Chapter Text
Jon and Martin sit on the couch. Jon is reading and Martin is scribbling frantically in his notebook (with the fountain pen Jon had bought him at a store they’d visited in Edinburgh, the one he’d picked up and thought, Martin, and snuck into their pile of books at the register, and then given it to him in the car), and they have been in Scotland for four days. Jon can’t stop turning it all over in his head—the fact that they’re here, that they’re safe, and they’re together, and Martin is whole and all right and on the couch here next to him. It’s a struggle even to focus on the book, to not just put it down and stare at Martin, the wholeness of him on the couch next to Jon.
Jon bites back a smile, staring down at his book. It’s too much, sometimes, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it.
Martin sets down the pen, puts the notebook onto his lap and flips through a few pages. His free hand falls to the couch between them. Jon’s stomach turns a little, looking at Martin’s hand out of the corner of his eye (bitten nails, callused fingers, ink stains on the knuckles). His hand moves, almost unconsciously, onto the cushion near Martin’s, a tentative motion in consideration of whether or not he should take Martin’s hand. (Four days, five if you count the trip and before, in London, and he’s still uncertain, still hesitant to take Martin’s hand. They’d held hands all the way out of the Lonely; every time Jon had tried to let go, hesitant and paranoid that Martin didn’t want this—I really loved you—Martin hadn’t let go.) It should be easy; they’ve ran away to Scotland, they are sharing a bed every night, and yesterday (a bad morning, fog in the kitchen and Martin’s eyes going gray) they’d hugged for nearly an hour, clinging to each other right in the middle of the breakfast nook. It should be so easy for Jon to reach over and take Martin’s hand. But Jon can still only hesitate.
He’s still contemplating it when Martin, absently, reaches over, slides his hand over Jon’s and tangles their fingers together. His hand is warm, and Jon bites back a wider smile at the sudden contact, shifts his hand to make the position less awkward. Martin hasn’t looked away from his notebook, but when Jon looks over him, he thinks Martin is smiling a little, too.
Something warm blooms in Jon’s chest, uncontrollable, and he can’t hold back the smile anymore, can’t hold back the uncontrollable tug towards Martin: a tether, anchoring him to the ground. He shuts his book and pushes it aside, shifts his grip on Martin’s hand and lifts it, heavy, to press a kiss to the back of it.
Martin’s face twitches, endearingly, and he shuts his notebook and turns to look at Jon. “What are you doing?” he says—not sounding upset, or displeased, or anything like that, just… somewhere akin to amused, and confused, and astonished all at once.
Jon doesn’t let go of Martin’s hand. He presses his nose to the soft skin of Martin’s wrist, says, “I think that should be rather obvious, Martin.”
“You seem to have acquired possession of my hand,” says Martin, his voice shaking a little. He’s looking at Jon with some increasing soft emotion written all over his face, and the tug in Jon’s chest only increases. “A-and I don’t mind, really, it’s just… I’ll need it back eventu—oh,” he says, faintly, as Jon presses another kiss to the inside of his wrist, just over the pulse point. “Oh."
Jon squeezes Martin’s hand, lifts his eyes to meet Martin’s. "Is… is this all right?” he says, and Martin nods, immediately, in a frantic sort of way, and Jon thinks of all the months Martin has spent alone.
He kisses Martin’s wrist again, and then his palm. His knuckles, the pads of his fingers, one by one. Martin’s hand is shaking. “Jon,” he says, “Jon,” and when Jon looks back, his eyes are wet.
Jon grips Martin’s hand in both of his, momentarily terrified. “Martin—Martin, I can stop…”
Martin shakes his head in that frantic way again. He lets go of Jon’s hand, but then his arms are going around Jon, and he’s saying, “Is this okay?” and Jon’s nodding, too, and then Martin is pulling Jon onto his lap. Jon clutches at the front of Martin’s shirt, finds Martin’s other hand and kisses that, too. Martin’s hand cups the side of Jon’s face, rubbing his thumb over Jon’s cheek, nudging Jon’s face up and whispering, “Okay?” and then peppering kisses all over Jon’s face, and Jon is laughing a little—unable to help it—uncontrollably happy and joyful and loving Martin. Martin kisses his forehead, his hairline, his eyelids and his cheeks, and then Jon is kissing his face, too, his nose and his chin, and he loves Martin, he loves Martin more than he can ever say.
Later, burrowed under Martin’s arm and into Martin’s side, leaning into Martin where Martin’s mouth is resting warmly against the top of his head, he says, “I am keeping this hand, you know. You’ll have to fill out a request if you want it back."
Martin snorts with muffled laughter. "Oh, really?”
“Yes, really,” says Jon, and he pulls Martin’s hand up to kiss the back of it again. Tucks it close to his chest and doesn’t let go. Above him, he feels Martin press a kiss to the top of his head.