Chapter Text
Martin is standing in the middle of his sitting room, trying and failing to get the folds on his jacket to lie straight, when a gentle pair of hands, long-fingered and tawny brown, cover his.
“Here, let me,” Jon says softly. When Martin moves his hands away, they deftly straighten the interwoven pieces of olive-green cloth that make up his jacket, fastening them in place with the golden clasps lying on the side table. Their hands linger on his chest just a moment longer before falling away. “There. You … you look lovely, Martin.”
Martin’s face grows warm. “Th-thanks.” He fiddles with the cuff of his jacket for a moment before looking up at Jon, and his breath catches in his throat.
The golden bracelets still line Jon’s wrists, but where before they had been simple thin bands, now they’re branched and intricate, their patterns similar to that of tree branches or cracks in ice or spider’s webs. Jon’s jacket is nearly identical to Martin’s, in color and in style. The sleeves fall loosely just below their elbows, and there’s a high collar decorated with the same branching golden patterns as the bracelets. The jacket tapers near-seamlessly into a billowing skirt at Jon’s waist, velvety and pleated and thick enough to chase away the mid-winter cold. The hem is embroidered with golden swirls that form unblinking eyes, and the pattern trickles up the length of the skirt before getting lost in the folds of fabric. Their hair is pulled up into a neat bun, held in place by delicate gold hairpins and threaded through with tiny white flowers. A few golden eyes watch Martin from between the bracelets, gaze warm and affectionate.
Jon catches Martin staring, and they raise an eyebrow. “What?”
“You’re beautiful,” Martin murmurs, loving the way that Jon’s cheeks darken when he says it. They still get flustered every time, no matter how many times he says it. It’s hopelessly endearing.
“O-oh. I … um. Th-thank you.” They smile shyly, like they’re still surprised—even now, after several months of being romantic partners—that Martin would say such a thing. As if Martin’s ever found Jon anything other than stunning.
Tentatively, Martin reaches forward and takes one of Jon’s hands in his. Then, a bit impulsively, he lifts Jon’s hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss to their knuckles. “I love you,” he says, because he can. Because he feels it so intensely, he thinks he might burst with it. Because he can stand here in his home and hold Jon’s hand and not have to worry that it’ll all be taken away from him.
If anything, Jon’s cheeks grow darker. “I love you too,” they say softly, turning their hand over in Martin’s and threading their fingers together. They squeeze Martin’s hand, holding it tightly in theirs. For a few moments, there’s simply this: standing hand in hand, listening to the quiet crackle of wood in the hearth. Then, Jon exhales and gives Martin a soft smile. “A-are you … are you ready to go?”
Martin allows himself a moment more to just look before nodding. “Yeah.”
They’re halfway across the village when nerves begin to bubble in the pit of Martin’s stomach. Part of it is the same nervousness he gets every time he walks through the village with Jon. Even though it’s been nearly two months since his encounter with Lukas, he still sometimes expects them to appear and whisk Jon (or himself) away into the fog. Part of it, though, is the fact that this is the first time he’s going to be attending a public event with Jon as his partner. It’s … oddly terrifying.
He lets the nerves linger unaddressed for all of two minutes before he finally folds. “Is it weird that I’m nervous?”
Jon squeezes his hand once. “No, not at all. I-I’m nervous too if I’m being honest.”
“Really? I … honestly didn’t think this was as big of a deal for you as it is for me.”
“While I’ll admit that this isn’t something I’m very … familiar with—o-on a first-hand basis, that is—I understand its significance. This is … important to you, so it’s important to me.”
“Oh,” Martin says quietly. “Th … thanks, Jon.”
Jon’s smile warms Martin from the inside out, despite the cold. “Maybe it would be best if you reminded me what to expect. It is my first time attending a wedding, after all. I’d like to be prepared.”
“R-right.” Martin’s cheeks redden in a way that isn’t entirely from the chill. They both know that Jon knows exactly what a wedding entails, but Martin takes comfort in laying it all out in detail as they finish crossing the village and begin to hear the sounds of music and chatter.
First, there’s the ceremony, simple as it is with just a few spoken words and the exchange of tokens. “In this case, bracelets,” Martin says, trying and failing not to look at the bracelets on Jon’s wrists as he does so. Then, the dancing begins. The first few songs and steps are the same for every wedding, done hand-in-hand with a strip of cloth tied around the couple’s wrists so as to not lose contact. The meal usually contains an assortment of freshly caught fish, dried fruits, root vegetables, and warm bread, served alongside what inevitably ends up being a river’s worth of alcohol. The celebration lasts into the early morning, carried through the night by flickering candles and joyous laughter. Then, it transitions into the housewarming, where the couple’s house is adorned with beautiful metalcrafts and floral arrangements and colored ribbons.
“It’s exhausting, really,” Martin admits as they come into view of the large, high-ceilinged building that’s built to accommodate the entire population of the village, “but weddings aren’t a common affair here, so we tend to make a whole day of it.”
Jon opens their mouth to say something, but before they get the chance, somebody calls Martin’s name. Martin squints in the direction of the building and sees Sasha waving at them from just outside an open doorway. Her face is split into a smile and her bright red jacket is a pop of color amongst the whites and grays of the winter afternoon. She doesn’t wait for them to approach, instead jogging toward them and beginning to talk as soon as she’s close enough for them to hear.
“You’re here! Pushing it a little close, don’t you think? The ceremony’s about to start.” She gives them a quick once-over and nods crisply. “You both look lovely.” She grabs at Martin’s free hand and tugs him toward the building. “Come on—it’s fucking freezing out here and it’s much more fun in there.”
Martin suppresses a smile and allows Sasha to guide him and Jon through the thinning crowd and into the building. The warmth inside sends prickles across his skin as his body attempts to adjust to the change in temperature. “You know,” he says, “I think you’re more excited about this than we are.”
“Well, then you should be more excited because I refuse to curb my enthusiasm on a wedding day,” Sasha says primly. “You know how much I look forward to these!”
Martin rolls his eyes, amused. “Yeah, yeah—you’ve only been talking about it for weeks.” He turns to look at Jon, who’s surveying the crowd with wide eyes. Just the usual two, Martin notes, and he’s not sure whether he feels relieved or disappointed at the fact. Logically, he knows that it’s better if the entire village doesn’t know that Jon isn’t human, for simplicity’s sake if nothing else. He still can’t help but acutely feel the loss of the weight of Jon’s eyes on him.
“Is everything all right so far?” Martin says quietly, giving Jon’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I know you said that you struggle with crowds sometimes.”
Jon gives Martin a small smile, squeezing his hand in return. “Yes, I … I’m all right. Having my eyes closed—ah, th-the extra ones, that is—helps. There’s less … pressure, i-if that makes sense. Less knowledge trying to get through.”
Martin nods. “Okay. You’ll … let me know if it gets to be too much?”
“Of course,” Jon says softly.
“Georgie!” Sasha calls.
Martin looks over to see Georgie, Melanie, Tim, and Danny standing in one of the less-crowded corners of the building, which Martin is thankful for. Tim’s eyes light up when he sees Martin, his mouth stretching into a wide grin. The moment they push through the rest of the crowd and join them in the corner, Tim says with no small amount of glee, “Look at you two! You match.”
Martin feels the flush return to his cheeks. “Yes, Tim—that was the intent.”
“No need to get defensive! It’s cute.” Then, at Martin’s flat look: “Oh come on, don’t be so grumpy. It’s bad luck to frown at a wedding, you know.”
“I’m not grumpy,” Martin says sullenly. “And I’m pretty sure it’s only bad luck for the people getting married to frown at a wedding, which in this case would be Naomi and Evan. Not us.”
“Not yet,” Tim says cheekily, which earns him an elbow in the side from Sasha and a rather impressive flush from Martin.
Georgie changes the subject, and Martin very pointedly does not mention the fact that the idea of it—he and Jon, married—makes something warm and fluttery fill his stomach. No need to incur any more teasing and needling than is strictly necessary.
A few minutes later, the chimes sound to start the ceremony. They settle onto a set of benches near the edge of the building, thighs pressed together and backs leaning against the chilled wooden wall. Jon’s hand is warm in Martin’s as the music transitions into a lovely, lilting three-step and the soon-to-be-wedded couple emerges from a door off to the side. They’re both clad in ice-blue jackets woven with complementary patterns, and a stark white cloth tied around both of their eyes blinds them as their escorts guide them to the front of the room.
It’s symbolic, Martin had explained when Jon had questioned the necessity of the blindfolds. Something about seeing each other in a new light during the ceremony. Honestly, nobody really cares about that anymore—it’s mostly just tradition by now.
The rest of the ceremony passes quickly. The blindfolds are removed, then wrapped around the couple’s clasped hands to bind them together. The officiant holds a heavy book in hand, reading from it loudly and crisply. To love even in death sticks in Martin’s mind just a bit too long. If Jon notices that he tightens his grip on their hand at the words, they don’t mention it. Vows are spoken, bracelets traded—“I made those,” Melanie whispers with more than a hint of pride in her voice—and kisses placed on the insides of wrists.
Martin’s eyes flick down, alighting on the skin on the inside of Jon’s wrist. What would it feel like, he wonders, to press his lips there in front of a room full of people like this? To slip a bracelet or a necklace or a ring onto Jon’s wrist or neck or finger and to feel Jon give him one in return? To remove that blindfold, blink as his eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and see Jon standing in front of him, all soft skin and soft eyes and soft smiles?
He wants to know, he realizes, so suddenly it leaves him breathless. He wants to know so, so badly.
The room erupts into noise—claps and whistles and shouts—as the ceremony concludes, tearing Martin abruptly free from his thoughts. He stands, pulling Jon up with him, and offers a whistle of his own even as his heart hammers in his chest and his head feels filled with fog. The disorientation fades as he mechanically helps pull benches to the side of the room, creating a large space in the center for dancing. But even as he sits near the periphery with Jon and the others, listening to Melanie and Tim strike up a heated debate about whether bracelets or knives are more romantic tokens for weddings, he finds he can’t quite shake himself back into a celebratory mindset.
To love even in death. If they ever marry, the officiant will say those words to them, and Martin doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop himself from thinking in return, only one of us will die. It’s just a turn of phrase, he knows—a romanticization, a way to say forever without saying forever. But he can’t help thinking about it anyway.
Only one of us will die.
Will Jon love him after he’s gone? Will it even matter?
The music strikes up, slow and gentle. The newly wedded couple steps into the center of the room hand in hand; the cloth is already tied around their wrists, that same stark white one from the ceremony. Their smiles, wide and affectionate, are visible even from where Martin is sitting. As they begin to dance, Martin imagines—just for a moment—that it’s him and Jon there instead, moving through a series of carefully learned steps. He imagines Jon practicing the steps with him beforehand and laughing when Martin inevitably trips over his own feet and nearly falls. He imagines Jon’s hands clasped in his, their eyes bright and glittering with love and rapture, and tastes something bittersweet on his tongue.
Because he’s certain, watching the ceremony unfold, that he wants it. He wants to marry Jon. He wants to press kisses to the inside of their wrist and float with them across the dance floor and eat slices of dried fruit together and sit amongst the flowers and gifts in their home and kiss them until they’re both breathless. He wants to spend the rest of his life with Jon, and that should be a happy thought—and it is, one that makes Martin feel weightless and almost giddy. But it also eats at him, because how can he be so certain of it when he’s still uncertain about what length that life will be?
It should be easy. He wants to be with Jon for as long as he lives, and the thought of leaving Jon behind to live without him hurts like a knife in his side. Saying yes to immortality, therefore, should be easy. But every time Martin imagines agreeing to Jon’s proposal, he feels such an overwhelming wave of guilt that he’s almost sick with it.
Sasha laughs beside him, and Martin thinks, what about Sasha? Georgie picks up Melanie’s hand and kisses it with a wink, and Martin thinks, what about Georgie and Melanie? Tim slings an arm around Danny’s shoulders with an easy smile, and Martin thinks, what about Tim and Danny?
Just make sure you aren’t making any decisions based on what you think will make other people happy, Sasha’s voice says in his mind, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. You need to do what’s right for you, Martin.
Martin exhales slowly. The music has taken on a faster tempo, and at some point, Tim had left and come back with enough mugs of mulled wine for everybody. Martin hasn’t taken a single sip of his. He does so now, feeling the alcohol slide pleasantly down his throat, and lets the way it warms his stomach ground him. For now, he tells himself, he needs to be here. Jon’s hand is still in his, and Martin thinks guiltily that he’s probably just been sitting here for a fair amount of time, staring blankly at nothing and not saying a single word to Jon, his date, his partner, his beloved.
He can spiral later. It’s not like he hasn’t been doing it for weeks now.
Martin takes another drink, sets his mug on the bench next to him, and bumps his shoulder gently against Jon’s. “How are you doing?” he says, quietly enough so as to not disturb the conversation happening next to him but loud enough to cut over the music and chatter of the crowd.
Jon hums. “Well enough,” they say, giving Martin’s hand a light squeeze. “It’s … nice. Gods, we—we don’t really do celebrations, and certainly not wedding celebrations. I—I think I like it.” Jon hesitates before saying, so quietly Martin barely hears them over the din, “Perhaps someday, we … we might organize a wedding of our own?”
Martin’s breath sticks in his throat. It takes him a few seconds to dislodge it. “Y-yeah. I’d … I’d like that.”
Jon’s face relaxes, the nervous creases around their eyes smoothing. “Good,” they say softly, rubbing a thumb across the back of Martin’s hand. “Th-there’s no rush, of course.”
“Of course,” Martin echoes. By the lingering tension in Jon’s shoulders, he gets the feeling that they’re not solely talking about the wedding.
Martin studies Jon’s face—the careful hope and quiet longing in their eyes, the complete and utter devotion in the way they’re smiling at him—and feels something inside him shift. It’s … not a decision, exactly, or at least not the kind he’s been agonizing over for weeks. It’s closer to an ultimatum, o-or an establishment of conditions, one that exists solely within his own head. He feels the weight of Jon’s eyes on him, hears the murmur of music around him, tastes the buzz of alcohol on his tongue, and knows:
If he chooses to marry Jon, he’ll also choose to perform the ritual. Part of it feels fairer to Jon, but part of it also satisfies a selfish itch in the back of Martin’s mind. If he marries Jon, he doesn’t want to leave them. He wants to sit in their cottage, surrounded by flowers that bloom and die and bloom and die and bloom again as the years pass, and he wants to do it as long as he’s able to. If he puts on that blindfold and allows Jon to slip a bracelet onto his wrist and kiss the space just beneath it, he wants to mean it—that promise that he’ll love Jon forever, that when given the chance to truly make it forever, he’ll take it. More than anything, though, the thought of hurting Jon—of growing old while Jon remains the same, of dying while Jon watches—makes something deep within Martin ache, and he allows himself to think, just for a moment, selfishly, that he doesn’t want to.
He wants to say yes. Regardless of should or would or could, he wants to. And he also wants to marry Jon, more than anything. So for now, he ties the two together and pushes them to the back of his mind and knows that when he’s ready, they’ll be there.
Martin speaks easier after that, a bit of weight lifted from his shoulders. At some point, food appears along the back wall and Georgie and Melanie bring back plates laden with smoked emerald trout and dried ondu and spiced potatoes and carrots. “Figs are out of season, I suppose,” Jon says, sounding so deeply sad at the thought that Martin can’t help but giggle, then giggle harder at the affronted look Jon sends him.
The food disappears shockingly quickly. “I was hungry,” Danny says defensively when Tim blames him for the sudden disappearance of three whole sections of fish, and they quickly dissolve into a miniature row about the concept of sharing.
With a sigh, Martin stands, letting Jon’s hand slip from his. “Calm down,” he says, amused. “Gods’ sake. I’ll go get some more. It’s not like we’re suffering from a famine.”
Jon stands as well, their fingers tangling with his habitually. “I’ll come with. I suspect we’ll need four hands for this endeavor.”
Martin gathers the plates and balances them in a hand as they walk. He’s in the middle of strategizing—“Mm, maybe two plates of fish this time and one of fruit,” Martin says, to Jon’s immediate protestation—when he pushes through a gap in the crowd and his words die on his lips.
Oh, is all he can think, startled and numb in equal measure. I didn’t think she’d be here.
“Martin,” his mother says. Somehow, she manages to make his name sound like an accusation rather than a greeting. She’s leaning heavily on a knobby wooden cane, and Ophelia is next to her, a careful hand resting on her elbow for support. They’re standing right next to the food table, a half-filled plate held in Ophelia’s other hand. “I see you do still reside in this village. Interesting.”
A wave of guilt washes through Martin. He’d meant to visit her yesterday—he visits every week, even though most days he’s told that she’s sick or resting or simply uninterested in seeing him—but he’d gotten caught up in wedding preparations. He’d sat in the temple with Agnes as she helped tailor his jacket, and Gerry had decorated his nails with pale yellow seashell dust paint. By the time he’d gotten back to the village, it had been late and he’d been sure that she would be asleep. I should have made the time, he thinks, staring at the thin line of her lips and the hardness of her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says, even though he knows an apology won’t do much good. “I meant to visit, I just…” He trails off, swallows. “Y-you look well.” He offers as kind a smile as he can muster. “I’m glad. The medicine i-is helping, then?”
“It is,” Ophelia says. Martin is infinitely thankful for the genuine gratitude in her voice. “Whichever book you found those recipes in, I would love to read it.”
Great! Martin thinks, a bit hysterically. There is no book. Fantastic.
“I can make a copy for you,” Martin says instead. He dearly hopes that he can come up with enough medicinal recipes to fill an entire book.
Or that Jon knows enough recipes, Martin thinks. He remembers that Jon is standing beside him just as his mother’s eyes slide to the right and she says, “And who is this?”
“Oh! R-right.” Martin smiles, a bit nervously. “Mum, this is … Jon.” Why am I nervous? This is ridiculous; it’s not like she’s going to care anyway. With more confidence than he feels, he says, “They’re my partner.”
His mother glances down at their joined hands, then back up at Jon’s face. She’s completely expressionless. Finally, she gives Jon what Martin recognizes as her attempt at a smile—a barely-there twitch of the lips, like it physically pains her to do so—and says, “A pleasure.” For a moment—one wonderful, wonderful moment—Martin allows himself to think that this will be a pleasant interaction. Then, his mother says, “Are you the one Martin kept sneaking off to visit?” with clear displeasure in her voice, and that thought shatters as quickly as it had come.
“I’m … not sure I know what you mean,” Jon says slowly. Their hand is in a vise grip around Martin’s, and there’s a deep line between their eyebrows. The edges of their mouth are pinched shut like they’re trying very hard to hold back a scowl. It occurs to Martin then that, of the two of them, it might actually be Jon who dislikes his mother more rather than the other way around.
“Right,” Martin’s mother says in the same tone of voice she would use when he was a child and she knew he was lying. “He was never around, you know. Collecting herbs is quick business—hardly an affair that takes an entire afternoon and nearly an entire evening. It’s for the best I moved out. Clearly, Martin’s priorities lie … elsewhere.”
“He doesn’t owe you anything,” Jon says tightly, and Martin’s breath catches in his throat. He squeezes Jon’s hand tightly in warning—stop, just don’t say anything—but the damage is already done. His mother’s eyes narrow, her mouth dipping down at the corners, and Martin’s heart sinks to the soles of his feet.
“Doesn’t he?” she says, voice hard and brittle. “With all that I’ve done for him—raised him, fed him, kept a roof over his head—it feels like a small ask to request that he return the favor. Besides, I hardly see how that’s your business.”
“Jon,” Martin says under his breath, squeezing Jon’s hand tighter. Let it go.
Jon clearly wants to argue. The lines of their body are rigid, their mouth set into a thin line, their hand almost crushing Martin’s with how tightly it’s gripping his. But Martin squeezes Jon’s hand firmly a third time and, after a moment, they exhale slowly. “You’re right. I suppose it’s not. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”
Jon turns, tugging on Martin’s hand, and Martin allows himself to be led away, giving Ophelia an apologetic look as he does so. Her expression, before it disappears in the crowd, is that of someone who’s witnessed something they very much wish they hadn’t and that they’re certain they weren’t meant to see. For a moment, Martin feels guilty that he’d put her through that. Then, he feels guilty for another reason entirely.
“I just left her,” Martin whispers. It’s nearly inaudible above the noise of the wedding, but Jon must hear it anyway because they stop near the far corner of the table of food, turning to face Martin and collecting his other hand in theirs.
“Martin, I … I know this probably isn’t helpful to hear, but I honestly don’t think she wanted to continue the conversation further.”
Martin sucks in a shuddering breath. “You’re right.” He means for the words to have bite, but instead, they just sound tired. “That isn’t helpful at all. A-and neither was you … jumping to my defense or whatever.”
Jon’s face crumples into something apologetic and concerned. It eats a hole in Martin’s chest. “I’m sorry,” they say, pulling Martin’s hands to their chest and trapping them against the fabric of their jacket. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I just … I—I know what she’s done, a-and how she’s treated you, and I couldn’t just stand there and—and pretend t-to like her.” Then, after a moment: “Sorry. That … wasn’t helpful either.”
“Nope,” Martin says with a humorless laugh. “It’s true though, isn’t it. Logically, I know … I know that she treats me poorly. I just … she’s just…”
“She’s your mother,” Jon says softly.
Mutely, Martin nods. “I—I know that shouldn’t matter. I don’t feel this way toward my father, and h-he’s my father, you know. But it … it does matter, somehow. I still feel like I—I need to be there for her, even when she doesn’t want me to be, because I…” Martin looks away. “I haven’t been in the past, and that’s … that’s part of the problem.” With a mouth dry and cottony: “That’s why she left.”
Martin can tell that Jon wants to argue; he can see it in their eyes. But all Jon says, quietly, is: “I understand.” They sigh and rub their thumbs across the backs of Martin’s hands. “I—I wish I knew how to help.”
Martin takes a breath and flips his hands over, lacing his fingers gently with Jon’s. “Just this,” he says with a small smile. “This is enough.”
The smile Jon gives him in return is warm and kind and safe. Martin wants to bottle it up and treasure it forever. “Okay,” Jon says quietly. They gather Martin into their arms, and Martin allows himself to be embraced with a soft sigh. He twists his hands in the soft, loose fabric of Jon’s jacket, breathing in the scent of paper and ink and, fainter, the daffodils that grow beside Martin’s cottage.
Martin isn’t sure how long they stand there, holding one another close, before he finally suggests they go retrieve the food. It’s long enough that when they return, Danny complains loudly of being starved, Sasha gives Martin a concerned look, and Melanie makes a joke about sneaking off for some time alone, huh? which earns her a glare from Martin that’s tempered significantly by the bright red flush that rises to his face. They set the plates down between the seven of them, and Tim immediately goes for the largest pieces of fish, swatting Danny’s hands away when he tries to grab them first.
Jon selects a few pieces of dried fruit, nibbling on them slowly. Martin tries to let himself be absorbed back into the celebratory atmosphere—to enjoy the rest of the night with food, drink, and the people he loves. But he can’t stop feeling his mother’s eyes on the back of his neck. Every time he twists to look, though, there’s nothing. Just a wall of people—some dancing, others laughing, many impaired by a not-insignificant amount of alcohol.
He makes it another half hour before it all becomes too much. He reluctantly announces his exhaustion, using the flimsy excuse of having to get up early to finish copying the last book for Tim and Danny before they leave. He knows it doesn’t land quite right from the way that Sasha’s hand brushes against his as he stands, her eyebrows knit together with worry.
“We’ll see you at the housewarming, right?”
Martin gives her what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
He makes the rest of his goodbyes quickly. Jon’s hand is clasped in his as they push through the crowd once more and emerge into the frigid night air. The moonlight dances across the snow, bright white mixing with the warm glow of candles that line the path as they begin to make their way back to Martin’s cottage. Once they’re far enough away that the music has faded to a low murmur, Martin sighs quietly and says, “I’m sorry. I—I wish we could have stayed longer, I just…”
“I understand,” Jon says, rubbing a thumb across the back of Martin’s hand. “No need to apologize.”
Martin can’t help the frustrated groan that escapes him. “Ugh, sorry. I just—it was supposed to be a fun night, a-and here I’ve gone and ruined it.”
“Hey,” Jon says firmly. A few eyes open on the side of their neck, and Martin feels a rush of comfort at their presence. He’d missed them, in a strange sort of way. “You haven’t ruined anything. I had a lovely time at the wedding, and I’m having a lovely time walking home with you now.”
Martin’s first instinct is to argue. Instead, he breathes in and out a few times and bumps his shoulder against Jon’s. “I-I’m glad. I … had a lovely time as well.” Then, in an attempt at humor: “Though I would have had a better time if someone had agreed to dance with me.”
It works. Jon’s expression sours, but their voice is playfully defensive when they say, “Believe me, Martin, you would have had a significantly worse time had I agreed to dance with you. Toes would have been stepped on.”
“A worthwhile sacrifice, in my opinion.”
Jon’s mouth curls into a smile. “Next time, then.”
Warmth fills Martin from head to toe, and his mouth forms a smile to match. “Next time.”
The cottage is chilled when they return, the fire having gone out while they were gone. Martin rubs his hands together briskly before stacking more wood in the hearth—enough to hopefully burn throughout the rest of the night—and setting it ablaze. He allows Jon to undo the clasps of his jacket, unraveling the fabric from around him and folding it carefully atop the table. Then, Martin reaches for the clasps on Jon’s jacket to return the favor.
It’s not the first time that Martin’s seen Jon bare-chested. But he still finds himself enraptured by the way that, as soon as the fabric falls away, clusters of eyes wink open on the newly revealed skin as if finally thankful to have the room to breathe.
“What?” Jon says softly, and Martin realizes that he’s gone still. One of his hands is brushing against Jon’s upper arm, the other gripping the jacket, soft and thick and warm.
“N-nothing.” Martin feels his cheeks grow hot as he pulls his hand away from Jon’s arm. He can still feel Jon’s eyes on him as he looks away and sets the jacket atop his—the colors a perfect match, cut from the same cloth. And as he so often does beneath that tender gaze, he folds. “It’s just … you’re really pretty, you know.”
Martin doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of the way that Jon reacts to compliments—like every time is the first time and they’re surprised to have received one. A few eyes on their waist blink shut as they wrap their arms around themself self-consciously. “So you keep telling me.”
“Well, it keeps being true.” Martin steps forward, resting his hands gently on Jon’s elbows. “I love you, and I think you’re lovely, and I think you look lovely.” Then, in an effort to smooth away the awkward tension in Jon’s shoulders: “I think it’s the eyes.”
Jon looks startled; a small, breathy laugh escapes them. “Is that so?” Then, as if in demonstration, dozens more eyes blink open, covering nearly every patch of bare skin and illuminating the room in a gentle, shimmering gold. Martin lets the feeling of being seen and known and understood wash over him, and when he closes his eyes, he can still see Jon standing before him. They’re all eyes, unblinking and almost too intense to look at, but somehow, Martin can still tell that they’re smiling at him.
“Is it strange,” they say quietly through an invisible and unmoving mouth, “if I say that I always thought people would be scared of me if I showed them this?”
“I don’t think it’s strange.” Martin’s thumbs rub gentle circles where they’re still resting on Jon’s elbows. He thinks there must be eyes there, but all he feels is soft skin, warm to the touch despite the still-pervasive chill in the room. “But y-you…you know I never was, right?”
“I know.” The affection in their voice sticks in Martin’s throat and clusters in the corners of his eyes. “I think I knew, before I even met you face-to-face, that you wouldn’t be. You felt … safe. I wondered at first if it was the temple, drawing you closer to me. But then I met you and saw your face when I showed you this version of myself for the first time, and I … I knew it wasn’t. It was just you.” Quieter, as if admitting something terribly vulnerable: “I think that’s the moment I knew that I loved you.”
Martin knows how long Jon has loved him for; he’s known it for a while. It still takes his breath away to hear it. That in the first few minutes of their time together, Jon had already come to love him. He still wonders why, sometimes.
“I love you like this,” Martin says softly. He runs his hands gently up Jon’s arms, over the deceptively smooth skin with eyes that blink at him even as he passes atop them with his palms. He’d asked Jon once if it hurt—touching their eyes. Jon had launched into a complicated explanation about godly physiology and the limitations of the human mind that essentially boiled down to no, it doesn’t. Martin has found himself enamored ever since with running hands across Jon’s skin, brushing against eyes that both are and aren’t there, that he can sometimes feel and sometimes can’t. “I love the way you look, and I…” Martin swallows and looks down at his hands. “I love the way it feels when you look at me.”
Jon sucks in a breath—that surprise again, like it’s the first time. “How convenient, then,” they say reverently, “that I love to look at you.”
They stand there for a while longer. Jon’s gaze prickles across Martin’s skin, and Martin traces the lines of Jon’s arms and chest with his fingers until a yawn—sudden and entirely unwanted—splits his face nearly in two. Jon chuckles, and in an instant, most of their eyes blink shut, leaving the room lit only by the fire in the hearth. “I suppose it’s time to get some rest.”
“For me to get some rest, you mean.” Martin’s words are punctuated by another yawn.
“I sleep,” Jon says defensively. “Sometimes. I do try, at least.”
“And I appreciate the effort, as unnecessary as it is.”
“Unnecessary? I have to disagree. I find being in bed with you highly necessary.”
“Mm, I suppose you’re right. It is warmer with two people, particularly when one of them is shockingly clingy for someone who doesn’t actually sleep.”
“I feel distinctly made fun of and underappreciated. Perhaps I shouldn’t come to bed with you?”
“… I didn’t say that.”
It’s some minutes later, when they’re both tucked under the heavy woolen duvet and Jon is pressed against Martin’s side with an arm slung across his chest, that Martin buries his nose in Jon’s hair and brushes his lips against their temple. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Jon murmurs, curling their hand in the fabric of Martin’s sleep shirt and nestling their face in the crook of his neck. “Always.”
Even in death, Martin’s mind supplies sleepily as he begins to drift off. Even in the absence of.
The last thing he thinks before he falls asleep is that he wants it—an eternity of this, curled next to Jon’s side with the chance to love them in a thousand different ways in a thousand different places. He wants it so very, very much.
It’s not a yes, not yet. But it’s a someday. And for now, Martin thinks, that’s enough.
. . .
The snow melts, bringing with it the mild heat, bright sun, and long days of summer. And a little more than a year after Martin first stumbled upon the temple in the mountain, as the chill begins to set in and the leaves begin to turn once again, his mother dies.
Should he feel sadder, he wonders as he stands in a small building that smells strongly of myrrh and anise and listens to the man in front of him lay out the standard procedure for honoring (and disposing of) the dead. Should he be crying, he wonders as he stands in the small clearing just outside the village—Jon, Sasha, Georgie, and Melanie at his side—and watches flames begin to lick up the sides of the pale green cloth covering his mother’s body. Should he mourn for longer, he wonders as he sits in the library, copying book after book after book, assuring Sasha repeatedly that yes, he’s all right, and no, he doesn’t need more time off.
Should he feel something, he wonders as he sorts through the meager remainder of his mother’s things, deciding what to keep and what to discard, other than awful, nauseating relief?
Five nights after the burning, he finally cracks. He shakes apart in Jon’s arms and says, over and over and over, I didn’t do enough, it’s my fault she’s gone, there’s nothing I could have done, I wish she were still here, I’m glad she isn’t, I’m horrible horrible horrible. Jon rubs their hands across his back in slow, soothing circles and whispers into his hair, It’s all right, it’s okay, you’re okay, just breathe, Martin, love. Breathe.
Martin breathes. He breathes and it’s winter, breathes again and it’s spring. And when the warmth of the summer air fills his lungs, he breathes it in deeply, takes Jon’s hand in his, and says, “Let’s go for a walk.”
Whenever, in the lonelier moments of his youth, Martin had imagined proposing, he’d pictured beautiful waterfalls and cascading flowers and heartfelt speeches and tears flowing down smiling cheeks. This moment, he thinks as he takes one of Jon’s hands in his and gently places a set of matching bracelets into it—hand-made, a bit rough despite his best efforts and Melanie’s less-than-patient guidance, crafted from black metal with cat’s eye gems inset at regular intervals—is nothing like he’d imagined. No; this moment, he thinks as Jon looks at him with wide eyes and says, like they can’t quite believe it, “You’re … saying yes?” is so, so much better.
Martin discovers that Jon can dance, and they do so with gentle hands clasped in his and a dark green cloth wound around their wrists that brushes up against the bracelets as they move together beneath the candlelight. He laughs around mouthfuls of fish and figs, presses kisses to the inside of Jon’s wrist, and trails his fingers along the strings of flowers that stretch between every exposed beam of their cottage. And he lets out an unstable breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as the last word falls out of Jon’s mouth, glittering briefly on the page in front of them before dissolving into nothingness.
Jon shuts the book carefully and looks at Martin with wide, anxious eyes. “It’s … it’s done, Martin. H-how do you feel?”
Relieved, Martin wants to say. Scared. Hopeful. Nervous. Guilty. Excited. Anxious. Relaxed.
“Good,” he says instead because it’s simpler and true. He takes Jon’s hands in his and presses them to his chest where his heart sits, beating steadily as it will continue to for years and years and years. “I—I feel … I feel good, Jon.”
“Good,” Jon echoes. The smile they give him—relieved and filled with such a naked, tender happiness—sits comfortably in his chest, nestling close to his heart. “Come on, then. Let’s go home.”