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He needed it.
He…wasn’t sure what it was about it, exactly, that was so integral to his continued existence, to the fact that he was persisting, now, when he’d gone on without it for so long, but…he did. He needed it. The space between his hand and Jon’s hovered, uncertain, uneasy, taunting in a quiet, amused voice, and he…couldn’t. He just fucking couldn’t.
He couldn’t move the inch, couldn’t force any shift at all, besides a hard swallow and a twitch of his finger, before he pulled his hand back into his lap, entire body shrinking ever so slightly away. Jon didn’t seem to notice beyond a brief flicker of his eyes at the movement, and he simply went back to watching the pixels play across the television screen, static and a little blurred around the edges, movements dull and tired, comfortable. So comfortable. Like this was all normal, and easy.
He slumped back, ever, ever so slightly, to fall back against the cushions, and Martin had to fight the urge to puke.
Just a little.
Just in a churning, biting acid in his stomach, the back of his throat, that made breathing feel hot and sharp, too strong a sensation for simply existing.
They weren’t even touching. Jon was still a decent distance away - not close enough to even bump, on accident, unless Martin went and did something stupid like moving. He was just absorbed in the TV and its idle sounds, drawling narration, and…he was just sitting there, half-asleep. Quietly, with his eyes a little heavy with exhaustion, and his head lolled slightly against the back of the couch, legs half pulled up to his chest. His jumper was drowning him, and he just looked so cozy. So at home. So fucking comfortable, shifting so easily in the space between them, while Martin felt his every nerve on high alert, standing in wait for the threat to pass, as it encroached ever further.
He didn’t want to touch Jon.
Or - well, no.
No, he…he did.
He did, more than almost anything else. He wanted to feel him there, to feel the presence of a hand in his, or an arm against his side as they slept, or just anything to prove he was real. Present. Alive.
Loved.
He wanted to move easily like Jon did, and slump against him, tired, while they watched TV. He wanted it so badly that the nausea in his gut felt all consuming, and his hands were shaking just a bit when he clasped them against his lap, and he -
He -
Christ, no.
He couldn’t think like that, or it was just going to drag bloody circles around his mind, trailing the corpse of every thought, the weight of it all, behind him as he moved his way through the spirals. If he gave it that kind of weight, that kind of love, he was never going to reach out. Never going to ask. Never going to close the distance that Jon was so horribly, horribly respectful of. Almost wary of. He was going to talk himself in circles until he wore a pit into the dirt so deep that he couldn’t dig out of it, and Jon wouldn’t be able to reach down far enough to drag him out, again.
He pulled in a deep breath, forcing his eyes to the TV as if it would solve anything, and…let his hand fall back down to the cushions; off his lap, still a good bit away from Jon’s, which was resting lazily just about on Martin’s side of the couch.
If he didn’t look, maybe it’d be easier. Because…he did want this. He did. He did. Even if it felt fucking terrifying, and his mind felt like it was buzzing with the indecision. The hesitance.
He wanted to.
He did.
He -
It was just that he couldn’t quite breathe, and there was the ghost of astringent, lacerating words at the nape of his neck, and he could feel the tips of his fingers going numb if he considered the thought of it too long. It was just that Jon was right there, and he was so gently domestic, and it felt far, far, far too much like life to be anything Martin was worthy of. Like love.
And he knew - his chest shook a bit, as he pulled air in, forced it out - he knew, Jon wouldn’t ever bridge the distance if Martin didn’t meet it. He’d stay away, just like Martin had kept asking him to, over and over again, over the past year; first the months with Peter lurking around, keeping watch, and then through the past couple weeks of tentative safety (blurry as they were, when he was just an echo, just a lingering voice, but still just as much of a barrier.) Jon would keep his distance, even as his face contorted in that goddamn worry, and as he just barely caught himself from making incidental contact, trying to comfort. He’d stay away, because Martin had all but asked him to, and he’d seen the way he’d flinched when they’d first made contact, after that brief, endless hand in his had been dropped, what must’ve been just moments before. The brush of Jon’s arm against his as they gathered their things from his flat, and that Martin had all but jolted away from, breath catching in his throat like it burned.
It sort of did. But he still wished it would’ve stayed.
Jon had pulled back, eyes wide and sharp, worried, and they had only dimmed down into worry, and the words that came out, quiet and half-dead to his ears, still, were apologetic. And Jon had…kept his distance, since then. He always looked like he was just about to bridge it, but then that cloud would cross over his gaze, and it would all dim, and he would pull back.
…One of them had to slip up, eventually. It was all he could hope for. Jon had to do something impulsive and caring and sweet, and ignore the way Martin jolted at it, out of his control, and -
Because he just….
He couldn’t say it.
Couldn’t do it.
Couldn’t reach over through the open space between them, feel the heat of Jon’s hand burning against his. His heart was racing, for no good reason, and the air was too cold on the back of his neck, and he felt far, far too present for any of the things he ought to be. But Jon was just sitting next to him, and they’d had chicken parmesan that Jon had cooked for them, and…and Martin couldn’t touch him.
He couldn’t. The world would end before he could, and maybe then, still, he wouldn’t be able to. He’d still be stuck, trapped in his own body, always a barrier to everything around him. To everyone. He was -
God.
Was he really going to just let it continue? To talk circles in his head, think about it for hours while the documentary droned on and Jon nodded off next to him, as his legs went numb under him? Was he just going to fucking mull on it forever, like some lonely bastard who couldn’t even get the guts to move two inches? To even try?
Was he really going to listen to fucking Peter? Ha.
Ha.
He -
He pulled in a breath, slow and steady as he could, and..shifted, just a bit.
Everything in him screamed to just freeze, to stay, to make sure he wouldn’t be found, but…he needed to. He did.
It was just enough of a movement to let the numbness that was setting in in his limbs dissipate, but the cushions dipped under his weight, a little too loud. Fell in just a bit too much, and gravity took hold. For just a split second, Jon shifted, too - falling into the new chasm ever so slightly before he caught himself, just barely grazing against Martin’s arm with the motion. It was more fabric than anything, not even any warmth trickling in, but it sent a shiver down his spine, involuntary. He pulled back as much as he could to the corner, quiet as he could, and - Jon looked over, brow pulling down as he shifted to the far edge of the couch, with a tightness to his eyes that just barely hid the guilt, after the tiredness drifted away to awareness. Slight, and barely there, and far too common, now.
Not only had he woken him up, but he’d made him feel bad -
It hurt both of them when he pulled back.
It hurt both of them, and it was a risk he’d tried to take, and he couldn’t - he was going to choke on this, actually. This was going to fucking kill him.
Fuck.
And he’d tried not to be obvious about it, about the failure of it, but it was Jon, so of course he’d notice, even half asleep, and -
“Ah, sorry. I…are you alright? I didn’t mean to, ah -” Jon started, quiet and solid, but was caught in the middle by a small yawn, reminding Martin far too vividly of just where they were. Who they were, now. What they were to each other, that he got to sit across from Jon on their couch, and see him sleepy enough to yawn. His heart was going a mile a minute, but he was fine, and Jon was looking up at him, with his hair all mussed up where he’d been leaning against the couch. He made a disgruntled face, shaking his head slightly to dislodge the minor annoyance, and resumed, slowly. “...didn’t mean to, er, bump you.”
It was almost routine,the apology, now - but it was one neither of them quite knew. The tempo was off, and they were at the wrong recital, in the first place, and he just had to fucking ask -
He smiled, a little too tight, probably, but - it was enough. Had to be enough to seem real, at least, as Jon’s eyes softened a bit at the mostly-non-shitty-reaction; though maybe that was just from the sleepiness settling in, in true.
It was hard to tell, sometimes.
Martin liked to think he was comfortable enough to be around, to be compared to the safety of falling asleep. To be lumped in with the same caliber of home that meant Jon could drift off a little, and his eyes would soften, and his words would lose any edge. He’d like to have been able to offer the same type of comfort as a quiet night in could, with just a soft smile, around the horrors.
…But he also knew what it felt like to be sedated, and that felt like a much, much more apt descriptor for him.
This…
This wasn’t comfort. It wasn’t even close. For either of them.
“S’fine, Jon. I’m all good.” He offered, quiet but steady enough that it hardly felt like his voice, on the way out. Jon just looked back at him, eyes narrowing ever so slightly after a second, mouth pulling down into a subtle frown. It was a long moment of just that - Jon staring, checking, running his mind over every little speck of signal in the air, almost unconsciously. It was something he was always doing, nowadays - looking for information, feeling out the world as it came to him - but when he was tired, it was a lot more obvious. It brought up something stifled and choking, desperate, in Martin’s throat, but…he was used to drowning that out, by now. Even if now, now, he was meant to be letting himself breathe. Letting himself entertain the care.
(And it wasn’t his fault Jon was his anchor. That it made breathing, living, a little difficult, when everything was a reminder of how far he’d fallen away from him, only to be pulled back up, tethered back to safety. It wasn’t his fault the real world was a little too bright and open for him, nowadays. It wasn’t his fault it was too much.)
“You say that, but -” Another quiet yawn, a mildly angry, sort of floppy hand wave away at it, once it died down. He didn’t laugh, but it was almost cute enough that he did, despite the dread roiling up in his stomach. The nausea. Despite the insistence that this was exactly what he needed to run from “...you’re like a, ah - what are they called? An armadillo.”
…Okay, he did laugh at that.
Not a true laugh, but an ugly, sick chuckle, that caught in his throat all wrong. Wet.
…He felt a little too close to crying, suddenly, for any sort of comfort. He - he couldn’t -
“An - an armadillo.” He whispered, a little too strong, a little drenched. It was half a laugh, itself, and he met Jon’s eye, searching as it was, with something close to an actual smile, this time. Broken as it was, behind the display.
“Y-yes. Well, ah, I just -” Jon started, staring with eyes just a little too wide, and he could see Jon trying to follow the emotions being shown in real time, his brain lagging a bit behind. He didn’t blame him - he felt like a live wire, sparking and connecting in large, quick arcs to whatever emotion was closest to him at the moment. He felt sick, through the whole of it. Jon’s brow turned in, and he planted a hand firmly in front of him, fingers splayed on the cushion enough to hold him steady as he leaned in, just the tiniest bit, to study Martin a bit better. “I…approach. And you roll away. Curl up. Like I’m going to…hurt you.”
His voice dipped down at the last bit, a little pained, a little too real for being interspersed with yawns and mumbled metaphors, and Martin had to catch his breath against it.
Maybe shouldn’t have been laughing, actually.
Jon always got the most earnest, the most untethered, when he was tired. Said all the right things, in the absolute worst ways.
He swallowed, hard, and forced down the awkward, almost bitter smile that felt like cropping up. He had to blink back the burning in his eyes a few times, harsh, and he knew Jon didn’t miss it. Any of it.
God, he felt like a wreck, and he just wanted to fucking -
“Do I...Martin, do I make you uncomfortable?” Jon asked, ever so quietly, and far, far too direct, and he could feel the pull of it before he even had a chance to properly register it.
“Yes.” He choked out, singular and short, and quiet enough that he could hope Jon hadn’t heard it.
Jon’s face fell, and - yeah, he definitely had. He definitely had. Shit.
“Oh." There was a second, a fall before the impact. Then it hit. "Oh, I’m, Christ, Martin, I’m sorry, I -” He rushed out, almost silent, and now very alert. Awake enough to feel it, properly. Shocked into it, out of his sleepy, domestic comfort, because Martin couldn’t just talk. Jon pulled back as if he’d been threatened, movements solid and concerted, to bring his hands to his chest, lean back the few inches he’d moved in. His back was straight, his face pained, and he was looking anywhere but at Martin.
“No, no, no. No, don’t - I didn’t mean that.” He broke in, wobbly, and Jon’s apologies cut out, sharp, with a breath. His eyes flickered up, just briefly, and Martin had to fight to breathe. To dislodge the lump in his throat enough that it would stop choking him. “I don’t mean it like that. I promise. I -”
He couldn’t -
He couldn’t fucking do this.
Any of this.
“Martin?”
He just couldn’t. He was too far gone to ever be pulled back. He’d left whatever part of him could connect back in those waters, and he couldn’t ever even think about being close without hearing Peter’s fucking voice in his head, and he -
“Here, here, look at me. Please? Look at me.”
He couldn’t.
It wasn’t something he was allowed, anymore. He had to be alive, for it. Properly alive, rather than whatever husk he was, still being dragged around by pure insistence. He couldn’t -
He could feel warmth on his leg, a small focal point of burning against the blur of the rest of him, too chilled and numbed to properly feel, still.
He pulled in a sharp breath, forced his gaze back to Jon, and did not wrench away, as the contact registered. The freeze still came, but his body was so tense already that it barely made a difference. Jon just looked at him, leaned in much closer, now, although he was still far enough away to be reasonable. Far enough away, of course, besides the hand on Martin’s knee.
It took too long of a second, really, for it to sink in. To stutter out, to something that felt less like a guillotine coming down on his neck.
Jon had a hand lightly grasped on his knee, and it was warm, and…nothing was happening. It was just…there.
The world wasn’t ending, and it - it barely even burned. It did, just enough to be grounding, to make him feel sick with nausea and grief and love, but…
Christ.
He let out a soft, broken sound that he wasn’t sure was even aspiring to be a word, and he thanked whatever gods pretended to exist that Jon didn’t call him out on it. His eyes just shifted a bit, crinkling in with worry, and the hand tensed a bit - a quick pulse, a tether. A reminder, almost questioning.
“Is this alright? I’m here. You’re here. I promise.” Jon offered, solid. It was quiet, but not in timidness; just in comfort, in reassurance, in that tone that said he was trying not to spook a wild animal, caught. But it was just Jon. And it was just because Martin couldn’t keep his head on straight enough to - “Martin. Is this alright?”
“Yeah.” He breathed, pulled out by a thin string that felt more like a tether than it had any right to. Even just saying it brought a bolt of dread to course down through his spine, and he had to fight the rush of impulse, every few seconds, to pull back. But he could barely move, even if he’d wanted to, and it was because of the same immovable force that had made it impossible to bridge the distance, in the first place.
Jon nodded, quietly, to himself - just once. A decisive thing, a little hesitant, but still sure.
“Alright. Can I...Would you like me to, ah, hold your hand?” He asked, a little too softly, a little awkwardly, and the emotions bubbled up again in an instant.
He tried to force out the words, around the blur of noxious thoughts and blurred out pain, panic, but it only came out as another wet whimper, a sharp breath that was almost a sob, and far, far too vulnerable. In what world was this better than just talking? In what world was sitting there, unable to even move properly, better? In what world was Jon seeing him like this any better than just being honest? But he couldn’t force himself. He clenched his eyes shut, hard enough to make colors dance behind the backs of his eyelids, and forced a nod. It almost hurt his neck, the motion so stiff and tense, but it was enough. Enough.
There was a second, a creak of the old cushions as Jon moved just enough, and…warmth.
He wasn’t able to stop the shaky breath, or the jolt back, but there was nowhere to go - the arm of the couch was already behind him, pressed against his spine in a way that was more than a little uncomfortable, and Jon held tight, regardless.
“It’s just me. You’re safe, here. You know that, right? I know that it - it probably doesn’t - well, it probably doesn’t feel like it. But I’ve got you.” Jon whispered, far too gentle. Far too close. He had to force down the panic as it bled back up, again and again, like bile in his throat. Insistent. Demanding. It felt like the world was crashing in, and it was wrong, and he was still alive enough to feel it burn. “You’re alright.”
He registered, very distantly, the fact that he was crying. Warmth, down his cheeks, and a worried hum from Jon. The hands around his pulsed, holding tighter for just a few seconds, before the tension dwindled back to something softer. Still solid, still steady, but -
“Jon, I -”
“It’s alright. You don’t have to.”
“I want to, though - but I just - it, christ-”
Jon's hands tightened over his, and the brief glimpse he caught of his face, blurred as his vision was with tears, was almost devastated. He choked back another sob, half a laugh baked into it at the absurdity of the scene he’d dredged up out of nowhere, and his throat filled with an impassable lump again, tight.
He couldn’t breathe. He - he couldn’t even think around it, and Jon was just holding his hands on their couch, in the depths of a cozy evening, and they were fine. And he felt like he was burning alive.
“Can I -” Jon started, voice unsure, hesitant, and Martin had to choke on air for a second, tense, before the silence won out.
"Can I hug you?” Jon asked quietly, softly, and far, far too wrought to be anything but broken, too.
Martin sniffed, face scrunching up tight and painful, vicious and self-immolating and desperate, and he couldn’t even think it. Couldn’t see past the shroud of pain and anger and grief and -
“Ask.” He choked out, sharp.
His voice cracked on the word, crumbling. Jagged.
It was easier. It was mortifying. It was something he didn’t even think until he’d said it, and it hung in the air, for a little too long to be comfortable.
Jon pulled in a breath, sharp enough that Martin could feel it even through the trembling of his own body, the small connection to Jon’s, still lingering. He could feel the jolt, the uncertainty. And he could feel the decision, settling down.
“Do you want me to?”
“P-please. God, please. I can't -” He choked out, far too wet, pathetic, and that was all it took. " I can't. I need you. I -"
Jon’s arms were around him in an instant, limbs and logistics of form all secondary to the sheer need for closeness, and he could smell the familiar scent of paper and honey that felt like home, with his face pressed hard into Jon’s neck. It was clumsy, and it hurt where Jon’s knee was digging into his thigh, but it kept it just grounded enough for him to not fully lose himself, at it.
“God, I don’t - I’m not going to let you go, you know that, don’t you? I’m not -” Jon mumbled, sharp, a little dark, entirely too soft, into his neck. “I’m not letting it keep you. You can take as much time as you need, but I won't let it."
He didn’t stop the hitch of a sob that came, stronger, at that, or the appreciative, disbelieving laugh, either. He could feel Jon’s nails digging ever so slightly into his back, hands balled in the fabric of his shirt, and he could feel the warmth of touch over his neck, his chest, all of him - so soft and vivid and horribly, horribly desperate that he couldn’t do anything but breathe through it. It made him shake, harder, but - but it was worth it. It was this.
He thought, in a startling moment of emotional clarity, of brief logic thrown into the absolute spiral - of refeeding syndrome.
Too much of a good thing, after so long without, and it could kill you -
Ha.
Ha.
But this - this wouldn’t. This wouldn’t. This was just Jon, and he’d had to Ask him to hold his bloody hands, and it was so fucking real that he wasn’t sure it was his. But he couldn’t drift too far, and Jon was half-laid across him, and the documentary was still droning on, when he came back to his senses enough for the words to start dripping in, bit by bit.
It must’ve been a few solid minutes by the time he’d stopped hyperventilating, and the sobs had broken down into a hitch and a jolt every few seconds, rather than near constant. He just stared at the space beyond the couch, the coat rack empty, the front door, shut tight, with the deadbolt locked. The sheer white curtains that did nothing to block the view, but did everything to let the soft light of morning ebb in, when the sun would finally rise again.
He choked on a breath, tired, and felt Jon slowly start to pull back, weight shifting away -
He pulled him back, horribly, horribly desperate, and Jon settled back in with a small oof. The touch stayed, situated again, rubbing small circles into his back, and Jon mumbled something soft, close to his ear.
“Alright, alright. I’m not going far. I promise.” He offered, quiet, low, and just a little bit laughing, tired. “Just need to fix my knee. It’ll only be a second.”
He didn’t stop the broken chuckle at that, and - slowly, muscle by muscle, unwound his fingers from Jon’s jumper. Untucked his head from his neck. He kept his entire body tense as he needed to, to not collapse completely, and it was really only a second - two, maybe, but he could grant Jon that - before that comforting weight, that warmth, was layered back over top of him, and the gentle touch returned. Rhythmic, and unspoken, and -
And slowly, bit by bit, he melted. Thawed out, just enough for the tension to ebb away, as Jon rubbed small circles over his spine, laid his head comfortably across Martin’s shoulder. Spoke soft words Martin couldn’t quite make his mind process, but didn’t need to. Jon wasn’t expecting an answer.
…He hadn’t realized he’d almost fallen asleep until the weight shifted, and he let out a small sound, far too startled for what the situation called for. He had to blink a few times, the world settling in in shades and layers at first, and the first thing he felt was Jon’s lips on his shoulder, ever so soft, testing. Then the warmth of breath near his ear, gentle -
“I’m sorry for startling you. But I think we should probably head to bed.” He murmured, and it was everything that Martin had wanted. Everything that terrified him to his core. Everything he’d almost died for. Jon’s voice came back, a little more wry, a little more properly tired. “Our backs will despise us in the morning if we stay curled up like this.”
He grumbled something, just a sound of exhausted protest, and he didn’t bother to do much beyond that, as Jon slowly began to shift away. There was the jolt of fear, the instinctual shit as the distance was reinstated, but - it was remedied soon enough, and there was a palm cupping his cheek, skin uneven and rough, but so, so warm. Comforting.
It’d been so long since he’d just fallen asleep, on his own.
It’d been so long since he’d been comfortable enough to just drift off, around anyone, and -
“I’m not leaving you. But I’m also not sleeping down here.” Jon groused, just a little too fond for it to have any weight to it. Martin smiled, feeling a little too dopey and molten to do much else.
“Fine. You know I’ll follow you anywhere.” He grumbled, and he heard Jon snort slightly, a little more emotion in it than there should’ve been. A thumb stroked gently under his eye, across his cheek, and he - he leaned into it.
He could hear the smile in Jon’s voice, and he could feel the warmth in it, in all of it, at once.
“Then come to bed.”
“On it.”
…
“...Martin, do not fall back asleep yet. Come on, just - hey. Hey. Come on. There’s a perfectly good bed up there, and we can have actual blankets. And no narrators griping at us about different types of volcanic activity.”
“But you’re cozy. Give me a minute.”
“We’ll have plenty of minutes, upstairs. Come on, love.”
That - that was enough to wake him, just enough to blink blearily at the man, half knelt above him on their ratty old couch, smiling fondly.
“Love?” He croaked out, smiling a little too much.
“...If you’d like.”
“I do. Like. Mhm.”
“Well, good. Because I intend on saying it again, and I intend on holding onto you for the rest of the night, if you’ll allow me. In our bed.”
“Alright, love.” He tested, a little too giddy, a little too loopy. A little too overwhelmed with life and comfort and reality to be anything but. “Alright?”
“...Alright.” Jon smiled, and…it was enough.
It was enough.