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“Do you know what I wish?” Martin said, and Jon jumped so hard that he dropped his phone on the ground. He scrabbled for it quickly on the grimy pavement and tried to switch it on so he could start the voice recorder, just in case Martin said something incriminating. But his fingers were shaking and he couldn’t type in his passcode correctly. He was halfway through his second attempt when Martin cleared his throat meaningfully.
Right. Yes. Martin was here.
How was Martin here? Jon had been watching his flat for almost three hours – no, according to his phone, a bit over three hours. That was weird. Had Martin done something to him, to make him lose time? He’d watched Martin go in and now Martin was here and Jon hadn’t seen him come out, so how –
“Jon, are you even listening to me?” Martin said.
“Yes, of course I’m listening,” he snapped.
“Right. Feel like telling me what you’re doing asleep on a bench outside my flat, then?” Martin said.
“I’m patently not asleep, Martin.”
“You were until I spoke to you!” Martin said. Jon supposed, if he was telling the truth, that would explain the lost time and the fact that he hadn’t seen Martin come out of his flat. Damn. If he had seen, he would have hidden. “What are you doing here, Jon?”
“I –” Jon scrambled around in his mind, trying and failing to come up with some innocent explanation for his presence outside Martin’s flat. The best he could manage was, “I was in the area.”
“Piss off,” Martin said flatly. “You were watching me, just like you did Tim. Have you taken pictures of my flat, too?”
Jon stared at him mutely. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. It seemed quite logical to him: the deeper he investigated Martin, the sooner he’d be able to rule him out, even if Martin himself couldn’t understand that. It wasn’t as though he wanted to be suspicious of his assistants. They were his friends, or they had been, and Martin was – well, Jon just needed to know that he wasn’t plotting his murder, which frankly seemed quite reasonable to him.
Martin shook his head and sat down on the bench beside Jon, who shuffled quickly to the opposite end. Martin rolled his eyes.
“For god’s sake, Jon, even if I did want to kill you it’d be pretty stupid to do it in the middle of a London street where anyone could see.”
That was a fair point, Jon supposed. His mind didn’t seem to be working properly. He was so tired. He was cold, even his coat insufficient against the cool beginnings of autumn. Should’ve brought gloves, but he hadn’t thought he’d need to, it was barely October.
He still had no response. It was different somehow, out here on a normal street, with normal people walking past, and cars, and chewing gum trodden into the pavement. At the Institute it was easy to feel justified. He’d go into the assistants’ office, catch a glimpse of a funny little smile on Sasha’s face, and wonder whether she was planning his downfall. Elias would walk into the archives and it was as though he could see every shameful, frightened little thought that flitted through Jon’s mind.
Out here, he just felt afraid and confused and a little disgusting. He knew it was necessary, he wouldn’t be doing it otherwise, but –
“What do you want from me, Martin?” he said at last.
“Well, it’d be nice if you’d stop stalking me, for a start,” Martin said.
“I’m not stalking you,” Jon snarled, summoning the only defence he had left.
“Then what would you call it?”
“Investigating,” Jon snapped. “I’m investigating. I’m – how can I possibly trust you, Martin, when I don’t know –” He flung his hands out helplessly.
“What, every in and out of my life?” Martin said. “You can’t know that Jon. You can’t know what I’m thinking or feeling, and I’d really rather you didn’t know every last thing I did when I was at home on my own. Not because I’m about to murder you. Privacy is a thing, remember?”
Jon reached for the anger again. “That’s exactly what a murderer would say.”
“Oh my god.” Martin rubbed the bridge of his nose with his finger. “That’s – I don’t even know what to say to you right now.”
“What do you want?” Jon demanded again. Was it really so much to ask, that he could simply understand? Was it? “What are you doing here, talking to me? What do you want from me, Martin?”
He almost shouted the last part, making Martin flinch slightly and raise his hands in defence.
“Jesus, Jon! You want to know? Honestly? Fine. Here’s what I want, right now, in this moment. I want to fucking pick you up and carry you into my flat and tie you up with rope so that you can just bloody rest for a few hours. I’ve got rope, did you know that? Yeah. It’s not because I’m evil, though. It’s because sometimes I just like to tie people up. You know, as a sex thing. Or not a sex thing, that’s cool too. I’d tie you up, Jon, and I’d feed you good food, and I’d make you lie down and sleep for a whole night, and then maybe you’d wake up and you’d be able to bloody think straight!”
“And you think tying me up would be the way to achieve that?” Jon said.
His voice came out defensive and sharp, but hands had started to shake again. Oddly, he almost wanted to cry. What Martin had just said, it felt honest. Jon had no evidence that any of it was the truth, but he couldn’t help but believe it anyway. It was – it was such a damn relief to simply believe someone for once. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed that.
In answer to his question, Martin lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.
“Seems like it’d be worth trying,” he said. “Couldn’t do any harm, could it?”
“I suppose not,” Jon said. He felt even more tired now, as though he’d just got up and done a couple of dozen star jumps rather than asked a question and had it answered. He was sick of everything. “All right, then.”
“All right what?”
“You can tie me up if you like.”
Because it hardly mattered, did it? If Martin wanted to kill him, he’d find an opportunity, whether it was at the Institute or on a busy street or in the privacy of his own flat with Jon conveniently restrained. If Jon was tied up, he wouldn’t be able to fight. It would happen, and all this fear, all this desperate searching for answers and never finding any, it would be over. He did hope Martin would make it quick, though, because it sounded exhausting to die screaming.
Martin stared at him, open-mouthed, for a moment. Then he closed his mouth. Then he opened it again. Then he seemed to come to some decision and squared his shoulders determinedly.
“You know what?” he said. “Fine. Yeah. That’s cool. Come on.”
He held out his hand, obviously expecting Jon to take it, so Jon did. He let Martin pull him to his feet, and when Martin reminded him not to leave his phone behind he picked it up and put it in his coat pocket, and then he let Martin lead him across the road and into his building and up the stairs and into his flat. He didn’t even flinch when Martin locked the door behind them. It didn’t matter any more. He’d die or he wouldn’t. It was all in Martin’s hands now.
For a moment, Martin just stood there, surveying Jon carefully with his eyes. Then he stepped forward, and when he spoke, his voice had changed. It was quiet, but it held a suggestion of command that made it easy to do whatever he asked.
“Let me take your coat,” he said, and slid Jon’s coat off his shoulders and hung it on a hook.
“Let me take your shoes,” he said, and knelt at Jon’s feet to untie his laces, slip his shoes off his feet, and put them away tidily on a little rack next to the door.
“Come and sit down,” he said, and took Jon’s hand again and led him across the room to the sofa. Jon curled his hands into loose fists, trying not to let them shake, but Martin frowned anyway. “When did you last sleep?”
“Last night,” Jon said.
“How long for?”
“I –” Jon tried to remember. It was all a bit of a blur. “A few hours.”
“Hm,” Martin said. “When did you last eat?”
Jon scowled. “What does this have to do with tying me up?” Or killing him. Who cared if he’d eaten or not?
“When did you last eat, Jon?” Martin repeated patiently.
Jon sighed. “Lunch.”
“That was over seven hours ago!” Martin protested. Jon shrugged. What did eating matter when people were trying to kill him?
Without another word, Martin got up. Maybe he was going to get the gun, or the knife, or whatever he planned to kill Jon with. But when he came back, he was carrying a plate with some biscuits on it, chocolate digestives, and a glass of water.
“Eat these,” he said in that same quiet, authoritative tone. “And drink this.”
Jon thought about arguing, but he supposed it hardly mattered whether he died empty or full. He choked down the biscuits, though he didn’t really taste them, and drank the water in one long go. He put the glass down and looked at Martin.
“Good,” Martin said simply, and Jon found himself, just for a second, suspended in an odd, honeyed state where he felt almost pleased at having done something that made Martin say good. “Okay, I’m – we need to have a bit of a conversation about this first.”
Jon wrinkled his nose. He didn’t want to talk. He just wanted Martin to do whatever it was he had planned. He wanted to stop bloody thinking.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Martin said, sounding amused. “I don’t want to hurt you by accident, Jon, okay?”
“Fine,” Jon said.
“Have you ever been tied up before?”
Jon shook his head. He couldn’t imagine what situation Martin thought he might have been in that would involve him being restrained, other than this exact one, but it wasn’t as though it mattered.
“That’s all right,” Martin said. “We’ll take it slow. Um, you realise this is going to involve a certain amount of – of me touching you, right?”
“Yes,” Jon said. He could have made a sarcastic comment about Martin stating the absolute bleeding obvious, but it didn’t seem worth the effort.
“Okay, so is there anywhere, or any way, you’re not comfortable with me touching?”
Again, at another time Jon probably would have had a lot to say on that subject. Just now, he honestly didn’t care where or how or why Martin touched him.
“No,” he said.
Martin frowned slightly. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Okay. Um. Next question, how dressed or undressed do you want to be for this?” Jon supposed his doubt must be reflected on his face, because Martin rushed on. “Either way is totally fine! Some people like the feeling of the rope directly on their skin, or the vulnerability of being naked while they’re tied up, and others stay completely dressed. It’s really down to whatever you prefer.”
“I don’t mind,” Jon said.
This time, Martin’s forehead creased more deeply when he frowned. “Don’t say that just because it’s what you think I want to hear, or – or, I don’t know, because you think you might make the wrong decision or something. There’s no wrong way to do this.”
Jon felt irritation prickle at him. “I don’t mind,” he repeated, a bit snappily. “I don’t. I can’t –” He shook his head.
“Okay,” Martin said quickly. “No, that’s fine, deciding stuff can be hard, especially when it’s all so new. How about we take your cardigan off but keep your t-shirt, that way you stay covered up but you can still feel the rope? And – jeans aren’t honestly that comfy for relaxing in, so I can lend you some jogging bottoms or something to wear. Does that sound good?”
Relieved, Jon nodded. “Yes.” And then, wondering immediately why he was saying it to a man who was probably planning to murder him and was just being weirdly nice about it, “Thank you.”
Martin smiled. “No problem,” he said. “Do you have any idea what kind of ties you’d like? I mean, basics, I can tie up your arms, your legs, or do something pretty that’s full body. Although maybe not for your first time.”
“I don’t mind,” Jon said again. Martin looked at him for a long moment, and seemed to come to some decision.
“Okay,” he said. “Why don’t we start with tying your arms together, see how that feels, and take it from there?”
“All right,” Jon said. Martin seemed to be expecting more than that, so he added, “That sounds good.”
“Cool,” Martin said. “Um, obviously if you find you’re not enjoying it, or you’re uncomfortable – if anything goes numb, too, you tell me straight away and I’ll untie you. I’ve got scissors as well, so if there’s an emergency we don’t need to wait for me to undo knots. You’ll be completely safe.”
That was almost laughable. Jon wondered when the last time he’d felt safe was. Did safety even exist? Either way, it didn’t matter. He’d made his decision, and if Martin was going to kill him, well, he’d die. He supposed there was a certain safety in that, if you looked at it in the right way.
“Thank you,” he said, meaninglessly, but Martin beamed at him anyway.
“Okay!” he said. “That’s – I mean, that’s definitely not all we ought to talk about, but – well, we’ll take it slow and I’ll keep checking in with you. Hang on a sec and I’ll find you some comfier trousers to wear.”
He was gone for several minutes, long enough for Jon to glance towards the door and consider, though only passively, that perhaps he ought to just leave. Martin’s keys were right there next to the door, which was a bit of an oversight if he was trying to imprison Jon here. Jon didn’t move.
“Here we are!” Martin said, emerging from the door he’d disappeared through and handing Jon a small bundle of fabric. “I brought a pair of jogging bottoms, and also some shorts, because I realised the joggers were going to be a bit long for you. So just – yeah, whichever you prefer. You can change in the bathroom.”
Jon would have preferred it if Martin had simply handed him either the joggers or the shorts and told him to put them on, but after a few moments’ hesitation, he selected the joggers. They were softer than the shorts, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about even just his lower legs being bare. He had to pull the cord as tight as he could to stop them falling right off him, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did.
When he came out of the bathroom, Martin had some rope ready, and despite his decision to simply let whatever happened happen, Jon’s heart still seemed to speed up at the sight of it. It was purple, which he hadn’t expected at all, and when he came forward with a hand out to touch it, it was much softer than he’d expected, and not even in an unpleasant way.
“Okay?” Martin said. Jon took his hand back and retreated to the sofa.
“Yes,” he said shortly. It wasn’t that he liked the rope. That would be weird. Maybe it wouldn’t be if Martin wasn’t going to – probably – maybe? – kill him once he’d tied him up, but –
“All right,” Martin said. He picked the rope up and came to sit on the sofa beside Jon. “Remember, if you don’t like it, you can tell me to stop at any point and I’ll untie you. Or – do you know the traffic light system?”
“I know how traffic lights work,” Jon said. “I can extrapolate from that.”
“Green if everything’s fine and you want to carry on,” Martin said, apparently deciding he required the explanation anyway. “Yellow if you need to take a pause or aren’t sure about something. And red stops everything immediately, no questions asked. I’ll untie you straight away.”
“Can’t I just say that, instead of colours?” Jon was becoming interested despite himself. He supposed that was all right. It might even be preferable to die interested rather than bored. Yes, definitely better. Martin smiled.
“Yeah, of course you can,” he said. “Traffic lights are good for when you’re playing around with consent, saying no when you really mean yes, that sort of thing, but sometimes people still find them easier to remember in the middle of a scene, even if no does mean no.”
That was rather a fascinating concept, a whole system that meant you could pretend you didn’t want whatever was happening to you but still put a stop to it if you really started not wanting it. Jon wondered what that would be like. He pushed the thought away. He doubted Martin would stop stabbing him even if he did say red.
“I think I’ll find it easier to think of saying stop,” he said, and Martin smiled again.
“Fair enough. Are you good to get started, then? Any last questions or concerns?”
Jon shook his head. “I’m ready.”
And then Martin was doing it. He took one of Jon’s wrists in his big hand, and he wound rope, and he knotted it, and he wound it again, and knotted it again. Jon found himself lost in the fascination of it. Martin’s hands were slow, not with nervousness or uncertainty, as they so often used to be in the archives, but with almost meditative deliberation. His movements were steady and sure as he moved Jon where he wanted him, as he bound him up in soft purple rope. Almost before Jon realised it, he’d finished. He sat back to look Jon over, and his cheeks went a bit pink.
“How’s that?” he said.
Jon thought about it. His arms were tied securely together, tucked in closely against his chest, almost as though he was hugging himself. He felt oddly – warm. He’d thought it might be frightening to be restrained, unable to escape, but it wasn’t. In a peculiar way, it was an enormous relief. He couldn’t fight now. Couldn’t – oh. Well, yes, his legs were free, so he could run away.
“It’s fine,” he said. “It’s –” He hesitated, chewed at the inside of his lip for a moment. “It’s good, I think. But –”
“What?” Martin leaned forward in obvious worry. How strange. Wasn’t he going to kill Jon, after all?
“Could you do my legs, too?” Jon blurted, and Martin’s face lit up.
“Yeah, of course I will,” he said. “I could do up your calves, if that sounds good?”
Jon nodded. At this point, he knew he’d have agreed to anything Martin suggested. Even if he wasn’t going to die tonight, it was somehow freeing to have someone else decide things for him. He wouldn’t have thought having his agency taken away from him would be so – so strangely peaceful.
Martin picked up another length of rope and knelt on the floor to start just above Jon’s ankles. This time Jon didn’t watch. He closed his eyes and let his mind linger, a laser point of focus, on the feeling of Martin’s big, warm hands moving against him, of the careful, steady pressure of the rope. He almost regretted having chosen the jogging bottoms over the shorts. It might have been nice to feel Martin’s bare skin on his, the rope nestling snugly against him. Oh well. Next time, perhaps. This was still nice. More than nice. Jon liked it, he realised.
“There we are,” Martin said, and the warmth of his hands was suddenly gone, leaving just the firm pressure of the rope. Jon tried to move his legs and couldn’t. Something ran through him, something tingly and electric that he couldn’t quite identify. Martin sat beside him again. “How do you feel now?” he said.
Even if Martin did suddenly try to murder him, Jon wouldn’t be able to do anything about it, not fight, not run. He was helpless.
It was such a relief.
“I’m – ” Jon started, and then, to his horror, felt his mouth wobble as tears welled up in his eyes. He tried to blink them back, but it was too late. They were already rolling down his face. With his arms tied, he couldn’t even wipe them away.
“Oh, god, are you okay?” Martin said. His hands hovered close to Jon, but didn’t actually touch. “Do you need me to untie you?”
Jon shook his head.
“I don’t know which question you’re answering,” Martin said.
Jon swallowed and tried to steady his voice. “Don’t untie me,” he croaked. “Please don’t.”
“Oh,” Martin said, and even through his tears, Jon could see his shoulders slump with relief. He wasn’t going to kill Jon. He really wasn’t. “Okay, good. Um, do you think you can talk me through how you’re feeling? I’m a bit worried.”
“I’m fine,” Jon mumbled, and sniffed. “I’m – I just didn’t expect it to be so – to – to feel so – so – it’s nice.”
“Okay,” Martin said in a softer voice. “I’m glad it’s nice. I’m guessing you’re feeling a bit overwhelmed?”
Jon nodded.
“That’s fine,” Martin said. “But it’s not – you’re not uncomfortable or in pain?” Jon shook his head. “Or scared? Distressed at all?” Jon shook his head again. That wasn’t what his tears were about, he knew that much, at least. But Martin seemed to understand. He said, “Okay, thanks for telling me that, Jon. You’re doing so well.”
A little sob rose up Jon’s throat. God, what was wrong with him?
“It’s all right,” Martin said. “You’re allowed to cry. It’s fine. Would it be okay if I held you?”
Jon found that he would like that very much indeed. As soon as he nodded, Martin shuffled closer and then his arms were round Jon, very warm and very big and feeling very, very safe. Jon let his forehead drop onto Martin’s shoulder and his body slumped against Martin’s. How strange, he thought distantly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been able to relax, not properly. Who’d have thought all it would take was having the choice taken away from him.
He sniffled into Martin’s jumper a few times, but the urge to cry had mostly dissolved once Martin was hugging him. It seemed ridiculous, now, that he’d ever thought Martin would kill him. Martin wasn’t going to hurt him. It wouldn’t be hard, he was so much bigger than Jon, but all he wanted to do was tie him up and keep him safe.
At some point, Martin started stroking Jon’s back in slow, soothing circles that somehow made him feel like he finally fitted inside his own body again, like he was the right shape for the world.
Some time after that, Martin asked if he could kiss Jon. It took Jon a while to summon up the language, but at last he managed to mumble,
“Mm. Go traffic light sign,” against Martin’s shoulder, and was rewarded with a gentle joggling motion as Martin laughed.
Martin did kiss him. He kissed the top of Jon’s head and he told him again that he was doing well. He kissed the side of Jon’s head and told him he was proud of him. He kissed the other side of Jon’s head and told him he was sweet. Jon didn’t think anyone had ever called him sweet before. Martin kissed his temple and thanked him for letting Martin do this, tie him up and touch him and kiss him, and then he kissed Jon’s other temple and told him he’d wanted to take care of him almost since the first time they’d met. Then he kissed Jon’s forehead, right in the middle, and said, with a laugh in his voice, that he hadn’t wanted that the very first time because he’d been too stressed out about the dog he’d let into the archives, but the next day it had been all he could think about.
It went on for a long time. It could have been hours, Jon honestly couldn’t say. Martin never let go of him, always had him cradled in one arm while he bent to kiss Jon’s cheeks and nose and even his chin, though not his mouth, or pressed into his chest while he kissed his head and shoulders, or tucked sideways against him as he kissed the parts of Jon’s arms that were accessible through the rope. He moved Jon easily, as though he weighed practically nothing, and Jon let him. Jon closed his eyes and allowed himself to simply feel every warm, confident movement, every gentle kiss; to listen to every honeyed word that Martin cooed into his ears.
Time didn’t matter any more. The Institute was no more than a distant memory, the fear Jon had carried for so long almost forgotten. There was only Martin and his warmth and his strength and the way he was touching Jon and talking to him, as though he was the most precious and important thing in the whole world. As though he was worth taking care of. As though he was completely and utterly beloved.
Eventually, Martin fell quiet and simply held Jon again, tucking Jon’s head against his shoulder and letting his arms become a gentle cage around the ropes that still held Jon’s arms and legs securely. Held there, anchored, mind finally still after months – years, really – of fear, Jon let his mind bob gently on the deep, dark seabed of tranquillity.
“Jon,” Martin said, some immeasurable amount of time later. His voice was so nice. Jon wished he’d never stop saying things. “Jon?”
A gentle hand against his cheek, tilting his face upward. Jon blinked his eyes open and there was Martin’s round face, his bright blue eyes, very close to Jon’s own. He smiled a bit when Jon opened his eyes.
“There you are,” he said. “I thought you might have fallen asleep.”
“Mm,” Jon said. He hadn’t, but he’d felt as though he was in an almost dreamlike state. He still did. It was easy to feel that way with Martin.
“I’m going to untie you now, okay? It’s been quite a while, and it is your first time.”
Jon felt a terrible pang. He shook his head. Martin stroked up and down his arm with one hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s good to know you’ve enjoyed it, but it’s been an hour and a half and I want to make sure you’re okay.”
He shifted Jon in his arms, settling him against the sofa back instead so that he could untie Jon’s legs, and then his arms. Then he held his arms out and Jon went back into them without hesitation. It felt strange to be able to move by himself, to have freedom of arms and legs, but it was, he had to admit, very nice to be able to wind his arms round Martin’s big, soft middle and hold on tightly.
“You’re so sweet,” Martin said into his hair, and Jon shut his eyes, letting himself stay in the unfamiliar, serene place where he could believe things like that for just a little longer.
Martin pulled away at last.
“Okay, I’m just going to nip to the kitchen,” he said. “Grab us some water and put something in the microwave for you to eat.”
“Not hungry,” Jon mumbled.
“Well,” Martin said, apparently undeterred. “All you’ve eaten since lunch is a few biscuits, and now it’s going on ten o’clock at night, and – well, it might not necessarily seem like it, but this sort of thing can take a lot out of you. I’m prepared to bet your body needs the energy.”
“All right.” Jon didn’t really mind. He wasn’t hungry, but if Martin said he should eat, he’d eat.
Martin wasn’t gone for long. Jon closed his eyes again and listened to the sound of cupboard doors, the fridge door, the microwave being started, the tap running. Martin sounded just as certain and sure in his own kitchen as he’d been tying Jon up, holding him and kissing him. It was odd to remember how incompetent and annoying he’d once found Martin, even odder to remind himself that just a few hours ago he’d believed Martin might be plotting his murder.
Soon Martin was back with a glass of water, which Jon guzzled all in one go, and a bowl of steaming pasta, and once Jon had taken the first couple of mouthfuls, he realised that he actually was ravenous and wolfed it down. Martin very generously did not utter the words I told you so, although the smug look on his face said it clearly enough.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, once Jon had finished and Martin had taken the bowl away and washed it up immediately, which for some reason made a funny, soft little feeling bloom in Jon’s chest.
“Good,” he said truthfully. “That was – I’ve never – I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way before. I felt –” He bit his lip, searching for the right words, the ones that would express exactly how deeply perfect it had all been. Still was, in a way. In the end, he settled, simply, on, “Safe. I felt safe. And peaceful. Thank you.”
Martin beamed at him, bright as the sun. “Oh, that’s – you’re very welcome, Jon! I – I did hope it might help.”
“A-and I’m sorry for thinking you might kill me,” Jon blurted. “It was stupid. I was stupid.”
“Well, yeah, it was a bit,” Martin allowed. “But it’s been a rough time. I’m not going to hold it against you, Jon.”
“Thank you,” Jon said again, and he meant it.
Silence fell between them once more. It didn’t feel quite as comfortable this time. Jon still felt relaxed and soft, but – well, Martin had tied him up and then untied him and he’d even given him dinner. Jon really oughtn’t to impose himself on him any more.
“I should go home,” he said reluctantly. The smile fell from Martin’s face.
“Oh,” he said. “If you want to, of course I won’t stop you, but you’re welcome to stay the night with me. It’s getting kind of late, isn’t it?”
Jon had left the Institute later than this on quite a few occasions, but he didn’t say that.
“I – I suppose so,” he said instead. “I don’t want to be a nuisance.”
“I love having you here, Jon,” Martin said, and it was so immediate and so warm that Jon couldn’t help but believe him. “I meant what I said before, I’ve wanted to take care of you for ages. I’d really like it if you’d stay.”
Jon felt treacherous tears prickle in his eyes again. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt wanted.
“All right,” he said. He blinked the tears away and looked at Martin, hesitating.
“What’s up?” Martin said.
“I – nothing. At least, I was – I wondered whether, perhaps, you might be – be amenable to – that is to to say –”
Martin closed the small distance between them by reaching out and taking Jon’s hand, squeezing it gently. Jon felt his anxiety settle a bit.
“May I kiss you?” he said.
“Oh! God, yeah, of course,” Martin said eagerly.
He was already leaning in, like he’d only been holding himself back with an effort, and then they were kissing and it was wonderful. Jon let his eyes fall shut. Martin’s arms had closed around him again, and his own hands were curled into Martin’s jumper, and Martin’s mouth was soft but sure, moving against his own with absolute certainty. Once again, Jon let himself be carried away on the tide of sensation.
After that, it was somehow very easy to stay in Martin’s warm embrace, and later to put on the pyjamas Martin lent him before climbing into Martin’s bed and nestling close in beside him. Neither of them suggested sleeping apart.
Jon fell asleep in Martin’s arms, more at peace than he could remember being in a long time.