallowed the tension down, gently thrusting the blanket into Martin’s grasp, and then proceeded to buckle up in the most efficient manner possible. Quick movements, decisive and very much avoidant, and so, so Jon.
It…
The prickling behind his eyes came back, all at once, and he wasn’t sure if the sound that came out was a scoff or half a sob, barely there. In any case, it settled back into a quiet, comfortable silence, a little awestruck, as he ran his fingers over the soft material. He traced the petals of one of the sunflowers, the nap of the fabric far too pleasant against his fingertips, and -
“I, ah…I hope…you like it. You seemed to like it, and - and you were still shivering, and I figured we really would need more blankets, so I, ah -”
“Thank you, Jon.” He whispered, delicate. As if, if he were just quiet enough, the world wouldn’t notice. Wouldn’t take this moment from him and turn it into something horrible.
It was just a blanket, but it was soft and warm when he pulled it over his shoulders, not even caring about how stupid he must’ve looked, contorting his limbs in the small space of the seat.
…It was warm. And it was his.
He didn’t say anything else, and Jon didn’t break the silence, either - besides to very hesitantly start the car and turn the radio on, volume set almost to zero. It inched up bit by bit, as the process continued, and they started moving, and it all fell back into the rhythm a long drive always afforded. The rest of the ride, the day, passed in a blur - and for the first time in what must’ve been months, he slept peacefully. Dozed off, with a stupid little blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and Jon’s quiet smile as the first thing he saw, when he opened his eyes.