Work Text:
Jon wakes up.
He's still for a moment, breath shaking in his chest. Then one hand flies to his side, where- where the knife had-
But there's no blood, no pain. The gap in his ribcage is gone, nothing left to mark where Jared had- Where Martin had-
Martin.
Jon rockets upright, legs tangling in- there's a blanket, twisted around his feet- Jon shoves it off, stumbles to the window.
Outside is a street. It's, it's just- People are walking around, not running, not screaming- The sky is grey.
The street blurs. Jon is frozen, staring at the street, the row of shops, the painted signs. The sky is grey. The people- The sky- He-
The door of the room bursts open, and Jon forgets the sky, because Martin’s standing in the doorway, eyes wild, chest heaving. “Jon,” Martin says shakily, and then Jon’s throwing himself at Martin, crashing into his soft warmth, holding on for all he’s worth.
“You’re here,” Jon says into Martin’s neck, voice shaky.
“Are you hurt?” Martin says, frantic, his big soft hands reaching underneath Jon’s shirt, up his side. “Did it- Did I-”
“I’m fine,” Jon tells him, leaning into the touch, letting Martin feel over the arches of his ribs. “I- It go better. I’m better. I-”
“Where are we?” Martin asks, nose furrowing up. “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” Jon tells him. “I just- We were there, and I was...” Martin’s grip tightens around Jon, and Jon doesn’t say bleeding out, he just says “I woke up here. In this room.”
“I was downstairs,” Martin says, “In, in a kitchen? Making… dough. For something. And, out front, there was a shopfront, a bookshop, really, but there’s also… there was a bit that looked like a bakery.”
Jon looks up, and blinks. “Your hair.”
Martin shakes his head. “What?”
“It’s pink,” Jon says. Martin’s hair is longer than he used to have it, flicking at the ends. It looks like candyfloss. Jon pushes up onto his toes, trying to get a closer look.
Martin rocks back as Jon’s weight pushes onto his chest, his hands curling around Jon’s sides, to support him. “You’ve got a lot less grey,” he tells Jon, frowning at his head. His eyes widen with a realisation. “And, your scars, from the worms, they’re gone too!”
Jon nods, frantic. “I think all my scars are gone,” he says in a rush. “I feel… I feel better.” He flexes his left hand, the one that Jude Perry melted into a mess of warped skin, and his eyes catch on a glint of gold. Jon stops. Lifts his hand between their faces.
There’s a simple gold ring wrapped around the fourth finger of Jon’s left hand.
Martin brings up his own hand. “Oh,” he says softly, “We match.”
Jon reaches out, interlaces their fingers. The rings click together. “Yeah,” he says, then he bursts into tears.
“Oh love,” Martin says, and he crushes Jon against his chest again, holding him close. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, love.”
Jon wraps his arms back around Martin, buries his face into Martin’s neck. “I think,” he sniffs, “I think we’re going to be alright.”
Martin’s breath hitches.
“We’re going to be alright,” Jon says, wondrous at the truth of it. “Martin, we’re going to live.”
Martin laughs, high and strained, pushing his wet face into Jon’s hair. Jon holds him tight, tears streaming down both their faces.
And then they live.