Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Martin has developed a terrible habit.

This certainly wasn't what Peter had in mind when he showed him how to vanish, how to access that familiar feeling of being insignificant, being ignored and overlooked, how to harness that lonely feeling of not being seen until he could slip away on its cold current and truly become as invisible as he'd often felt, all but imperceptible to others around him.

Peter said it would help him strengthen his connection to the Lonely, and to avoid any contact with everyone else in the Institute, making it easy to keep them from trying to threaten his precariously cultivated isolation.

Not that anyone cares to talk to him, anyway. The only person who still seems to try and catch him now and then is Jon, the one person Martin has nothing to say to, wouldn't know what to say to, while filled to the brim with secrets and confessions and angry grievances longing to spill forth.

Deliberately avoiding him has been both the hardest and most natural thing Martin has had to do since Jon woke up from the coma, walking back into the Archives as if nothing had happened, taking his familiar place in his office as if it had never been left empty and deserted at all.

And maybe, for Jon, it hasn't.

Jon wasn't here, he didn't see the vacated chair, the half-finished boxes of unread Statements left behind, didn't feel the air cold and too still as Martin stood in that dead space where Jon's presence had been so tangibly absent it almost choked him.

Jon didn't notice the months going by, didn't see the papers collecting dust, didn't feel the touch of Martin's hand around his as he sat by his bedside, hour after hour after hour, with tear tracks drying on his cheeks and terror gripping his heart.

Jon wasn't there to see any of it, and it's not his fault that he wouldn't know how things have changed, how Martin needed to stop visiting for fear his spine might split from carrying this hope, how Martin had mourned for him when he'd finally accepted that Jon would never wake up, how he'd readily thrown himself into his new position as Peter's assistant, both for the distraction his busy work was offering and the hollow numbness the Lonely promised his flayed heart and aching bones.

Through it all, Martin has been going to Jon's office.

The first time, he'd gone just to have a moment to breathe in a place he associated with something good, and it had made it worse in the end, being in this office that should have Jon's voice filling it with life and finding only darkened lights and droning silence. But he'd come back anyway. It didn't feel good, didn't feel right, but it helped him grieve, helped him accept that Jon wasn't coming back.

Only, Jon did come back.

Jon came back, and now Martin has to duck around corners, running, hiding from him. 

And yet, Martin still goes to his office.

It is a terrible habit, truly. If Peter knew where Martin slips off to when he vanishes for some time- well, Martin isn't sure what exactly he'd do, but he'd certainly be more than displeased with Martin's inability to quit seeking out Jon's presence, even when he knows he can't talk to him. He doesn't need Peter to tell him that it's endangering the success of his precious isolation, but he just can't seem to stop.

Sometimes he hides away in Jon's office when Jon's gone, just to have a second to pause, a moment's break from Peter and the Lonely and the Extinction and everything that's constantly looming over him with a threatening grin. It's ironic that he's using the Lonely's vanishing power to escape from it, to flee from his isolation into an empty, lonely room that still provides a level of comfort, he's very much aware, but it's the only place where Martin still feels like he can breathe properly.

Sometimes he sneaks in when Jon is working. He just stands in the corner, watching as Jon broods over stacks of paper, listening to him abseltmindedly muttering to himself, or even recording Statements sometimes. They're horrible, gruesome things, yes, and he hates to see what they take out of Jon, how he's shaken and exhausted from the words pouring out of his mouth, but it's Jon, and even listening to Jon's voice recount other people's terrors makes Martin feel a little closer to him.

He never speaks, never reaches out or makes his presence known, no matter how desperately he wants to, but for a moment, it's enough to simply get to be in Jon's company despite his own distance to the rest of the world.

He should feel guilty about it.

He should feel guilty about many things. About essentially boycotting Peter's plan by jeopardising his own isolation process, a plan he agreed to, a plan he still intends to follow through with, in the end. Mostly about secretly taking advantage of Jon like this. Martin doesn't need to look too closely at what he's doing to see that it's weird at best, downright creepy and positively violating at worst-

But he doesn't feel guilty. Truth be told, Martin has a rather hard time feeling much of anything these days, courtesy of his new Lonely master. It's all dulled now, all but the pain of longing that remains as clear-cutting and constantly present as ever. Figures. It makes sense that once all else was swept away in the fog, the one thing remaining unaltered would be Martin's seemingly impervious, desperate longing for Jon.

There's a reason he used to perfect romanticising a life of yearning in his poems.

This is why he finds himself in Jon's office once again, desperate for a moment's respite after Peter had made him read another Statement alluding to the Extinction. He can still feel the terror of the Statement giver sizzling in his own veins, their fear of a world being snuffed out as easily as a flickering candle. 

Martin presses himself into the furthest corner of Jon's office, comforted by the dark silence, the familiar surroundings. He rests his forehead against the cool wall, closing his eyes for a moment as he breathes in the smell of old paper and dust, soaking in the atmosphere of Jon that always lingers even without the man present. 

Martin isn't sure how long he stands there before he feels himself relaxing, his mind finally letting go of a stranger's dread stuck in his bones. He doesn't even know if the Extinction is real yet, but it sure feels real when he's forced to experience a Statement's fear first-hand. Reading them has become more intense since his own emotional life has numbed in the Lonely's fog, making room for someone else's horror. 

Martin hates it, but if Peter is right about a new Power emerging- Even if he's not, Martin has to stay true to their deal, protecting everyone else has to be the priority. He's not important. His insignificance is his strength here. Hardly anyone would truly care whether he lives or dies, and maybe that's a good thing, for once. 

Martin feels himself slipping a little deeper into the Lonely's embrace, wholly and completely invisible in his quiet corner. It's easy to imagine himself being pulled under even further when he's like this, wondering if anyone would even notice if he were to vanish for good, fade away until there was nothing left. 

It'd be quiet there. Even the longing would stop then, once everything that was Martin had ceased to exist. It's an unnerving thought, made even more so because - just for a second - Martin catches himself almost wishing for it to happen. 

He flinches violently as the door swings open, and Jon walks in with an air of exhausted tension that seems to surround him at all times these days. 

His reading glasses are folded up, tucked into the neckline of his button-down shirt peaking out beneath the dark green sweater vest. There are circles under his eyes, of course there are, and a cup of tea in his hand.

Martin silently presses himself further into the corner, a wave of sadness and guilt washing over him at the sight of that tea - tea Jon had to make himself, because Martin isn't there to do that for him anymore.

He watches as Jon closes the door, flicks the lights on and stalks stiffly over to his desk, setting the tea down before he collapses into his chair with a quiet noise of disgruntlement. 

Martin hears him release a long breath, papers rustling as Jon shuffles around the stacks of files that have piled up on his desk. He's muttering quietly to himself, he does that a lot, and Martin carefully extracts himself from the bookshelf's shadow he doesn't need in order to hide, carefully minding his step as he makes his way around to the front of the desk.

He knows by now what steps are safe, what floorboards might creak under his weight, the office space mapped out in his head to ensure he can move around quietly, undetected. Yes, it's creepy, he's aware, but that ship has sailed a long time ago, so why bother minding it now.

He slowly settles down in the chair across from Jon - the chair Martin has come to think of as his chair, the chair he'd occupied back when he'd drop in on Jon constantly, with a cup of tea in his hand or a question on his lips, tea Jon had never ordered and questions Jon would only frown at in irritation. But Martin did it anyway, because it was Jon, and Martin took every chance he got to talk to Jon, back before Jon died and before Jon didn't have a heartbeat for six months and before Jon woke up again with his hair grown out and his voice all cracked and softened whenever he catches Martin before he can run. 

He watches as Jon flicks through a file, lips tight and brow furrowed. His reading glasses have been discarded on the desk, a strand of grey-streaked hair falling into Jon's forehead, and he brushes it away with an irritated swipe of his hand. 

Jon reaches for the tea, takes a sip, then scrunches up his nose in distaste and shoves the cup back onto its saucer. There's a moment where Jon's face hardens, his jaw tensing, but then it crumples with a drawn-out sigh, something sad and forlorn overtaking Jon's features that has Martin's chest clench painfully. Jon leans forward, elbows resting on his desk as he buries his face in his palms. 

"Why aren't you here?" he hears Jon whisper into his hands, then a muffled, frustrated huff. "Goddammit."

Jon rubs his hands over his face, then lets them sink with a sigh as he slumps back in his chair. He picks up the file he'd opened up earlier, putting on his glasses and clearing his throat. The tape recorder clicks on by itself, quietly whirring in the background. Martin waits for Jon to start reading, waits for the usual words of Jon reciting the Statement giver and date, the all-too-familiar Statement recorded by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist- but they never come. 

Jon stares at the page, eyes seeming to go right through the words. Then he blinks, pressing his lips together. The file falls shut, papers and glasses flung carelessly onto the desk, tape recorder running in vain with nothing but silence to record. 

"Stupid", Jon mutters, and Martin doesn't know what's happening, or why Jon's eyes flick to his tea cup with such a pained, bitter expression. He mumbles something again, and Martin thinks he hears the words won't talk, then an assortment of low curses along the lines of idiotic and reckless, and he has no idea what Jon is on about, but he's evidently distressed, and Martin wishes he could do something to ease whatever is clearly weighing on Jon so much.

But he can't. All he can do is keep quiet and watch as Jon sits behind his desk, a hand driving agitatedly through his hair, fingertips rubbing at his temples. 

There's a tired, frustrated resolve to it when Jon sighs, pushing himself out of his chair and walking over to the door.

Martin expects him to leave, but instead, there's the telltale clicking sound of a lock snapping shut.

Shit. Martin may be invisible, but he doesn't have the power to walk through walls- or locked doors, for that matter. He knows he should have left right away when Jon came in, but it's too late now. 

This never happened before. Jon never locks his door, and for a split second Martin considers that perhaps he wants to take a nap- but that's ridiculous, Jon is the most sleep-deprived person he knows, Martin is always pestering him to take better care of himself, to take breaks, go home and sleep- Well. At least he used to, when they were still talking. 

He'd found Jon asleep at his desk after midnight more than once, but that had never been on purpose, there is no way Jon would decide to get some sleep, unprompted, on office time-

Jon stands by the door for another moment, leaning against the wood for support. Then he pushes himself away, returns to his desk, and slumps into his chair. The worn leather creaks under Jon's shifting weight as he leans forward, pointedly pressing the off button on the tape recorder.

"Don't need an audience for this", Jon mutters under his breath, voice dry, and what on earth is happening-?

Leaning back in his chair, Jon releases a long breath, closing his eyes. There's a furrow of concentration between his brows, a strange kind of stubborn resolution to it as he settles, still but for the slow rise and fall of his chest.

Martin is mesmerised by his expression slowly melting into something softer and more relaxed, Jon's hands trailing down his body and then-

There's a quiet sigh on Jon's lips, the hint of a muffled moan.

Oh. Martin's mind screeches to a halt. Oh-

No, he- No no no. He can't be. Surely, Jon can't be-

There's another sound, a low groan halfway stuck in Jon's throat.

His hands have settled beneath the desk where Martin can't see them, but there's the unmistakable shifting of his hand moving rhythmically in his lap and- oh, God. Oh God, oh God, Jon is touching himself, he's touching himself through his trousers, he's-

Jon's lips part on a gentle breath, his features completely relaxed now, breathtakingly unguarded and open to Martin's gaze. Martin has never seen Jon like this, something peaceful and serene in this vulnerable moment of secret pleasure - and Martin shouldn't be here.

Shit, shit- Martin should not be here for this, he can't be here, this is- 

He stays rooted to the spot, can't move, can't look away.

Jon's breath has picked up a little, and there's the sound of a zipper being opened, fabric shifting, and then- Jon groans, and Martin can't see it, but he knows Jon must have wrapped a hand around his cock now, properly stroking himself at the slow, indulgent place Jon's arm has set. 

"Yes." It falls from Jon's lips in a low, breathy whisper, setting Martin's entire body on fire. His shock at catching Jon in such an intimately private moment washes away, leaving him hanging on the edge of his seat, eyes desperately glued to Jon's face. Jon hums, his head tipping back a little against the back of his chair. "Just like that", his voice comes quietly, his throat moving with it, lips parted softly around panting breaths, releasing a string of muffled noises into the air that feels thick and hot around them all of a sudden. 

Martin can't help himself. He has to see, needs to see with such a burning desperation that it feels like he might die if he doesn't, burning right through the swirls of numbing fog in his veins. 

He lifts himself carefully from his chair, breath held, positively hypnotised by the sight of Jon scrunching his eyes shut and biting the corner of his lip. Just a little further, he needs to lean over the desk just a little more, a little closer- 

He has to physically swallow the moan threatening to claw its way out of his throat at the sight of Jon's cock, long and lean like the rest of him, wet with precome where Jon's thumb rubs over his head before stroking down his length. Martin's knuckles go white around the edge of the desk, breath stuck in his throat. 

He's stunning, completely lost to his pleasure, and Martin wants to engrave this picture in his mind, he wants to fill pages and pages with poetic lines about the flush of Jon's cheeks and the curve of his neck and the way the weight of his cock would feel in Martin's hand, he wants, he wants-

"Lovely", Jon sighs just then, voice languid and airy with gentle pleasure. "Just... M-" His breath hitches, and he moans low in his throat. "Martin..."

Martin startles so violently that he knocks against the tape recorder, nudging it a little to the left, where it clacks against the now-cold cup of tea. He sucks in a sharp breath of panic, instantly slapping a hand over his mouth to stifle the unbidden, revealing noise, but it's all too late, he knows Jon has heard, Jon's going to catch him, and he needs to leave, he needs to get out of here and away right now, he can't let Jon know he's been here- watching- the entire time- oh God-

He scrambles back, following his instinct to flee even though he knows there's absolutely nowhere to flee to, but in his clumsy haste his foot catches on his chair, sending both him and the chair crashing to the ground with a loud thumping noise. 

"Shit", Martin hisses, his cheeks growing hot instantly as he feels himself slipping out from under the veil of the Lonely that had kept him hidden, shaking with equal amounts of panic and embarrassment. "Shit, shit, shit-"

There's a long second of deafening silence.

Then-

"M-Martin?"

Martin freezes.

Fuck. 

Chapter Text

"M-Martin?"

Jon's startled voice only deepens the furious blush Martin is sure has spread from the tips of his ears all the way down beneath his shirt collar, and he closes his eyes, sucking in an unsteady breath.

There's the hurried sound of fabric shifting, a zipper pulling up, then a chair scraping over the floorboards as it's pushed back urgently.

"Martin?" Footsteps approach, Jon leaning over him, and Martin wishes he could will the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Or to simply curl up into a ball and die, both seem acceptable at the moment.

"What are you- H-How did you-?"

Jon's voice is alarmed, and there's a hand touching Martin's shoulder. He flinches away.

"Christ, are you alright?"

That is what Jon would ask?? Martin's blush deepens even more, if possible, fed by his raging embarrassment and the last simmers of shameful arousal still prickling under his skin.

Martin scrapes together what tiny shreds may remain of his dignity, pushing himself off the floor and brushing the dust from his trousers, taking much more care than necessary so he can gain at least a few more precious seconds before he'll have to turn and look at Jon standing behind him. 

When he does, the panic takes over instantly, constricting his chest. 

"I'm sorry", he rushes to say, voice an octave too high. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to- shit. Sorry."

"It's alright", Jon says, of all the things he could possibly say right now, because there is absolutely nothing alright about Martin falling over his own feet like a fucking idiot after seeing Jon's cock in his hand and Jon's voice saying- "You didn't hurt yourself, did you?"

Martin looks at him, and there's actual concern on Jon's face, and his hair is still messy from his fingers running through it, his cheeks still a bit flushed and-

Martin feels a little hysterical laugh bubbling up his throat, but he swallows it down. Can't have Jon thinking he's a goddamn maniac on top of being a stupid, clumsy creep of a voyeur.

"Nothing hurt", he says. Only my dignity, my sense of decency, my last bit of self-respect-

"Good", Jon says, seemingly remembering himself as he sways away from Martin, straightening his back. "That's...good."

Jon fidgets with the hem of his sweater vest, less than discreetly pulling it down to try and cover the still slightly pronounced bulge of his cock, and Martin tries not to glance at it, he really does.

"S-Sorry", he says again, and Jon makes a noise in his throat, his posture screaming with embarrassed discomfort. Martin wants to sink through the floor and never emerge.

"I'm so sorry", he blurts out, words punched out by the weight of the awkward silence. "I swear I wasn't- I didn't mean to be- or to see anything, it's just that I was- and then you locked the door, and I didn't know what to do, and then- a-and then I just- I'm sorry, Jon, I'm-"

"Y-Yes", Jon says, words strained. "Quite. M-Martin-"

"I would never have, if I'd known, I would've left", Martin says, "I should've left anyway. I swear I'd never-"

"Yes", Jon says again, still barely looking at him. "Of course."

"I should-" Martin trails off, his frantic energy giving way to terrible, hollow shame. "I should go", he says, "yes, I- I should- sorry. It's not gonna happen again, I-I mean- not that I think you'd- Anyway. Sorry- again."

"Martin."

Martin doesn't look at Jon, can't, not with that horrible, painful softness in his voice. He tries to turn away, eyes glued to the wooden floor, ready to make his escape to this damned locked door that started all this- but there's a hand on his arm, a cautious, questioning touch holding him back, and it's enough of a shock to Martin's system that Jon would reach out to touch him at all that it makes him stop before he's even taken a proper step.

"Martin", Jon says again, voice guarded.

Martin can't help himself. He looks at him, and it's a mistake, it's a whole damn tragedy because he needs to get out of here and there is absolutely no way he'll manage to leave when Jon looks at him like this.

Jon's hand falls away, shoulders pulling up. He shifts on his feet, uncomfortable, maybe uncertain, Martin isn't sure. His lips part like he's going to say something, but then his jaw tenses, the hand that had been on Martin's arm a moment ago tugging nervously at a seam on his trousers.

"Jon?"

"It's good to see you", Jon says suddenly, effectively cutting off the string of frantic apologies Martin is already busy preparing in his head again. "It's- I mean..." Jon clears his throat. "What were you even doing here?"

"Uh-" Martin rifles through his brain for a reasonable explanation that isn't I just miss you like hell and needed to feel like I can breathe for a bit. "Statement...file", he stutters out. "I was- looking for a file? Yeah, uhm-"

"Ah."

Jon gives him a small, careful smile.

"And did you find it or-"

"Look, Jon-" Martin can't do this now, he can't pretend to have a normal, startingly casual conversation while everything inside him feels like his nerves have been flayed open and left exposed, when he's burning up with guilt and shame and longing and want and- "I- I can't- This isn't-"

Jon's face falls a little, reeling itself back in to something much closer to Jon's usual guarded, reserved self.

"Of course." Jon straightens stiffly. "I must apologise. For...making you uncomfortable. I wasn't aware you were- or I would never have- ah." He presses his lips together to a thin line. "Yes. Forgive me. For- keeping you. You can just...yes."

"Jon, that's not why I-"

"I don't-" Jon talks over him too quickly, closing his eyes for a second and taking a breath before he tries and fails to face Martin properly. "I don't usually- that is to say, I don't want you to think I make a habit of- that's not- I-I'm not-"

"Jon", Martin says soothingly. "It's fine, I'm the one who- this is your office, behind a closed lock, I mean- You know, it's really none of my business-"

Jon barks out a dry, humourless laugh, shuffling on his feet and looking anywhere but at Martin.

"Yeah, that's- that's not-"

He cards his hair out of his eyes again with a quick, frantic motion.

"I know you heard", Jon says then, his voice suddenly small as he finally looks at Martin, and the way Martin stares back like a deer in headlights is sure to be all the confirmation needed.

Martin...

It still rings in Martin's ears, his name falling from Jon's tongue in a deep, breathy sigh- Good Lord, he needs to get himself together.

Jon nods curtly.

"I thought so", he says. "And look, Martin, there's nothing I can say that would make this even remotely acceptable in any way, and if you'd like to report me-"

"What?" Martin shakes his head. "No! Jon, I wouldn't-"

"I know you wouldn't", Jon sighs. "You're just like that, aren't you? I mean look at you, apologising for witnessing my transgression-"

Jon breaks off with a huff, and the smile Jon gives him is all familiar exasperation and new, mesmerising, wholly unfamiliar fondness.

"I appreciate your...generous attempt at discretion", Jon says. "Even so, I really must- I mean it was- It's incredibly inappropriate, highly unprofessional and- worse, such a blatant disregard for your privacy and breach of your trust, I-" Jon trails off, looking horrified with himself as he slumps back against his desk, drawing a hand over his face, messing up his hair even more. "Oh, Christ..."

"Jon-" Martin falters. "Disregard for my privacy?" he echoes in disbelief. "Jon. I'm the one who invaded your space without-"

"No- no." Jon shakes his head. "This is my error, Martin, you couldn't have known- and I should never have- certainly not here, but, no, I mean- I shouldn't at all- I don't know what I was thinking-"

"Jon, it's fine-"

"It's not fine, Martin, it's-"

The pained, mortified desperation on Jon's face melts into something softer as he stares at him, a different kind of anguish, gentler yet no less intense.

"H-How-" Jon swallows. "How are you?" he says then, slowly, quietly. "Martin? Are you- Are you alright? Are you well? I mean- We've barely- Since I've been...uh- back, we-"

He trails off, sadness so overwhelmingly clear on his face, and Martin aches with it.

"I'm fine", Martin says, like that word hasn't long lost any meaning it might once have carried. "You don't need to worry about me."

"I see", Jon says.

"I should go-"

"Wait, just-" Jon's hand flinches towards him, then curls into a tense fist by his side. "I'm sorry, please, just- Just a moment? I just need a moment, I know I don't deserve it, but- I need to make sure-"

And Martin is weak. Against his better judgment, he doesn't move.

"You look-" Jon hesitates. "Tired."

Martin huffs out a humourless breath.

"You're one to talk."

Jon winces.

"That's fair, I suppose."

"Look, Jon-"

"I know, I know, I-" Jon lowers his eyes, huffing out a noise of frustration. "Is he treating you alright?" he says then, looking at Martin. "Peter Lukas? Are you- Are you safe, Martin?"

"Yeah", Martin lies. "Of course."

"Right." Jon nods. "Okay. Because you know if you- if you need...anything, you-"

"Jon, I- I really need to go", Martin breaks him off, voice coming out harsh to keep the trembling away. "I can't be here."

"Right", Jon says again, all empty resignation. "Sorry."

It hurts. All of this hurts. Jon's eyes and Jon's voice and Jon's words, the responsibility pushing at the back of Martin's mind, pushing him away from Jon while everything else inside him is screaming to take that devastating sadness hanging all around the man he loves and soothe it away until it can't hurt either of them anymore, and Martin has to leave right now, every second he stands rooted to the spot is chipping away at the edges of his will power, his carefully crafted resolve crumbling away under the weight of those eyes on him and he- he has to go, right now, he needs to-

"I have to go", Martin says again, telling himself more than anything. "I'm sorry-"

"I missed you", Jon blurts out, stopping Martin dead in his tracks once again. "I- I missed you- miss you", he corrects, voice soft this time. "That's part of the reason why I- why I was..." He weakly shrugs his shoulders, the corner of his mouth twitching in the sad imitation of a smile. "If I can't talk to you, at least I could pretend that- in my imagination, you still wanted me around", he says, voice trailing off in a whisper, and the words have barely left his mouth when his eyes widen, shocked and horrified.

"Oh-" Jon takes a step towards him, then forcibly seems to stop himself. "No- no no no no, I'm sorry. Martin, I'm sorry, I didn't mean- Christ. I know you have your reasons, and I have no right- this is my fault, I'm not going to twist this like I'm some kind of victim here, I'm sorry- I should never have insinuated- Please. I'm so sorry. It doesn't matter what I- I should never have used you in this way."

Jon stands there, looking so thin and fragile as he wraps his bony arms around himself.

"I am just- so tired", Jon sighs. "I'm so, so tired, Martin, and I needed- just for a moment, I wanted- I'm sorry."

Jon closes his eyes for a second, then lowers them to the ground, shoulders hunched in a show of defeat.

"You can go", Jon says. "Just- Sorry you had to see this, had to see- me, like this."

There's more than embarrassment and guilt in his voice, there's pain, there's a deep shame, and Martin hates it with an intensity he hasn't felt about anything in a long time.

"You were beautiful", it falls from his lips, reckless and stupid, real and true. 

Jon's eyes snap up to him, wide in shock.

"W-What?"

"You were-" Martin falters. He could try to take it back but... it's out there now, and he realises he doesn't have the will or strength to hide it away again. "I shouldn't have stayed to watch", he says instead, "should've tried to leave when you came in, but I was, I mean- Y-You- You were- so beautiful", he repeats softly, watching as Jon's lips part on a gentle breath. "And then you said-" Martin swallows. "Jon, I-"

"Martin."

There's a question behind the breath of his name, something unsure and carefully amazed. It cracks Martin open with vigorous precision.

"Jon", he whispers back, hopeful and terrified.

And it's enough. He can see the moment Jon seems to realise, back straightening as his eyes widen, and Martin can do nothing but stare, rooted to the spot and hands fisted by his sides.

"Jon", he says again, hears his own voice dripping with violently suppressed longing. "I can't-" 

I can't be the one who- 

He can't start this, he can't, but- 

"Jon." Martin pleads silently, scared out of his mind that Jon won't understand, scared even more that he will. Martin takes a breath. "Please."

And Jon does understand, sees just what Martin is, what he needs, crossing the distance with one big stride and reaching out- Martin's heart stutters in his chest as Jon cups his face in his hands, not losing a second before pulling him into a fierce, messy kiss.

Martin falls into it like the bonds tying his arms behind his back have just been cut with that single reckless, glorious act, clutching tightly and moaning into Jon's mouth. Jon's hands fist in the back of Martin's shirt, pulling him close, and Martin revels in the almost violent desperation of that grip, securing him in Jon's hold, ensuring he can't run or fade away. It makes him feel helpless in the best way, helpless to do anything but allow himself to melt into this moment, so he does. 

"Martin", Jon breathes, kissing the corner of his mouth, down across his jaw. His voice is soft, tinged with wonder, and it sounds almost as good as earlier when his name on Jon's lips had been floaty with pleasure. He wants to hear it again and again. 

Martin lets Jon claim his lips, opening himself to Jon's gently probing tongue, licking back into his mouth, this perfect mouth that can make the most gruesome horrors come to life like no other and yet manages to make Martin's name sound like the most precious thing in the world. 

Fingers card through his hair as the kiss slows, too kind, too gentle. It fills something in that numb hole that Martin has been steadily growing in his chest, and that's treacherous, that's dangerous, but it feels so good. Martin already knows it'll tear him apart when he inevitably leaves and loses it again. 

A helpless little moan slips past his lips when Jon kisses his cheek before sealing their mouths together again, like he wants to drink in that sound Martin just made for him. Martin's fingers slip beneath Jon's shirt, still untucked from earlier, reaching for the warm skin of Jon's back, digging in. There's a naked desperation underlying even their gentle touches, like they're scared it'll all fall apart once this stolen moment ends, and in some ways, Martin knows it's true. 

Jon is kissing him, and it's all he's wanted, all he never thought he'd get, and it can't last. He knows it can't. He's already taken far too many liberties, there is too much at stake, Jon's life above all, and he can't- he can't take that risk, he can't.

"I shouldn't be doing this", Martin whispers against Jon's lips, closing his eyes when Jon rests their foreheads together, hands still framing Martin's face. "I should go."

"You can, I wouldn't stop you", Jon says, and Martin believes him. It's a relief, in some ways, and still his cheeks feel freezing cold as Jon lets his hands drop away.

Jon pulls back, takes a step away from him, like he's trying to give Martin air to breathe, room to decide. Martin hates that space, and it scares him. 

"Will you?"Jon asks then, and there's no judgment in it, only a hint of quiet warniness to give him away. 

Yes, Martin should say. He should be out the door already.

"I don't know", he says instead.

Jon waits, looks at him.

"Why?"

Because it's so much harder to vanish from a world where I know what your lips taste like.

"You know why."

"Martin", Jon says, and it sounds like a plea, a prayer.

Martin closes his eyes, taking a breath.

He should leave. He should just go, but...

Martin's eyes open.

...but he's so tired, so painfully, arduously tired of pretending that it isn't killing him to stay away from Jon.

"Sit down", he says.

Jon's brow furrows.

"What?"

"Sit down, Jon."

Jon obeys, walking back to his chair with Martin right behind him, and it's a heady feeling, seeing Jon following his orders like that.

Jon reaches out and welcomes Martin right away when he leans over him to claim his mouth again, Jon's fingers strained white where they cling tightly to the arms of his office chair. Martin pulls back, the hunger twisting in his gut, too real to ignore, too hot to be extinguished even by the Lonely's hollow grasp.

"Martin?"

"I need-"

"Yes? What is it?"

"I need-" 

Martin sinks to his knees, shoving Jon's legs apart to push between them, and Jon's breath quickens as he looks down at him. 

"You", Martin says. "I need you- to use me." 

Chapter Text

"I need you- to use me."

Jon's eyes close on an unsteady breath, head falling back against the chair.

"Christ-"

"Please." Martin's mouth is dry when their eyes meet again, his hands shake a little as he curls them around Jon's calves, grounding, anchoring. "I need this."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I-" Martin's throat closes against the confession threatening to spill out. "Jon", he says instead, hoping he'll hear it in the way Martin's tongue wraps around his name. "Please. Use me so I can't-"

So I can't resist, so I can pretend that it's all there was left for me to do, so I can force myself to let us have this. Please.

Use me so I don't have to feel guilty about it later.

Jon nods, and Martin can see that he understands.

"Okay", he says softly, and allows Martin to reach for the zipper on his trousers.

He's clumsy in his haste, fingers fumbling with the button, but none of that matters, because he's here, for the first time in what feels like months, he's completely and utterly present, and he has Jon beneath his hands, Jon's eyes staring down at him, Jon's body trembling for his touch.

As soon as he gets them open, Martin tugs Jon's trousers and pants down around his legs as far as they'll go, Jon helping dutifully by lifting his hips off the chair before settling back down.

Martin stares, hands stroking reverently over Jon's outer calves. He isn't hard yet, but getting there, cock resting between his spread thighs, exposed for Martin's eyes and waiting for Martin's touch, just as he'd wished for when he'd seen Jon touching himself earlier.

He licks his lips, watches as Jon's eyes seem to darken, then leans in to press a kiss to the inside of Jon's knee, holding his gaze for a moment longer before he allows his eyes to flutter shut.

Despite the insistent pull in his gut, the horrible, nagging voice in his head that reminds him every second he spends here only makes the danger of it grow, Martin isn't going to rush this. Jon deserves nothing less than to be savoured, to be worshipped, and if this is all Martin gets, then-

He starts leaving kisses all over Jon's thighs, his bony knees, feels the muscles twitching beneath his hands and lips. Moving up, Martin lets his palms smooth over Jon's thighs to his narrow hips, fingers tracing out the sharp, protruding bones, then pushing up his shirt and sweater vest to reach his stomach. He's thin, almost too thin, ribs standing out with his shallow breaths. Martin leans in so he can press his mouth to the lowest of those ribs, too.

There's a breath of his name, not passionately urging him on, but cracked open, vulnerable.

Still, it makes Martin turn to Jon's cock, perking up between them. He's long and smooth when Martin wraps his hand around him, and it's a bit too dry, but he let's the hitch in Jon's breath spur him on to slow, loose strokes, reverently coaxing him back to hardness until he can't hold himself back any longer.

Jon makes a wounded little noise in his throat when Martin's lips wrap around him, his tongue flicking out to taste him, sweeping over his head before he takes him deeper into his mouth. Jon's cock is warm, just thick enough to make Martin savour the stretch of his lips around him, tasting of salt and skin and Jon.

The sweet noises and occasional whispers of his name continue as Martin takes his time to explore him, reveling in each gentle gasp, the way he can feel Jon's cock growing to full hardness under his ministrations.

There's the creaking of worn leather as Jon's fingers cling to the armrests of his chair, his hips twitching like he's holding himself back from thrusting deeper, and Martin always knew that Jon is a deeply, intensely caring man beneath the impenetrable layers of sharp looks, harsh words and reserved professionalism, he's seen that man peek out in the twitch of a smile over cups of tea, tired sighs on the tape of his recorder, worried looks as Martin ducked around a corner.

In the secrecy of his mind, Martin has long been convinced that beneath it all, Jon knows how to love better than most - that's why Jon finds it all so painful. And maybe it's a weird thing to get emotional about when he's on his knees on Jon's office floor with Jon's cock in his mouth, but here he is.

Martin flicks his tongue over the ridge beneath the head of Jon's cock, hears him gasp, hips rocking forward slightly before stilling almost forcefully, and it's sweet in a strange way, it's unbearably tender and despite the strict shell he shows the world somehow completely and utterly Jon, and Martin loves him, loves him for it, he appreciates it, he does, but it's not what he wants.

He wants Jon to let go and take from him, he wants to tell Jon that he doesn't mind - he told Jon to use him, after all, and he meant it, God, he meant it - he wants to give Jon everything he might possibly need and then keep giving until there's nothing left, and then, if the Lonely takes him, when the Lonely takes him, at least he knows there's nothing of him lost that he didn't let Jon have first.

Martin wants to watch Jon fall apart, crack open the shell of desperate control Jon holds onto at all times, to strip it away and leave him utterly ruined with how good Martin made him feel.

Jon rocks into his mouth, gently, so gently, and Martin is just contemplating if it justifies having to pull off in order to tell him to please just give in and take what he needs, when he's interrupted by a hand lightly touching his cheek.

Martin looks up, meets Jon's eyes. There's something startingly vulnerable there beneath the flush on his cheeks, the daze of arousal, and Martin holds Jon's gaze as he pulls back, slowly backing away until he releases Jon's cock without losing the touch of Jon's fingers against his skin. He's deliberate about it when he takes Jon's scarred hand into his own, pulling it from his cheek to his lips. With an almost delirious anticipation, he notes that this is the hand that had been on Jon's cock earlier, and he presses his lips to Jon's palm, then the tips of his fingers.

Jon's breath is shaky, his throat bobbing as he swallows, watching Martin as he guides Jon's hand to his hair, towards the back of his neck. Jon takes the invitation for what it is, twisting his fingers through Martin's locks and grips, gentle at first, testing, then harsher when Martin presses back into the touch.

"Like this?" he breathes out, tugging until Martin's scalp stings with it, and it's such a warm, grounding pain, reminding Martin of the devastating reality of what it is they're doing, and it's perfect, it's perfect.

Martin nods, feels his hair pulled slightly with the movement.

"Don't hold back", he says, voice a little rough. "I want to feel it."

Jon groans as soon as the words seem to hit him, tipping over into a full moan when Martin swallows him down again, and this time Jon's hand in his hair is there to guide him, Jon's hips meeting Martin's eagerness with short aborted thrusts that he welcomes readily.

And apparently Jon guessed that not holding back refers to his noises too, because they begin to fall freely from his lips now, a litany of shaky moans, breathy gasps and low groans, and they're all for him, all his to own, and Martin catalogues them in his head, filing them away with care, testing out what sweeps of his tongue and suction of his lips will draw the sweetest sounds from Jon above him.

"Martin", Jon moans when he hollows his cheeks, humming in encouragement at the tightening fingers in his hair. He lets one of his hands settle on Jon's hip, urging him on in his increasingly confident thrusts and trying to relax his throat to allow Jon in deeper.

It feels safe here like this, bracketed by Jon's thighs, Jon's hand in his hair holding him, guiding him, and Jon's cock filling his mouth perfectly, holding in all the secret, dangerous words trying to push up his throat, choking down all the forbidden confession wanting to escape him.

"God, Martin-" Jon fucks lazily into his mouth, one hand gripping him tightly, the other petting soothingly through his hair like an apology, a reward. "You have to tell me when it's too much, you- Christ, you feel so good."

Martin whines around him, feeling his own cock throbbing between his legs, still confined in his trousers.

"So good for me", Jon says, and the praise washes over him in gentle waves, both soothing him and spurring him on further. Down here on his knees, with JonJonJon surrounding him on every side, he can't help but believe him.

"Doing so well- do you have any- any idea-" Jon's words stutter on a groan when Martin gives him a particularly hard suck. "H-How perfect you look right now?" Jon goes on, and it's all blissful torture, and Martin feels tears running out of the corners of his eyes, cold and wet, and he doesn't know if they're from Jon's beautiful words tearing him apart or Jon's beautiful cock pushing agonisingly into his throat.

Martin looks up at him, and there he is, staring down at Martin already, watching him - of course he is, of course - eyes hooded with pleasure and only more striking for it, lips parted as his chest heaves with panting breaths, those lips red from biting them, or maybe from Martin's kisses, or both.

He's beautiful, so beautiful it hurts. The last swirls of fog that might have lingered in his mind burn away easily under the intensity of that gaze, and Martin feels- he feels...

He feels, that's what it is, he feels more like himself than he has in months, and he feels every last sensation in his body with sensitive, hightened awareness, and it's perfect, it's just what he wanted, needed, a cacophony of sensation filling his mind with white noise until there is nothing but Jon, Jon and his words and his hands and his cock, deep in Martin's throat where it belongs.

It's all entirely too much. His knees hurt and his jaw aches and his eyes burn, his own arousal straining painfully against the confines of his trousers, and Martin welcomes the pain of it all, a pain that can't even be adequate punishment for this selfish moment of weakness, because it's all so good, devastatingly so after Martin has been barely able to feel much of anything at all for months now-

And that's been good, that's what Peter wants, what he should want, too. But it's so hard to want anything other than this fire coursing through his veins now, not when it's accompanied by Jon's touch, Jon's noises of pleasure, Jon's lips wrapping around Martin's name in a sweet moan.

Martin shoves the loneliness away, at least for now.

~oOo~

Jon can't believe this is happening.

When he came into his office earlier, his head had been full of Martin, full with missing him, worrying about him- and it had all been wrong, Jon's empty office, the tea he couldn't seem to make right, not the way Martin used to, so distracted he'd given up on getting any work done, and then-

Now he's here, Martin is here, tangible and real and perfect, and maybe Martin's hands are a little colder than they should be where they curl around his thighs, his hip, his cock- but it doesn't matter, not when Martin is here, with him, on his knees for him, with Martin's soft hair fisted in Jon's hands and Martin's clever mouth wringing pleasure from him until he's hoarse from the litany of noises he can't contain. 

"You're so lovely", it slips past Jon's lips, and a shiver seems to run through Martin's body at the words. "So good. So good to me. Better than I ever-"

Better than I ever imagined.

Better than I ever deserved. 

His hips twitch forward, seeking more of that heavenly friction, and Martin- wonderful, lovely, perfect Martin- simply lets him, takes him as deep as Jon pleases, hands petting over Jon's thighs in eager encouragement to take control.

There's something desperate yet calm in his eyes when he looks up to meet Jon's gaze, and Jon is overwhelmed with the trust there, the silent, daring offer of complete and ready surrender. 

It's a heady feeling, being handed power over another so willingly, being trusted with the responsibility to take care of Martin in this way. Martin moans around his shaft when Jon tightens his grip on his hair, guiding him as Jon rocks in and out of his mouth, his eyes fluttering shut. There are tears beading at the corners, a few that have already trailed down his cheeks. Jon reaches out to wipe the damp remnants away with his thumb, revelling in the whine that slips Martin at the touch, Martin's hips rutting against nothing where he's kneeling on the floor.

Well, that certainly won't do.

Using the hand in Martin's hair, Jon pulls him back, gentle yet firm, decided, until Martin is forced to release his cock.

Martin makes a noise of protest, and for a second Jon is struck by the picture he makes, hair messy with Jon's fingers threading through it, lips wet, red and swollen from stretching wide around Jon's cock, his eyes alight with desperation. He's stunning, absolutely breathtaking, shifting impatiently on his knees and- oh, yes, right.

"Martin", Jon says. "Do you want-"

He looks meaningfully at the pronounced bulge in Martin's trousers, and Martin takes a shaky breath.

"I-" His lips part. "I can't, I- not like this, it'd be-" His fingers tighten around Jon's thighs. "Jon", he says then, pleading with him to understand.

Jon softens his grip on Martin's hair, stroking soothingly through the disheveled locks.

"What can I do?"

"T-Tell me", Martin says, and Jon's breath hitches.

"Do you mean...tell you, or-?"

"No." Martin shakes his head. "Tell me."

Jon swallows hard, taking a second to compose himself.

"Alright", he says then, and Martin doesn't answer, but there's something relieved, something grateful on his face that pains Jon somewhere deep in his chest. "Go ahead, Martin", he says, static laced through his voice, the tingles of compulsion washing over Martin's body. "Touch yourself for me."

Martin complies with a sigh of relief, clumsily tearing at the fastenings of his trousers and pushing a hand inside to close around his obviously painfully hard cock. Jon stares as Martin closes his eyes for a moment, as he gives himself a few quick, unrefined strokes, then looks at Jon with burning intent and opens his mouth again in clear invitation- no, in a determined order-

And then Jon is engulfed in glorious wet heat again, groaning low in his throat as Martin's own moan of satisfaction reverberates through his cock and spreads out into his limbs in tingling sparks of pleasure that travel all the way up his spine. His fingers twist reflexively in Martin's hair, pulling so tight it must hurt, but Martin only moans more loudly. 

It's quick, after that. Jon has been dangerously close to the edge for a while now, only holding back because he's terrified of what might happen, what has to inevitably happen, once this moment of delirious, reckless dreaming ends and they'll have to face the harsh truth of reality again.

But he can only hold off for so long, and Martin is so beautiful like this, one hand clinging to Jon while the other is working furiously between his legs, swallowing Jon down like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground- and maybe it is.

Jon's chest aches, and his throat is tight with the words he hasn't allowed himself to say, choking himself on moans instead, and he's close, he's so terribly close, and he's terrified, alight with pleasure, and Martin's cheeks are flushed and his eyes bright when he opens them, daring Jon to give him what he needs, to catch them both when they fall- and maybe it's going to hurt, Jon knows it's going to hurt, but Martin is here, and Martin is asking, and just for this moment, Jon sinks into it. 

Martin is here, and Jon will let them have this.

He thrusts deeper, knows it won't take much. He feels his cock gliding over Martin's tongue, feels Martin relaxing, pushing past his reflex to gag so the tip of Jon's cock can slip into his throat. Martin swallows around him, and it's too much, it's too good, it's-

He moves to pull away, tugging at Martin's hair in warning, but Martin holds on tight, keeps Jon lodged deep inside him as waves of pleasure crash over him, spilling over in a breathless moan. Even through the haze of his orgasm he feels Martin drinking him down eagerly, sees him stroking himself once more, twice, and then he's coming too, moaning around Jon's cock as his eyes squeeze shut in an expression of helpless rapture. 

When it's over, Martin sags against him, finally releasing Jon and sinking to the floor, his cheek resting against Jon's knee as he smiles blissfully. 

"Thanks", Martin says, his voice scratchy and hoarse, and it tears at Jon's chest with a vengeance.

"Martin", he says softly, but Martin shakes his head, closing his eyes again as he tries to catch his breath. "Don't. Not yet." Martin nuzzles against his knee, and Jon aches. "Just one more moment." 

And Jon can't deny him, can't deny either of them. 

He leans back, focuses on the gentle warmth still thrumming in his body, the huffs of Martin's breath against his thigh. Tears prickle in the corners of his eyes, but Jon won't let them fall. 

Instead, he closes his eyes, grasps for Martin's hand, and wordlessly twines their fingers together. 

Martin lets him. 

Chapter Text

The office is completely silent. 

Jon cards the fingers of his free hand through Martin's hair, feels him humming where he's leaning against Jon's knee. 

He's a vision, with his eyes closed and the left corner of his parted lips resting just so against Jon's skin. Jon watches his chest rise and fall with each breath, lightly massages his fingers over Martin's scalp to soothe the burn he undoubtedly left there. 

Eventually, Martin's eyes open, and Jon's hands slip out of Martin's hair, out of Martin's grasp. He doesn't look at Jon, the tension slowly returning to his shoulders, the crease between his brows deepening with the same dreaded preparation for the inevitable that Jon is battling with.

Martin barely moves for some time, like the smallest change might shatter the moment and leave it vulnerable to the incoming storm. 

When he starts shifting uncomfortably, Jon notices right away, gathering some tissues from his desk drawer. 

"Martin", he says softly, the first sound to break the silence for a while, and Martin looks up, spots the tissue Jon is holding out to him and takes it with a nod of thanks.

Jon would have liked to clean Martin up himself, to take care of him, shower him in tender touches and words of affection, but he isn't sure he's allowed, not now, not anymore. 

That moment is over, and Jon's temporarily granted permission for these things must gave gone with it. 

He pulls his own pants and trousers back up as Martin wipes himself down, setting everything to rights. Jon watches as their hands methodically erase any and all traces of what just happened here, but at least Martin's hair is still messy, his lips still kiss-red, and Jon did that.

He'll get to keep the memory, if nothing else.

Martin stands on unsteady legs, still seems to avoid looking at him, throws a glance over his shoulder at the door instead. Jon panics immediately, feels something inside him ripping and tearing at the thought of Martin leaving just like that.

"H-Hey, uh-" Jon grasps for words, anything to give him another moment, just a few more precious seconds before he'll lose Martin again. "Come here", is what he says, soft, careful in its foolish recklessness. "Please." 

Something sad returns to Martin's eyes, and Jon hates it. 

"Jon-"

"Just-" Just for a moment, he doesn't say, can't get the words out. "Please, Martin."

Martin presses his lips together, glances at the door again, then at Jon's face. Then he sighs, nods. 

Jon gets out of his chair, guides Martin to sit down instead, and Martin lets himself be led, watches silently as Jon crouches down in front of him, eyes wide. Jon rubs soothingly at his abused knees, presses a kiss to each, a lump stuck in his throat the whole time. Martin doesn't say anything, but he feels his eyes on him, thinks they might be a little more red-rimmed than before when Jon gets up again.

Jon shifts close, needs to feel Martin as long as he'll be allowed, and makes move to straddle his lap. Martin lets him, welcomes him with hands on his waist, even though it looks like it pains him. 

Jon takes a shallow breath, chest constricted too tightly. He leans in, seeking Martin's lips, but-

"Jon, are you sure you-" Martin stops him, something sheepish breaking through the veil of saddened aching on his face. "I mean I only just-"

"I don't care", he says. "Just let me-"

And Martin meets him, then, and he does taste himself in Martin's mouth, salt and bitterness, but he mostly tastes like Martin, and that's more important.

There's little more than a soft breath shared between them when they part. Jon has a thousand words stuck between his heart and his throat, but what good would they do? How do you put into words how every kiss is brillant bliss and aching dread, always fearing it will be your last? Those things would just cut bleeding slices on his tongue if he were to speak them, scarring even deeper on his soul - and maybe on Martin's, too. 

Martin lifts a hand, gently rubbing his jaw in discomfort. 

"Martin?" Jon's voice is all soft concern, sudden guilt burning like acid in his mouth. "Martin, did I hurt you-?"

"No", Martin says, and Jon relaxes a bit. "Just a little sore but- it's good. I wanted it that way", Martin adds, and Jon can't help himself picturing it in his head, the idea of Martin feeling it for days, feeling him for days, savouring the ache in his jaw even when they're back to not speaking-

"I wanted..." Martin trails off, looks at him quizically all of a sudden, his brow furrowed. 

"Everything alright?" 

"Yeah, I just-" Martin hesitates. "It's what I wanted, but were you- Are you sure you're okay...with- what just-? Uhm." He rubs the back of his neck. "It's just...I wasn't thinking- before- but I know that- that is, I heard that, you know. I thought you didn't really- do uhm. This."

Jon feels something in him soften, feels a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, helpless as he's faced with Martin's careful concern, and Jon loves him so much it hurts.

"Ah." He swallows. "Yes, I see."

"I mean you seemed-" Martin flushes. "S-Seemed enthusiastic enough?" he says. "I'm just being stupid, sorry if I've made this awkward- I guess I just want to make sure you weren't just...doing it for me."

"Martin." Jon lifts a disbelieving eyebrow, because surely, Martin's head must be filled with the memory of Jon's face contorted in pleasure, Jon's tongue plunging eagerly into his mouth. "Did I look like I was only doing it for you?"

Martin bites the corner of his lip. 

"...No?" 

Jon can't help but smile, soft and just a hint amused despite the heavy weight on his chest. 

"No", he repeats, "Don't worry. Even though you are correct, and I do appreciate the gesture. It's true that I don't...typically make a habit of- this", he says then, more serious. "It's not something I usually feel any urge to seek out, but..." Jon glances down at his hands, twists his fingers together in his lap. "There are...exceptions."

"Oh?" 

Martin lifts a questioning, meaningful eyebrow, and Jon huffs out a gentle breath of a laugh.

"Yes, Martin", he says, voice full of fond exasperation. "You are my exception."

"Oh." 

Martin looks like he would very much like to come up with something better than that, but appears just a bit too stunned by that little revelation to do so. Jon can't help the pleased burst of warmth in his chest, the hint of a smirk curling his lips.

"Would you say your poetry is how you’ve developed such an eloquent grasp on the English language?” he says, all dry amusement breaking through this aching dismay- because it's Martin, and Jon can't help himself when it's Martin- and it's so unfair, it's so unspeakably cruel that he'd be granted a taste of moments like this, moments of gentle warmth and deceitful ease when he knows it can't last. And yet his fool of a heart clings to it with irrational hope, quick to remind him how embarrassingly, unequivocally in love he is with this lovely, wonderful man gaping back at him in shocked offence. 

Slowly, the corners of Martin's mouth curl up, just for a second, and Jon's heart skips a useless beat in his hollow chest.

Then Martin groans, so beautifully exasperated. 

"Shut up", Martin snaps, not as much bite behind it as he probably aimed for, and Jon loves him. Jon loves him. 

"Make me", he says before he can stop himself, and oh, he didn't expect Martin's eyes to darken like that, didn't expect the heat to return to his expression, flaring up like Jon's low voice is kerosene.

It's Martin who pulls him into a kiss this time, claiming his mouth like he needs him to breathe. Jon lets his hand curl possessively around the back of Martin's neck, stunningly presumptuous as he lets himself pretend like he has any rights to Martin at all, like nothing could try to take him away if he just stakes his claim enough - not Peter Lukas, not the Lonely, not even Martin himself.

They both know it's a lie. 

They both know it's futile dreaming. 

It's far too soon when Martin pulls away, and Jon knows that this is it, the end of their begged and borrowed time. He can feel it in the tension in Martin's shoulders, hears it in the sigh that leaves Martin's lips. 

"Jon."

Jon leans their foreheads together, knows what's coming next. 

"I have to go", Martin says, and Jon knew, he knew, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. "Jon", he says again, more insistently, though the urging tone is laced through with something straining, pained. "Jon, I have to- I need to go."

"I know", Jon says, doesn't move.

"This shouldn't have happened", Martin says into the space between them, even as his fingers clench around Jon's waist.

"I know."

"We should regret this", Martin whispers, and maybe he's right. He should be right. 

Jon swallows.

"I know."

"It can't happen again", Martin says then, a harsh resolve, a fragile plea. Jon presses their foreheads together more firmly, squeezes his eyes closed until it hurts.

"I know", he repeats, and feels Martin's answering breath, Martin's body tensing in dissent and sagging in relieved resignation. 

Jon kisses him, kisses him until he feels the cold tears silently trailing down Martin's cheeks, feels him pulling away internally, mentally retreating and shutting himself off even as their lips stubbornly cling to each other.

Then it's over, Martin draws back, and Jon thinks his hair might be a little less vibrant than it was before, his skin a little colder to the touch. 

"Martin." His throat is tight, his chest tighter. He promised himself he wouldn't say any words that would only serve to hurt them both, but he can't help himself. It's like they're clawing their way through him from the inside out, like they might suffocate him beneath their weight if he doesn't tear them out before Martin leaves. "Martin, I-"

But Martin shakes his head.

"Don't", he says, halfway between cutting sharp and unspeakably tired. "Don't, please, I can't-" He presses his lips together. "I can't. Not-"

Not now, Jon hears. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Jon aches, aches so deeply he fears he might break apart with it. 

"Right", he says quietly, finding that same hollow exhaustion in his own voice. "Yes. Right."

He stands, and his legs feel numb. 

He doesn't stop Martin as he walks to the door. 

Martin looks like he might cry again, and for a second Jon thinks he'll crack open, come back to him, kiss him and let him say the words, everything else be damned, but then something in Martin's eyes shuts off just before he squeezes them closed, fingers going white from his frantic grip around the door knob.

"What- uhm." Jon knows he looks desperate, pathetic, grasping for every precious, forbidden second. He doesn't care. "What file were you looking for?"

Martin blinks slowly at him. 

"What?"

"The file." Jon gestures helplessly to the assortment of boxes around his office. "You said- Earlier, you said you'd come in to...look for a file?"

"I..." Martin pauses. "Oh. Yeah."

"What was it? Maybe I can find it for you", Jon says softly.

Maybe I can do something for you, maybe I can see you again, if only for a little moment-

"No", Martin says, and Jon's stomach drops into something cold and empty. "It-ah. It wasn't important."

Jon opens his mouth, but no. He can take a hint. He knows rejection when it's staring him in the face. 

"Right", he says, and Martin's lips press together tightly. 

"I'm sorry", Martin says, hurriedly pulling the door open. "I- Goodbye, Jon."

And he's gone.

Vanished through the door, fled with such devastating finality that he might just as well have vanished into thin air right between Jon's fingers. 

He's gone, and as Jon sinks back into his chair, he finally allows the tears to come.

Chapter Text

Martin is in the Lonely.

Jon doesn't even hesitate before he follows him.

There's cold fog blocking his vision, sand crunching beneath his feet. There's Peter Lukas, telling him Martin doesn't want to see him, telling him the version of Martin he made up to love in his head doesn't really exist. Then there's no Peter Lukas anymore, and Jon can't feel anything but grim satisfaction about it.

Martin is as cold and pale as the fog when he finds him, hair streaked with white. 

"I really loved you, you know", he says with an empty voice, and Jon wants to scream. 

He cries, there in the wretched desolation of the Forsaken, cupping Martin's freezing face in his hands. He cries for all the months of agonising loneliness and worry they went through, he cries for the versions of them that could exist if they weren't wrapped up in this web of fears and lies.

He cries for a world where they could have been happy together, and hugs Martin close to him, telling him it's alright, that he understands. 

And that's when Martin finally moves, holding him back, and there are tears in his eyes that freeze on his cheeks when Jon pulls back, a bit of ginger shimmering through in his dulled hair. 

"Jon", he says, and Jon doesn't kiss him, because this isn't only about that, so he takes Martin's hand, presses his palm against his own heartbeat. 

"Do you feel that?" Jon says, and Martin blinks slowly.

"I feel..." He squints, the hint of a smile. "I feel you. Your heart is racing, it's- it's beating, Jon."

"Yes", Jon says. "I'm right here."

"You're here", Martin repeats. "I- I see you, Jon."

And then they're hand in hand, cutting their way through thick billowing swirls of fog, clutching at each other, and Jon has a little hysterical second where he thinks of Orpheus and Eurydice- only, when they finally stumble back into the tunnels beneath the Institute, the grip around his fingers is still firm, warmer already, and Martin is still there.

And Jon can breathe.

For the first time since Martin walked out of his office that day, Jon can breathe.

~oOo~ 

They're out.

Jon hasn't let his hand go. 

It's so warm in Martin's. It's been so long since he felt warm, so long since he felt Jon's touch.

"Do you think we'll be safe here for a bit?" Martin asks, and he watches as Jon pauses, his hair moving slightly with the static sizzling around him as his eyes shimmer with green for a moment.

"Yes", he says then, "I think it should-"

Martin doesn't even let him finish. He crowds Jon against the wall of the tunnel, caging him in and smashing their mouths together as he swallows the startled noise Jon makes, drinking it right from his pliant lips.

Jon only takes a second to respond in kind, hands coming up to fist harshly in the back of Martin's sweater, still damp with salty sea air, pulling Martin as close as their bodies will allow and returning Martin's kiss with the same kind of frantic desperation Martin feels.

"Sorry", Martin breathes sheepishly when they finally part, mouths still so close their lips brush with each syllable. "I just had to, I- I needed-" 

"No need to apologise."

Jon's voice is soft, his eyes bright. Martin can feel his breath against his skin, warm and alive and right here, right in Martin's arms- and he can feel him.

"You came for me", he says, voice coloured with slightly dazed awe. 

"Of course I did."

"You found me", he says, and Jon smiles. 

"Yes."

"You..." Martin pulls away a little, reaches out, lightly touches his fingertips to Jon's cheek, just to feel he's really there. "Jon."

"Martin, I-" Jon's eyes search his face, something scared yet hopeful in the crease of his brow. "Can I-", he starts, "Now that you- Can- can we-?"

And there are so many things Martin wants to say, so many words lining up in his head, all the things he hadn't said before because he didn't want them to be his last words.

But there's only one thing that feels truly important right now. 

"Yeah", Martin breathes. "We can."

There's a quiet breath, a heavy second of silence. 

"I love you." It's Jon who says it first, Jon who breaks out into a smile so bright it warms Martin's chilled face like the sun. "I love you- so much-"

"I love you, too." It's as easy as breathing, now. "And I'm sorry", Martin says, "I'm sorry I couldn't- before. But you knew, didn't you? You knew?"

"Yes." Jon nods. "Yes, Martin, I knew. And I understand. You didn't have a choice, I know that, too." 

"Maybe not", Martin admits. "Still, if I'd just- I don't know. I just wish things could've been different. And I am sorry, for everything."

"Me too." Jon takes his hands. "There's a lot that's been out of our control, and I hardly think that will change anytime soon, but- I think, if there’s nothing else in our life that’s our own, I’m glad it’s this." He squeezes Martin's hands, then lets go to cup Martin's face instead. "No matter what's being taken from us", Jon whispers. "They can’t have this."

Jon's thumb sweeps gently over Martin's cheekbone, and it's such an unbearably tender gesture Martin feels his eyes stinging with it. 

"What happens now?"

"I don't know", Jon admits. "I really don't know, but- Stay with me?"

"Yes", Martin says, and there's no doubt, no uncertainty, no hesitation at all. "Yes." 

"Come on", Jon says, lacing their fingers together. He brings their hands up to his mouth, presses a kiss to the back of Martin's hand that's slowly growing warm in his own.

Jon smiles.

"Let's get out of here."