Archive of Our Own

January

They survive.

The world knit itself back together, fresh scars only visible to those who know where to look and they choose not to, instead losing themselves in the relief and joy where screams and pain used to be. They look at each other, filthy, exhausted, spent, and weep.

The wedding was a quiet affair attended by the few friends they had left following the end of all things and subsequent beginning. Jon, romantic as he was, didn’t wish to spare even another moment and with nothing to his name, proposed to Martin in their tiny flat with no more than a twist tie. Lucky for him, Martin was already twisted around his little finger and wasted no time answering him with a kiss.

Mere weeks later, found them lounging on their hideous sofa in the weak, clear morning sun streaming through their window. Martin often joked about Jon’s many similarities with cats and refrained today, too content running his fingers through the length of his sleeping partner’s curls, reveling in an imagined purr. Languid, he stretched, borrowed (stolen) jumper rucking up enough to expose the small of his back, a strip of smooth, unmarked brown vellum that Martin laid his palm over in a surge of protectiveness. Nothing would leave a scar on Jon again, not if he could help it and he swept the pad of his thumb back and forth in silent promise.

“What’re you thinking about, habibi?” Brown eyes, fuzzy with sleep regarded him with soft affection before fluttering shut again. Martin jumped when the tip of Jon’s cold nose brushed against his stomach and he could feel the shape of his smile embossed on his skin.

Days passed in this way, and the people around them struggled to catch up, to go back to once was and before, to reclaim any sense of normalcy they could grab hold of. They let it wash over them, content and domestic. Enjoying each other’s quiet company and the effortless music made between them. Soft kisses, desperate hugs, walks taken together in the chilly winter air, Jon all wrapped up in Martin’s jumpers and chunky scarves, the toggles of his pea coat straining to contain it all. The apartment walls filled up with pictures. Of them, of Melanie and Georgie, of Basira, of the Admiral, of strays, bad selfies, pretty portraits, candid moments suspended in time and framed in charity shop finds ranging from black and sleek to audaciously painted gold.

Martin caught Jon running the fingertips of his burned hand over the surface of one, expression one of appraisal.

“I was so furious that day.” A polaroid, in a place of honor and carefully kept track of.

“I recall.” Tim had tested the limits of Jon’s patience with that impromptu birthday party.

“She’s beautiful.”

“She is.”

“Whip smart.” Martin confirmed with a nod. “I can’t keep her with me unless I’m looking at her.” Confusion limned his words, furrowed his brow, and trapped Martin’s next breath behind a clot of emotion in his throat because he’d hoped, as a child does, that this would be their fairytale ending; against all odds. “Something awful happened to her.”

“It did.”

“I miss her. I miss.” Jon turned his head, swiping his eyes, sniffling suspiciously. “Tim.”

“Oh, love.” Martin tugged him close with a gentle touch. It wasn’t the first time they’d cried about their friends, lord willing it wouldn’t be the last. “Come here, come here. I do too.”

February:

The loss was so gradual; if Martin hadn’t known it was coming he’s not sure he would have noticed as quickly as he did. As he likes to tell it, Jon’s ability to hyperfocus carried him through uni but now he could barely concentrate long enough to make it through a chapter.

“Must be tired.” He rubbed his eyes, abandoning the text he was trying to read through and cuddling into Martin’s side instead, kneading him like he was a lumpy pillow until he was comfortable to his satisfaction. “Wasn’t interesting anyway.” He grumbled under his breath.

“Oh? What was it about?” Martin grinned, letting his knitting fall into Jon’s face on purpose.

“Nothing so interesting as this.” He chuckled, sweeping away the curtain of yarn and reaching up to fold thin arms around his neck, pulling him down for a sweet kiss.

“Jon!” Properly scandalized, Martin giggled, returned it, pet Jon’s hair until he yawned.

“Gotta go to the shops.” Sleepy and scattered, blinking up at him with big doe eyes. They’d just been but Martin could never say no, not to him.

“What for?”

“Mm, need um, hm.” His brow furrowed and he looked lost in thought, face twisting up as he worked too hard to remember. “Um. I just had it too.”

“The list isn’t going anywhere. We can add it later.” It didn’t seem to soothe the disappointment in himself. Jon knew. This was merely the start.

“I suppose. I. Guess I’m not used to forgetting things anymore.” The smile was thin, all traces of sleepy contentment erased by choking inevitability. Silence stretched. Reigned. Until suddenly, Jon snapped his fingers, the word appearing out of thin air as if summoned by the concussive sound.

“Saffron!” Martin kissed the top of his head to hide his own tears.

“Knew it would come to you, love.”

March:

Martin found him in the kitchen a weeping, hysterical mess, a familiar spicy scent hanging in the air around him. But the pan has been pushed off the hob, sauce sizzles on the burner, spilled down the oven in streaks like reaching, grasping fingers.

“Jon?” Worry, spiking sour in his gut. “Jon-darling, are you alright? You’re not burned are you?” Christ, why had he left him alone so long without checking on him. He. They. There’s something happening that neither of them want to admit outloud but Martin can’t allow their mutual denial to overshadow taking care of Jon. Lord he’s shaking fit to tear himself apart and Martin switches off the heat lest the alarm go off and add to this mess before drawing Jon into his embrace by his bony elbow. He settles them both on the floor when he feels Jon’s legs are about to give.

“M’M’Martin.”

“It’s me, it’s me. Hush now and tell me what’s happened. Why are you so upset?” And Jon clings, cries harder, heartbreakingly silent, shoulders heaving and shuddering.

“My, my, my.” Like a skipping cassette tape.

“Shh, deep breaths. Let’s calm down. Whatever it is can wait until you’ve calmed down.”

“B’but I, I. It’s.”

“Hayati, hayati, listen to me, love. It’s alright.” Gently, he pressed his lips against hot, clammy skin. “Oh, darling, it’s alright.” Cradling the back of his head in one large palm, Martin rocked them both, the fingers of his other hand drawing small circles around one round scar on his hip.

“Nothing is alright. Nothing, nothing, nothing. It’s, it’s all gone.”

“What’s all gone?”

“I memorized it, I’ve always known it, and it’s gone, Martin. Other things are gone too, slipping just out of reach. While I’m struggling to hold on to one thing, I lose another.” They don’t talk about how they knew this would happen, just sit in the moment as Jon gentles under his hands, the residual panic that came with unexpected loss fading. “My mother’s recipe.”

“What’s that, love?”

“I forgot my mum’s recipe. I’ve been making it since, since.” He heaved another deep breath when Martin held him, rubbed his back. “I was small.”

“Were you making dinner for us?”

“Wanted it to be a surprise.”

“It was certainly that.” Martin made sure his tone was light, that the kisses he peppered to Jon’s curls and face and neck and shoulders were playful. “It smells very good, darling. What’s it called?”

“Mansaf. I’ve wanted to, to make it for you. Before--even if. Even if it was just the once. Tim.” His voice broke. “Tim and Sasha loved it.” There was a story there, in the wistful upturn of his lips and the way his eyes grew distant.

“Can I help?” Jon nodded, taking Martin’s hand when he offered it.

“I think. I think I’ve got it now, yeah.” He did, and Martin watched and listened and played sous chef, and Jon let him ladle the creamy sauce over the small platter. Together they set the table and poured the wine, sitting side by side. “You eat it a special way.” Jon smiled shyly, holding up his right hand and wiggling his scarred fingers. “It’ll take some practice,” he watched as Jon skillfully scooped up a bit of rice and meat, forming it into a ball with his fingertips to pop into his mouth.

“Oh.” Martin sipped on his wine and gave it his best shot, grinning wide at Jon’s peal of laughter, bright and happy.

“Not like that, habibi, not like that at all!” He demonstrated again, slower, and offered it to Martin who hummed around the perfect taste. His second and third attempts went little better but it was worth it to see Jon’s mirth.

“This is so good, love.” They traded kisses between bites until Jon’s cheeks were warm and flushed from drink, sleepy and soft and affectionate. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

“Mm, thank you for helping.” Words delicately slurred and perhaps one glass past his limit, Jon burrowed into Martin’s jumper. The washing up could wait until tomorrow.

“Time for bed I think.”

“Fi’more minutes.”

“Alright, five more minutes.”

The next morning dawned clear and bright and together they wrote the recipe down over a late breakfast. Martin pinned it to their corkboard for safe keeping.

April:

It’s like the slow bleed of a punctured tyre except there’s no way to fix it.

No patch or trick that would give them more time and Martin, when he thought about it, was filled to bursting with violent rage. With crushing despair. Jon looks at him closely when he’s in these moods, trying to decipher the riddle in front of him and it’s so him that it often breaks Martin out of his musings. Losing himself in being angry would only steal what little time they had left and these bouts of loathing became fewer as he began to accept the inevitable.

In part it’s because he had to keep a closer eye on Jon as he’s always been prone to wandering and doesn’t see a reason to stop now. Martin takes him on walks, holds his hand tight, as they move down the streets at a meandering pace, Jon pointing out the same trinkets that catch his eye on the way back to their flat every time as his short term memory begins to fail. On two of the rare times he’d managed to sneak out on his own (“honestly Martin, you’re attached at the hip!”) he brought back the same tea infuser.

“You’ll have to settle for a good sea cow, habibi.” Martin steeped their tea in the mornings with matching manatees and could almost forget it wasn’t a conscious effort, but a symptom of memory loss. Jon went red with embarrassment the first time.

“It’s adorable, Jon.”

“I am not adorable.” He scrubbed at his cheeks as if he could wipe it away. “I forgot, didn’t I?” A smile wouldn’t dull the sting much but Martin did it anyway. “I, I could return one, I’m sure.”

“You did and never! They’re family.” When he brought over Jon’s mug, he leaned down for a kiss. “ I love both of them. And I love you.”

“I. I love you, too, Martin.” The weight with which he said it, like any time could be the last, made Martin ache.

May:

“This is nice.” Jon remarked out of the blue, folding a towel that Martin swore he wouldn’t refold because there was a right way and wrong way! but he couldn’t very well tell him that.

“What’s nice?”

“Just doing laundry. With you.” He ducked his head in an attempt to dodge Martin’s kiss, already subjected to the coo in his voice. “Don’t say it!”

“What? That you’re--”

“Martin!” He was laughing, massacring a jumper next. The drawers were going to drive him up the wall. “You know very well I am not!.”

“Not...handsome? Beautiful? Smart? Lovely? After your morning tea of course.” He punctuated each adoration with the press of his lips. Better he tell him now when he might still remember it.

“Well, no.” Imperiously, Jon sat up straighter, lifting his chin and staring down his nose at Martin. “Of course, I am all those things.”

“Oh, you are now, are you!” Martin snatched the cardigan and made a show of refolding it in the correct way. “I forgot how humble you could be.” Accepting the challenge when Jon purposefully grabbed another one, folding it somehow worse than before. It was the speediest they’d ever made it through a basket. Jon wrapped himself in a blanket, nearly disappearing from sight, and inhaled deeply before declaring,

“this is a good scent.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Reminds me of you.”

“You’re saying I smell.”

“You smell good! There’s a difference you know!” He sank lower, his chin now hidden. “It’s! Hm. Um.”

“Jon?”

“I. I seem to have. Uh, for’forgotten the word.” Embarrassed, a flush swept into his cheeks, and the gloss of tears in his eyes, the fear behind them and the bravery in his face as he tried not to let it show, stole Martin’s breath.

“Might be the only way I can keep up with you.” He leaned on him, and then leaned a little more, just this side of burying him.

“This from the king of synonyms?” His eyes sparkled with amusement now as he squirmed, trying to adjust under Martin’s embrace.

“You flatter me, habibi.”

“Someone has to, hayati.”

June:

Jon’s forehead landed heavy on his shoulder, lured out of bed by the scent of frying bangers. He slept more each day it seemed, roused later, napped at least once in the afternoons. Martin threaded his fingers through Jon’s. There were poems written in those spaces between, too many for him to even hope of writing down more than a fraction, and perhaps one day he’d try when the hole where his heart used to reside dulled to an ache and when leaving behind the fierce and stifled agony of today didn’t feel so much like a betrayal. For now Martin tipped enough that his cheek pillowed on Jon’s messy curls, running his thumb over soft brown skin.

Martin loved Jon’s hands. Fine boned, delicate, mapped with moments collected over his short career as Archivist and Martin cradled them in his own as something precious, tracing those old roads before tugging him somehow closer and pressing a kiss between his eyebrows.

“Stiff today, love?”

“A little.” Jon returned the kiss sweetly, leaning up on his toes to reach his lips. “What are you making?”

“Toad in the hole.” He slapped away one beautiful hand trying to reach into the pan. “Patience.”

“Martin.” His wheedling tone made him smile.

“You’ll be upset with me later if I let you.”

“You’d share!” But his grin belied his frustration and his appetite, though such a small thing, made him happy. There was a time not so long ago when he was wasting in front of him and it made Martin happy to feed him up with as many good things as he could make. “May I pour the batter?”

“‘Course. Careful, screaming hot.” Their tiny kitchen filled with the sound of sizzling batter and the smell of good, hearty food and in the end, Jon stole the last bite straight from Martin’s plate. They spent the rest of their lazy morning sunning themselves on the couch like cats.

“Read to me?”

“You hate this poet.”

“I know. But you like them.” Between one verse and another, Jon was asleep, arms wound tightly around Martin’s leg. Martin swallowed around the lump in his throat. God, if he could just bottle up all these memories and keep him like this, safe forever in this moment. His voice shook around each syllable but that was okay. Jon wasn’t awake to notice.

The worst had happened. No. He was being dramatic.

Everything was okay.

But how was he supposed to let him out of his sight without a note pinned to his lapel now??

No. Jon deserved independence. He wasn’t a child. Even so, Martin walked faster, taking deep breaths to slow his racing heart as he turned what should be the last corner.

“Jon, oh thank goodness.” The words were strung together on his sigh of relief and Martin jogged the last few steps toward the bench where Jon sat, hunched and rigid, on the corner between two street signs. His cane was clenched tightly between quaking hands.

“Martin.” Whispered like a prayer when Martin dropped down beside him and took his face in his palms, thumbing over matching tear tracks. “I, I got l’lost.” It was a route Jon walked almost every day to a small shop to satisfy his sweet tooth and exchange a book from their take one leave one shelf. The young woman running the place knew Jon and knew of his... condition.

“You knew to call me, love. That’s so good.” Martin twined their fingers together and pulled him in for a grounding hug, pressing his own trembling lips against his temple. “And I’ll always come find you, always, okay?”

Just like you came for me in the Lonely. Like you came after me when I went with Annabelle.

Jon nodded, shaky but relaxing by inches as Martin held him, focused on calming his own racing heartbeat and forcing himself to forget how scared Jon sounded over the line.

It marked another decline, another step on this awful winding staircase.

Jon began wandering at night and more than once Martin woke to an empty place beside him. The first few times he’d panicked, thinking the worst, thinking he’d been stolen right then and there but thankfully, for now at least, he’d find Jon at a window looking out over the city. Martin would squeeze his hand and Jon always squeezed back, allowing himself to be coaxed back into bed and under the covers and into his arms.

When Martin realized it wasn’t going away they had yet another in a series of difficult conversations. Conversations where they both held back tears until it was a physical impossibility and as awful as this was for Martin, he almost couldn’t stand to see Jon so painfully brave.

The next morning they went shopping for bells together. Fastening them to all the doors between jokes about sleighs and snow and Christmas in June.

July:

They’ve been arguing more and while it’s no one’s fault, Martin takes it to heart more than once. But the loss scared Jon, made him wary and paranoid on more than one occasion and he’d always been prone to snap rather than let Martin help or soothe. It’s so much like his mother while at the same time impossible to compare. He knew Jon loved him for one. Loved him so much.

It was there in his apologies even when he couldn’t remember what he’d done.

“I’ve. I, I’ve upset you.” Always a confirmation, never a question. “I c’can’t remember h’how or why and I’m uh, sorry for that.” Martin folded him up into his arms, undone. “I love you. I’m sorry, habibi, for being thoughtless.”

“I forgive you, love.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.” It was so quiet Martin almost didn’t catch it. “No, I’m s’sorry. I’m making it about me.”

“I want to forgive you.” He could feel tears slipping down his skin and soaking into his shirt. He cried easily now, overwhelmed and lost and upset.

“Why?” Jon curled delicate fingers into his clothes, clinging, and as often as they quarreled, he questioned and Martin answered.

“I love you.”

When it’s easy, when it’s hard. When it’s everything in between.

They’re nervous.

They both know there was no cure for this but clarity and expectation might go a long way and Jon, flushed with embarrassment and apprehension, asked Martin shyly if he might like to come. Sitting beside him, pressed against his side, Jon tapped out a nervous choreography on his knee and Martin gripped his hand to steady it, squeezing gently.

“We already know.” Jon whispered under his breath, almost to himself. “Why did I think this was a good idea?”

“It’s alright to be scared, darling.”

“Maybe I’m sick and tired of being scared.” He spat words tinged with venom into the room, at the sleek brown cabinetry, at their brass fittings, at the sharps container, at the ridiculous screensaver bouncing around the screen displaying the name of this place. Jon deflated. “I’m sorry, Martin.”

“No harm done. Um, it’s alright to be upset?” Jon side eyed him, shaking his head and quirking his lips up in what could tentatively be called a smile.

Bravely, Jon endured the examination even though he knew exactly what was happening to him. Martin could see how frustrated he was when he couldn’t hold onto the words she asked him to remember and had to stifle his own guffaw behind his hand when she asked Jon about his recent behavior and mood. Fond, Jon just rolled his eyes.

The doctor made a nondescript noise when skimming light fingers over his many scars, asking gently if they still bothered him and Martin inhaled sharply when the answer was ‘yes.’ She tested Jon’s reflexes and examined his quivering hands, asking briefly about a family history of Parkinson’s. Without the Eye Jon was fading in more ways than one. Weaker. Unsteady when he was tired especially and Martin gripped Jon’s cane tighter suddenly struck with the realization that soon he’d be left with only that.

Left with his favorite tea. Favorite mug. Favorite spot on the couch. With all the soft gifts Jon insisted on bestowing him when the mood struck. They needed to take more pictures. Martin needed more.

He needed Jon.

Hands cradled his face, a too-cool thumb brushed away tear tracks in tandem.

“It’s okay, hayati.” And he accepted the soft kisses pressed to his forehead, eyelids, cheeks. He must’ve looked right awful for Jon to do this in front of another person. “It’s okay.”

It wasn’t. It would never be again.

“At least we know?” Martin refrains from reminding him they’ve always known. “Is it, is it wrong that I feel. Relieved?”

“No, Jon. Of course not. Now you know and you’ve always liked to know.”

“Leave off.” But he was chuckling, shoving at Martin and wholly unable to move him.

They allowed themselves to feel the hope that medicine would give him more time even though they both knew it wouldn’t. They deserved a little hope. They deserved the extravagant take away and the expensive bottle of wine and the fanciest desserts and later that night after a deeply cathartic cry, Martin watched with him through the window at the people down below before drawing him into his lap on the sofa and tucking his head beneath his chin.

August:

Jon loses more and Martin follows the advice of his doctor, the same advice he’d gotten for his mother and the parallels don’t escape him. Martin didn’t correct him when he misremembered or ended up in a different time all together, just met him where he was at and relived the memories with him. They spent more time traveling, revisiting Scotland and the safehouse that remained unchanged, the tarnished key somehow still there under the tatty mat after everything.

It was good there. Dreamlike. Jon remembered things there. A few times he asked about Tim and Sasha, wondering when they might see them again and it sparked an argument more than once if Jon was feeling paranoid. Like a child having a tantrum, he demanded to know why they couldn’t see them and Martin reminded himself over and over and over that this fixation wasn’t Jon’s fault, just his disconnect from the sustaining force of the Eye. But it was so difficult to separate the two and even worse when Jon forgot their brief rows. When the sharp, dagger like comments struck with the accuracy of Early Archives Jon.

“I’m the Archive, Martin.” Jon heaved a breath, calming himself from an argument he didn’t remember having, “but it’s all wrong, all, all misfiled, unlabeled, dates in places where they don’t belong.”

“What do you mean?”

“I c’can’t find it all.” Teetering on the edge of a sob. “There. Things are missing.” Big brown eyes limned with unshed tears looked up at Martin from where he held him. “You’re missing.” And Martin couldn’t take his delicate trembling, how small his voice became. Instead, he chuckled gently, smiling so broad and wide it nearly hurt.

“Well how’s that possible? I’m right here with you, hayati.” In the wake of Jon’s confusion, Martin dug wriggling fingers into his sides, mindful of his missing ribs, rewarded with a peal of laughter, brighter than that of a bell.

When Jon wandered in from a long afternoon sleep he flopped against his back, rubbing his face against the soft knit and sticking his cold hands into the pockets of Martin’s trousers.

“Did you have a nice kip?” He felt the nod and stirred the contents of the skillet until Jon was awake enough to shift forward and hug his arm, not minding being bodily moved back and forth in time with Martin’s tending.

“Wait!”

“Yes, love?”

“My favorite! How did you know?” Martin grinned, keeping his secret; he’d made it twice a week for some time now and it was always the most pleasant surprise.

“Lucky guess, my darling.”

September:

The first time Jon forgot him Martin had to excuse himself, heaving great sobs into the pillow that smelled like him and when he came back out Jon was there waiting, small and trembling, tears in his own eyes.

“I’m sorry.” It’s a whisper, devastated, brimming with sorrow and desolation. “I know you. I know you, I, I promise. I love you. I love you.

And that was the crux of it. Despite all of this, despite the pieces of him falling away, evaporating into nothing, no matter what Jon always chose to love him again and again, who was Martin to deny him the same?

“It’s alright, I’m alright, my darling, oh my darling.” Martin wrapped him up, holding him too tight, hearing, feeling the breath squeezed out of him in a rush and Jon clung back just as hard. He held the small, familiar body close and thanked god he at least had this. He still had this. Tiny, against his working, swallowing throat:

“I made tea.”

It was awful. Too sweet and so light, and Martin drank it down cold and asked for another cup.

Jon, dressed in his favorite of Martin’s many jumpers, turned toward the sound of the door opening with a beatific smile, the curls escaping his messy bun haloed in gold. Overwhelmed, Martin’s vision filled with watery tears and he burst into ugly, breathless sobs, leaning into Jon’s arms and fluttering hands.

“Oh no, habibi, whatever’s wrong?” Upset and elated and a million other things, Martin couldn’t contain it lest it rend him in two. Jon is trying his damndest to comfort him, whispering soothing things, asking what’s wrong, peppering his face with kisses and holding him tight when it merely makes him cry harder. “Come on, come with me now, hush.” Jon limped them both to the couch, settling Martin’s head in his lap and blanketing him with the ugly throw they kept saying they would get rid of and never seemed to get around to. Martin focused on Jon’s scarred fingers carding through his hair and the sound of him prattling on about nonsense until he could parse what happened, embarrassed.

“You remembered.”

“Is that what this is all about?” He could hear the underlying amusement and he hiccuped around a giggle himself.

“Yes. Because I love you and you surprised me with my favorite.” A light blush lit up Jon’s cheeks, and he smiled, demure, having been caught doing something nice. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear as he leaned down for a kiss.

“I wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget.”

October:

“Love, it’s cold out today. You’ll want your jacket.”

“Martin, how can that be, it was so warm--?” Martin saw Jon’s eyes go wide at the sight of empty, naked branches. “Martin...when. What?” He couldn’t reconcile the passing of the seasons without his remembering it and he had to take a moment to breathe. To think. To recall what was happening to him. Comforting Jon the best he could, Martin spoke softly about going on another outing tomorrow, if their famously fickle weather was amenable. Jon sniffed. Drew back his shoulders. Stiff upper lip and all that. “Of course, of course, I’m alright.”

Martin buttoned him up, punctuating each one with a kiss to a different part of his face until the haunted look passed and Jon was giggling.

It was easy to miss Jon, even while he was here with him on their walk, pressed against his side for warmth because he was perpetually chilled and humming distractedly. Half gone. They stopped to rest on an old bench, so beat up Martin wondered blithely if Jon would outlast it. Jon, who was staring at his feet, kicking a pebble back and forth between his boots. Martin snapped a picture.

“I’ve come back wrong, haven’t I?” He sighed and when he looked up Martin was shocked by the tears slipping silent down his face.

“How do you mean?” And Martin knows how he means because they’ve had this conversation a dozen times before. But he stroked his hair and pressed a kiss to his forehead as he thought hard, absently scrubbing at the moisture against his skin. It wouldn’t do anything but upset them both to remind Jon that his waking from the coma had been years ago.

“There’s. There’s gaps in me.”

“Scattered professor gaps or…?” Jon swats him lightly, scowl lightening into a tentative smile and he’s so normal, so Jon that it hurts Martin’s heart, twists it in his chest until he wants to tear it out himself. It would hurt less.

“No!” His eyes unfocus and by the time he returns he’s lost the thread of it all, rambling instead about the documentary they had been watching before they left. Martin would have it memorized soon. Impersonating Sir David Attenbourough was a sure fire way to make Jon guffaw with laughter.

Sometimes Jon seemed like a ship at sea in a storm; unmoored, tossed about by time and its twists and turns. Martin hated when he was scared. When he asked for Tim. When he wondered how long Martin would have to keep sleeping in the Archives. If Elias was ever going to let up on them all.

If his nightmares belonged to him or a statement giver.

If Georgie and Meanie were okay in the tunnels beneath the Panopticon.

If Annabelle was being true to her word.

If Martin was going to leave him again.

His prickly, beautiful Jon had been reduced to an aching hollow where the Eye used to reside, the remaining dangling threads of him always reaching for something to Know, stunned when the bridge he used to follow so confidently led nowhere.

Everyday his love for Jon was a choice that Martin consciously made and while Jon knew something was wrong, his grasp on exactly what it was had slipped.

“I don’t want you to be alone. Promise me, Martin.” Whispered into the velvet dark of their bedroom, Jon crushed as close as he could possibly get, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping him afloat. Keeping him tethered to here and now.

“Jon,” the crack in his voice was like thunder in the quiet. “That’s not fair.” Tears borne from the unjustness of it all stung the corners of his eyes.

“I know. And I, I know I won’t.” He paused. Hid his face in the softness of Martin’s throat. “I won’t remember this promise. But I trust you to keep it.”

November:

There were more bad days than good now.

Between nightmares and flashbacks and memories come back wrong. Between fear the copper-bright of a new kettle and crying and apologies.

There wasn’t room left anymore. Jon’s mind contained more locked doors than anything else, trapping him in his small reality, catching glimpses through a keyhole if he was lucky enough. He was exhausted, sleeping long hours. Pained by scars he couldn’t remember getting, nevermind what they represented.

Palliative.

That’s what doctors called this stage of care.

The decision to see him through it was easy to make. Easier than Martin would have thought at the start of all this.

“Mm…” Feet bound in fuzzy tabby striped socks twitched where they rested in Martin’s lap and he reached over him to cup Jon’s cheek. Run his thumb over the bone there. “Mmartin…”

“What’s wrong, hayati?”

“Were gone.” He gestured with his left hand, the right very still over his stomach as the old burn was prone to throbbing. “T’taken?”

“I’m right here with you. And your ridiculous taste in socks.” Martin remembered the day even if Jon did not. How his eyes lit up with childlike joy. His poor attempt to hide the want. Martin would have bought him a thousand pairs in every color if they’d had the time.

“I don’t,” he sniffled, knuckling the tears away. “Martin, I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t, love. You won’t, I promise, I’m here.” He barely left his side anymore.

“Every, every day it’s like you’re farther from me and I can’t, I can’t keep hold of you.” Earlier, when he could still articulate thoughts like these, Jon described it as though pieces of himself kept slipping through his fingers like sand. He could spend all the time in the world gathering them back up but it was never enough because they never went back quite right. He had all the scrabble tiles and no knowledge of words and the intricacies of how they fit together.

Frantic, in his waking hours, Jon was attached to Martin; afraid of losing sight of him for even a second for fear he would forget the one thing he clung to more than all else. Jon spent hours in the evening curled up with his ear pressed to his chest, listening to the beat of Martin’s heart. Now he kissed him desperately, as though Martin would disappear, drawing back to press their foreheads together and whisper brokenly in the safe place between them.

“I don’t want to go.” And there was nothing more to say.

Icy rain pounded against the window in dread applause.

December:

Soon now.

Days passed slow, sleepy.

Soft and calm with quiet grief and the coming to terms of it. Martin already went through all the stages and he would claim this time and hold it close, the last bright sparks of an ebbing fire.

Like he held Jon close, reading one of his old favorites for the third time, tea cooling by his elbow. Jon’s head turned, soft curls tickling the underside of his chin. So gentle he almost missed it, Jon pressed lips to his stubbly jaw.

“Thank you, Martin.” He embraced him as tightly as he dared, bones like dry reeds trembled against him.

“For what, love?” Jon burrowed as close as his limited strength would allow. Tears soaked into his collar, somehow, always more.

“For taking such good care of me.” Oh god. “For loving me.” Fierce, vehement, Martin swore.

“I will always, always love you.”

Today was for staying in bed, for cuddling, for enjoying each other’s company even if Jon didn’t always recognize him straight away. The important thing was having him there.

Solid.

Breathing.

Jon shifted, nuzzling Martin’s thigh, eyes clouded and somewhere far, far away.

“...Feels like…” musing, carried on an exhale, followed by a slow blink.

“Like what, hayati?” Martin murmured, twining Jon’s lax fingers into his own, methodically kissing each joint.

“Saying...saying…” He blinked again, confused at the tears in his eyes, touching them away with trembling fingertips. “Was I saying goodbye?”

Please. Please, he wasn’t ready. How could he ever be ready for this?

“Do you want to?” Jon’s body relaxed, infinitely weary to the hollows of his bird-like bones.

“I’m tired.”

“That’s not an answer, love.” Teasing, hide, don’t let him see, your sorrow can wait, don’t let it steal these last precious moments.

“Need one?”

“Course not, hayati.”

“Tha’s’good.” His lashes fluttered.

“Tea, love?”

“Mm.”

“Still jealous?”

He wasn’t surprised but stopped fixing their tea all the same, turning to look the avatar in the eye.

“No. You can’t.” He could. He will.

“You’ve taken such good care of him. He knows he’s loved.”

“It’s not fair.”

“No.” The stranger/not stranger agreed, offering up a sad, empty smile as if he truly understood the depth of it all. “It’s not.”

They stood opposite. Martin fighting with his control. Oliver offering up sympathies Martin didn’t want.

“Can I. God, can I stay with him?” And Oliver gestured for him to go ahead, turning his attention instead to their myriad photos, their memories, covering every wall, every flat surface.

“Mah’in…” His eyes, so soft.

“I’m here.”

“Shouldn’t feel this tire’...” Martin thumbed away slow tears slipping over the bridge of Jon’s nose, kissed his forehead and lingered there with trembling lips.

“Let’s have a nap then, darling.” And oh how Martin wanted to scream, to cry, to rage. But that could wait. This. Here. Now. Was far more important. Jon rested, ear over the solid, unfaltering rhythm of Martin’s heart, leaning into his hand as it stroked through his hair.

Settled with an exhausted sigh.

“I love you?”

Even now at the End of all things he didn’t question Martin’s sure and constant and steadfast love for him.

“You do.” Martin was helpless to stop his tears. “So much, hayati.”

“S’good…” Words came slower now as he sank into sleep in preparation for something deeper, lips curled into a small, content smile. The last piece of him scraped and saved. Just for Martin. “You seem.” He paused, caught his breath, whispered into the safe space between them. “Like someone I want to love.”