#“i am martin blackwood and i am not lonely anymore” what if i started crying. sobbing even

[toothpastewolf]

mag 170 was DEVASTATING holy shit

[basilpaste]

asks asks asks uhhhhh

tell me about. tma

when did you get into it? whos ur fav character? did you cry or did you cry at s5 finale? what fear entity would u be aligned to…

i got into tma originally in 2018 (by that i mean i watched the first ten episodes), but then got into it proper around the start of season 5 back in 2020 and had to play catchup for a while!! yes of course i cried at the finale, but also Often during season five ("i am martin blackwood and i am NOT lonely anymore" gets me really fucking bad every time).

my favorite character, while maybe a liiiittle boring, is in fact the jarchivist himself. i like that pathetic man. hes a loser and a coward and i would do terrible things for him if it meant he got a chance to rest for one second ever at all.

i think the fear id be most likely to give a statement about would be corruption (i fucking HATE the corruption i hate you rot i hate you infestation), but i think the one id be most likely to be taken by would be the lonely. something something ive felt very much "loved by all, liked by none" my whole life, even though i have plenty of evidence on the contrary. the lonely would eat that shit up.

also not a question that was asked but if i were to add a statement to the tma roster it would be a desolation statement completely removed from fire and instead about a tornado. thank you for your time.

[raichukaiju]

I've been trying almost too hard to make what I what I wanted to say about The Magnus Archives into the perfectly worded eloquent essay, but if I stay on that train of thought then I'll never get anything written, so I'm giving myself permission to make it a bunch of jumbled dot points. It's me writing down my feelings, not a graded essay. It doesn't have to be perfect, it just has to be out of my head and on the page.

I have put it under a cut though since it's going to get long and I don't want to clog up people's dashes.

Before that though I really have to say thank you to @petticoat-swashbuckler for insisting that I listen to The Magnus Archives in the first place and then for letting me message you my live reactions to almost every episode (some at some truly awful hours), and thank you @jonnywaistcoat and everyone at Rusty Quill for the story you created that will always be a powerful gift and experience that I'll treasure forever~💚

Now Statement Begins let's go~ ⤵️

Never has a character spoken to my heart like Martin Blackwood. I see SO much of myself in him, even - especially - the messy parts. But he grows, he learns to set boundaries and take up space and stand up for himself, even if sometimes it's one-step-forward-two-steps-back sort of thing. But watching that character growth happen, as someone trying so hard with similar issues - it gives me a lot of hope for my own future. Also the fact that he's canonically fat and people celebrate that in fan art means so much, it's really helping me learn to love my body more, seeing this character I'm so close to drawn so often with a body like mine!!

Bouncing off that a bit, Recollection (ep 170) is the first episode that made me truly cry - full on sobbing on the couch, no exaggeration - and also feel a nauseous kind of fear rather than spooked or squicked, because it was so real. I get stuck in that fog too, more than I'd care to admit, and the way those emotions and experiences were layed out in that episode really hit hard. Martin's firm declaration "I am not lonely anymore" is something I'm carrying forward with me as a mantra. I'm not alone, I'm not lonely, I have friends who love me and want to see me get better and even in the thickest of fog, I will find a way out and back to them, back to myself. The temptation to eventually get that quote tattooed somewhere is very strong.

The fact that Jon is canonically asexual still makes my heart swell to bursting to think about - even if it isn't a major part of the story, it still means the world to me to have that representation, especially in a character so dear to my heart

Jon just means so much to me in general. I don't relate to him quite as heavily as I do Martin, but I still see connections. Though mostly when I think about Jon, to me he's my friend. He's my friend and I love him and I trust him and the podcast ending - aside from breaking my heart with what happened - felt like saying a goodbye I wasn't ready for to someone dear to me.

TMA is a story about a lot of things, but a big thing to me is that it's a story about choices. About how even decisions made with good intentions can still have negative consequences, but that doesn't make you a bad person. That making a decision at all can be just as important (if not more-so) as what you end up choosing. That don't have to make all the hard decisions alone. It's definitely something I needed to hear.

I've started slowly working on my fear of ants/swarms thanks to the Corruption episodes, so that's something!! (I did skip half of Pest Control (ep 55) and read the transcript of the rest though, it was making me want to crawl out of my skin. But I listened to Like Ants (ep 184) all the way through so yay for progress)

Speaking of the Fears, I'd absolutely serve the Vast!! Space, the deep sea and giant monsters don't scare me, though I definitely can the horror element in them. But to me, they're fascinating because of all of the potential there, all the beauty to see and learn about!! In that regard, I'm also certainly marked by the Eye - I need to know things! I love learning and researching and there's just so much in the world to discover and I know realistically I can never learn everything, but that doesn't mean I don't want to try. Another friend of mine said I was seeking a "Vastness of Knowledge" when we were talking about it and that's definitely an apt description!!

The existential side of the Vast does scare me though, that idea of cosmic insignificance is terrifying. I definitely agree with what Martin said to Simon - "I think our experience of the universe has value. Even if it disappears forever." - even if we're only here for a short time in the scheme of things, what we do in that time still matters because it's ours, and we still make an impact that ripples out even when we're gone.

It's re-sparked my interest in wanting to write horror (honestly just my desire to write in general) and reminded me how much I genuinely enjoy horror as a genre - it's just something easier for me to consume as a written or audio medium than a visual one, that doesn't mean I don't or can't enjoy it at all! Jonny's manner of storytelling is so compelling, and his descriptions - especially the statements in season five - have really lit a fire in me to up my game and work on my own creations

"Feed it, fearlessly and without hesitation, or it will feed on you" I know Jude Perry was talking literally about feeding the Fears, but this one stuck with me thinking about the idea of working on/with the things that scare me - "feeding" them - rather than letting them consume me. Maybe that doesn't make sense, but in my head it does and it's helpful to me which is the main thing.

Seriously The Magnus Archives has been so good for me in terms of helping me rethink/reframe a lot of my fear, anxiety and trauma. I'm so grateful for that, and even if it's hard to articulate (seriously not sure where to begin explaining it to my psych), it's something special to carry with me and help me push through. Part of me wishes I'd gotten into the show a lot sooner, but at the same time I think it truly came into my life when I needed it most and would get the most from it.

..... Ok once I started writing this was actually easier to get through than I initially thought it would be. I've still got a lot I want to talk about, but most of it would probably just end up being me posting quotes that ruined me and explaining why. But if anyone wants to talk about any aspect of TMA with me, please drop into my inbox!!! I'm usually better at answering questions than I am being left to ramble directionless (it's why I like writing essays so much, it's easier to keep focused on what information I'm presenting) and I'm not going to tire of talking about this series any time soon!!!

[journalofimprobablethings]

Word Count: 3157

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Jonathan Sims Needs a Hug, Protective Martin Blackwood

Warnings: Attempted/referenced self-harm and self-mutilation (brief & non-graphic, and nothing non-canon), blood mention, discussion of low self-esteem/low self-worth, shouting and insults (from a place of love and frustration but still), and a light emotional breakdown.

Summary: 

Martin comes into Jon's office at exactly the wrong (or right) time, and catches him in the midst of his...extremely well-thought out plan to rescue Daisy. He is horrified to discover that Jon doesn't think anyone would care if he disappeared. Martin is quick to set him straight.

or,

What if Martin had been the one to find Jon trying to get his "anchor" for the coffin instead of Melanie?

Preview (full fic under the cut):

Martin never thought he would get to a place where he expected tape recorders to appear whenever they were wanted (and often when they weren't). But when Peter hands him a statement, he immediately looks to the corner of his desk, even though he knows he didn't bring a recorder up to his new office, and he is surprised to see it's empty. He looks in all the desk drawers to make sure there isn't one hiding in there, before he resigns himself to the fact that he will actually have to go downstairs and get one.

He's been avoiding going down to the Archives since he started working for Peter. No real need to go down there, since he doesn't work there anymore, and it's...it's easier this way. Easier to avoid running into anyone, and to--well, to keep himself from going to find Jon.

But there's nothing for it, now, and so he makes his way down the familiar path to the Archive entrance. He pauses at the door, listening, trying to gauge if any of the others are there. If he hears voices, he thinks, maybe he'll just try and come back later.

At first all is quiet, but then there's an odd noise from behind the door, like a faint whimper, abruptly cut off.

Martin's stomach clenches. It could be nothing, but--

He knocks, then opens the door slowly and pokes his head in. "Hello? Only me, I needed to borrow a--"

The noise comes again, but now that the door is open he can tell what it is: a stifled cry of pain.

Martin yanks the door open and fairly rushes into the room. The main office is empty, just untidy desks and chairs left askew. But Jon's door is cracked open at the other end of the room, and as Martin enters he hears a wet thunk, followed by another stifled cry, then a frustrated groan.

Martin is across the room before he can think, shoving Jon's door open.

Jon is sitting at his desk, one hand splayed across its surface, and the other holding--the other is holding a knife , and Martin isn't sure what Jon's already tried but there's blood all over the desk, and as Martin dives into the room Jon lines the knife up with the base of his pointer finger like he's about to--to--

Martin makes it to the desk in two strides, pulling the knife from Jon's hand before he can bring it down.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

Jon looks up, wide-eyed and panting.

"Martin?"

Martin focuses on Jon's face and tries not to look too closely at his hands, or at the blood on the desk. His own hands are shaking so hard that he has to grip the knife tight to keep from dropping it. He sets it carefully down on the desk.

"Jon, what the fucking hell?"

Jon is still staring at him as though he's materialized out of thin air.

"Martin, I--what are you doing down here?"

"What am I--what the hell are you doing?"

"I--this isn't what it looks like."

Martin can't believe him. He absolutely can't believe him. He can hear the register of his own voice rising but he is too angry to even try to control it. "Really? Because it looks like you were trying to cut your bloody finger off."

Jon has the grace to look slightly abashed--but only slightly. "I mean--well, yes, I was, but it's not--" He waves his hand for Martin to see. "It didn't work, anyway."

Martin is afraid to look at first, but as Jon holds out his hand, he is relieved to see that he's right--all five fingers still seem to be attached. There is definitely blood on the desk, but Jon's hands look...fine. Unscathed.

That--Martin has to set that aside for now. He will deal with that later. Instead he looks Jon in the eye and when he speaks his tone is low and flat.

"Jon. What the hell is going on."

"I tried to tell you before, and you said--"

"Yes, thank you. I know what I said. That was before I found you trying to cut your own finger off ." Martin looks down at Jon and says with as much control as he can manage, "What. Is. Going. On."

And Jon explains. About Breekon, and the coffin, and Daisy being trapped inside in the realm of the Buried in some kind of horrible, eternal stasis. And he explains, calmly, how he plans to go into the Buried to save her, with a bit of himself--a bit of his body --left out here as an anchor to help him find his way back.

And when he's done he looks at Martin as though he's given a completely reasonable explanation for his behavior.

Martin has to ball his hands into fists at his sides to keep himself from doing anything rash.

"Jon, you--you absolute idiot. You bloody imbecile."

"I'm sorry?"

"You are so stupid!"

"Martin, really."

Jon gives him such an offended look that Martin would burst out laughing, if he weren't so absolutely furious .

"You weren't going to tell anyone before you went in there?"

"Well, I--I was going to leave a note for--for Melanie and Basira, but--"

Martin snorts.

"There just didn't seem any point in waiting. Daisy's been in there for months--"

"So she can stand to wait a little bit longer."

Jon looks aghast. "Martin!"

But Martin is still too angry to feel badly for what he said, still too aghast himself at the idea of Jon climbing into that coffin alone. Why would he do something so stupid, why--?

"Why do you have to go?"

"I'm not risking anyone else." Jon says it as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. Then his shoulders slump. "And I--I'm tired of losing people, Martin. After Sasha, and...and Tim...if there's even a chance I can get her out of there, I have to take it."

"And what the hell do you think is going to happen if you don't come back?"

Jon looks startled. "Well, I--I mean, obviously I don't want to get trapped in the Buried, but would--for everyone out here, would it really be so bad?"

He says it so matter-of-factly.

All of Martin's anger drains out of him in a moment.

"What?"

Jon doesn't seem to register Martin's sudden stillness. He's looking into the middle distance, seemingly not seeing Martin at all.

"If I don't come back. Would it be a bad thing, for--for everyone else? One less monster in the world. Elias has that much less power, one less person to manipulate. I..." He trails off.

Martin just stares at Jon for a second. His whole body is numb and he can't seem to really breathe properly, right now.

Does Jon really--?

He really thinks--?

For a moment Martin is balanced perfectly between a deep, painful sorrow and incandescent anger, and he doesn't know if he is going to shout or just start crying.

Then Jon sighs.

"Who would it hurt, really?" he says, and he says it as though he already knows the answer.

The balance tips, and Martin just explodes.

"Who would it--? Me!" he shouts. "It would hurt me ! God, Jon, I don't--you think that no one cares if you hurt yourself or tear bits off or go off on--on bloody suicide missions, but I do! I care. You say you're tired of losing people like you're the only one--" Martin takes a breath. "You already died once and--if you went in there and didn't come back I--I--would--" He falters as he contemplates the horrible possibility of it. Of knowing that Jon was trapped in some underground hell with no hope of rescue. His legs tremble and his hands go numb at the thought. "It would hurt, Jon," he says finally. "I don't want to--I can't deal with that. Not again."

The silence that follows this speech is palpable. Martin can feel the blood pounding in his ears and he wonders if he said too much, went too far, because Jon is just staring at him, looking shocked and a little bit lost. When he finally speaks, his voice is more subdued than Martin has ever heard it.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Jon looks down at his hands.

"I--Martin, I didn't--"

"You didn't think it would matter to me."

"No, I--Martin, I didn't think it would matter to anyone. I just--" Jon huffs a frustrated sigh. Then he slumps again. "I'm sorry."

And Martin's heart breaks.

He knows what it's like, to think that you don't matter. To think that if you were to disappear, no one would notice or care. He's gotten rather used to the feeling, to be honest.

But to see it now, in Jon--

Martin can't stand it--how despairing he looks, how lonely. He takes a step and kneels down by Jon's chair so that their faces are level.

"Jon, would--will you look at me?"

Jon reluctantly meets his eyes--and they're so beautiful, Jon's eyes, a dark, rich brown that Martin could drown in, but the uncertainty in them makes his heart twist in his chest. Before he can think better of it, he reaches out and takes both of Jon's hands in his.

"You're not expendable, Jon," he says. "Any part of you."

Jon's breath seems to hitch in his chest at that--and then, to Martin's absolute horror, his eyes start to fill with tears.

"Oh--oh, no, Jon, I didn't--"

Jon's face trembles as he tries to keep his composure, and without thinking--without taking a moment to consider anything other than a desperate need to comfort him--Martin reaches out and pulls him close.

And Jon doesn't resist. He falls into Martin and buries his face in his shoulder, his hands coming up and clutching at the back of Martin's shirt. His whole body is shaking with the effort of holding himself together, and his breath comes in tiny, sharp gasps. Martin wraps his arms around him and rubs his back, trying to shove aside the part of his mind that is panicking at the sight of Jon breaking down so completely.

"Shh, it's okay, Jon, it's all right. You can cry if you need to, it's really all right, please."

But Jon just continues to shake, his hands clutched tight into Martin's shirt. Occasionally a single sob pushes through, a terrible, raw sound that tears at Martin's chest and makes him hold Jon that much tighter. He rubs his back and whispers comfort in his ear and does all he can to hold himself together as Jon shakes himself apart.

Eventually the shakes subside, and Jon sits for a moment, his forehead still pressed into Martin's shoulder, before finally pulling away. He wipes his face clumsily with his sleeve.

"I'm--I'm sorry, that was--"

"No, no, don't--it's all right. Really." Martin looks Jon over. "Are you--are you all right?"

Jon gives a watery laugh. "No. But are any of us?"

Martin has to admit that he has a point.

"I really am sorry, Martin. For everything. I didn't mean..." Jon makes a face as the words he is looking for seem to escape him. "I'm sorry."

Jon looks so despondent that Martin feels a little bit terrible about how much he yelled, before.

"It's all right," he says. "I'm sorry I shouted."

Jon's mouth twists in a wry smile. "I may have deserved it."

"Oh, you absolutely did."

Jon laughs a little, and the knot of tension inside Martin eases. He looks at Jon's hands, lying in his lap, and he wants to reach out and take them again, but the moment seems to have passed, and he can't quite make himself do it.

So they just sit for a moment, Martin still on the floor at Jon's feet, in a silence that is not actually at all uncomfortable.

Just for a moment, they allow themselves to just be.

Jon is the one who finally breaks the silence.

"I still need to go get Daisy," he says.

Martin sighs. "Yeah. I know."

His gaze drifts back to the desk, to the knife and the smears of blood, now half-dried and sticky. He swallows down the bile in his throat.

"Well, if--if you're going to do this, you're going to need a better anchor."

Jon sighs. "Yes, I thought so, too." He laughs a little. "Too bad Jared Hopworth isn't around, I could get him to just pull something out of me--"

"What? No!"

Martin puts his head in his hands. He is going to absolutely kill this man. Jon's not going to make it into the Buried because Martin will have already killed him.

"No bits!" he says. "No pulling bits out of Jon! What is wrong with you? Why is that the only thing you can think of?"

"Well, what's your brilliant plan, then?" Jon says peevishly.

Up until this moment, Martin wasn't sure he really had one. But as soon as Jon asks the question, an idea appears in his mind, fully formed.

"What about the recorders?"

"The--oh!"

'You're always recording, and I thought--since they're part of your whole Archivist--" Martin waves his hand vaguely "--thing, that they might be a stronger anchor. You're going to have to use your powers to keep track of it anyway, right? Maybe you don't remember, but most humans can't still feel bits of themselves after they've cut them off."

Jon gives him a look, but it quickly fades as he starts to think through what Martin said. Martin can see the wheels turning behind his eyes.

"That's--that's a good point."

Then Jon smiles, and Martin would cross continents and raze cities for that smile, a real smile that transforms his whole face and makes it seem like it's lit from the inside.

"I think that would actually work," Jon says. "Well done, Martin."

"You don't have to sound so surprised," Martin says.

Jon's face falls. "Sorry. I--I didn't mean--"

"Jon, I wasn't--I was joking."

"Right."

There's a moment, then, when Martin thinks he should say something, do something, to bring Jon's smile back, to show in some way how that smile makes him feel.

But he doesn't quite know what to do, or how to do it--and the moment passes.

"So," Martin says. "How many recorders do you think we'll need?"

Jon shrugs. "As many as the Eye will give us, I expect."

--

Jon and Martin stand in front of the coffin where it sits on the floor of the main office, still wrapped in chains, with its message scratched deep into the lid: Do Not Open.

Martin wishes they could heed that warning.

They spent the last hour scouring the Institute for tape recorders--and finding them pretty much everywhere they looked, including places that they had no right to be: the water closets, the break room near Accounting, the stairwell. It's almost like the recorders knew what they wanted them for. As many as the Eye will give us , Jon had said. Martin is careful not to examine that thought too closely.

Now they're back, with a pile of tape recorders on the floor next to the coffin, each one loaded with a recorded statement. They also picked up several torches, and a blank tape for the recorder Jon holds in his hand, ready to bring with him.

Martin looks over at Jon.

"You really want to do this?"

Jon nods. His lips are pressed together and he looks a little pale, but determined. 'Yes."

"You know if you don't come back, I'm going to come in there after you."

Jon looks horrified. "Martin, don't you dare--"

Martin just smiles at him. "Better come back, then."

"That's not funny."

Martin has to choke down a laugh at how-- disgruntled Jon looks. Then he thinks about what they're about to do, and all the humor flows out of him.

"But really, I--" He takes a deep, shaky breath. "Just, please come back."

"I will. The recorders will work, Martin. I know it."

Martin nods. He has to trust Jon in this, and trust that he, at least a little bit, knows what he's doing.

Jon turns to face the coffin. There is an immediate change in the atmosphere of the room--like the pressure's dropped, or the composition of the air has suddenly changed. Martin can't explain it. Something hovers just outside his range of hearing--something rather like singing.

"No need for that," Jon says. "I'm willing."

Just as suddenly as it started, the singing stops, and the room returns to normal.

Somehow, that exchange is more unsettling than anything that has happened so far.

Jon leans down and undoes the chain around the coffin, letting it fall to the floor with a rattle. Then he takes a deep breath, and opens the lid.

The coffin's hinges make an awful creaking noise as it opens. The air that comes out of it is cold and smells of damp earth, and Martin can see the dusty stone steps inside it, leading down into the dark. A shiver runs down his spine, and he starts to wonder if this is really such a good idea.

Jon looks down into the coffin. "Right, then."

Before Jon can step forward, Martin reaches out and grabs his hand. Jon startles a little, looking up at Martin with a question in his eyes.

"I--"Martin stammers. Again there is a moment when he thinks he could do something more, but he's not sure what he wants to do, so he just gives Jon's hand a tight squeeze. "Good luck."

Jon smiles, and squeezes back. "Thank you."

Then he turns, and takes a deep breath, and makes his way down the steps into the dark.

Once Jon disappears, the coffin lid creaks slowly closed, all on its own.

Martin swallows.

He will be back , he assures himself. This will work .

He piles all the recorders they collected on top of the coffin, until they cover the entire surface. Then he settles himself in the chair at Jon's desk, to wait.

He wonders if Peter has noticed that he's gone yet.

He knows that he'll be angry--all their work, all of Peter's warnings about staying away from Jon in order to keep him safe, for nothing.

But Martin can't bring himself to care. He thinks of Jon's smile, his eyes, the firm grip of his hand --and he decides, right then and there, that he is done trying to stay away from him.

When Jon gets back, Martin will be right here. And he doesn't plan on going anywhere.

Peter Lukas can go to hell.

[spoondrifts]

the evergreen needles inside your bones

ao3 link

Whumptober 2020 Prompt, Day 8: Isolation.

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood’s Mother, Jonathan Sims, Daisy Tonner (Mentioned), Elias Bouchard (Mentioned)

CWs: self harm, emotional/psychological abuse, unhealthy coping mechanisms, depression, past child abuse, suicidal thoughts

He's walking. He isn't sure where he is or how he got here, only that it's rather nice. The air is cool and the breeze is gentle, the sand beneath his feet shifts as he steps. The coastline stretches endlessly on into the fog, which collects in thin, wispy tendrils around his ankles, condensing in little droplets in his glasses. He wipes them off every few minutes. Distantly, seagulls call back and forth, shrill and grating, but the fog muffles it well enough.

There might be a lighthouse, off a ways, but he can't focus on it properly. Every time he tries, it seems to blur and shudder, refusing to be locked down. He understands, sort of. To be seen, to have eyes cut down to your core and pin you in place, defining you... it sounds awful.

To his left, the ocean rushes quietly, white waves lapping against the shore. He can taste salt.

A rush of cloying static fills his head, and then Peter is there. He's wearing his ridiculous sailor's coat, the dumb hat brim on his head hiding his empty eyes.

"Hi, Martin," Peter says, voice warm. He is anything but. "What are you doing in here?"

"Here?" Martin says, a bit confused. His voice sounds distant. He's not sure what Peter means.

"In the Lonely. You weren't in your office and I wanted to go over some emails from tech support I got this morning. Apparently, the archive is having trouble with their computers again, they keep breaking, and if they go over the Institute budget..."

Peter's voice fades out. Martin looks over at the sea; the fog rises to his knees, chilling him to the bone. He's been rather tired of Peter, lately. Despite being typically absent, the man has an exhausting presence, and when given the opportunity he can and will talk for hours. Martin is an expert at tuning him out by now.

"Martin," Peter says sharply, snapping his fingers in front of Martin's eyes and regrettably drawing his attention. "Are you listening to me?"

Martin blinks slowly. Lukas' form is indistinct, growing more hazy by the moment.

"Blackwood," Peter says. He sounds startled as he lurches forward, face twisted in confusion, but Martin steps back and the fog swells up, encompassing, swallowing Peter up. And then Martin is alone.

He hadn't known he could do that.

Far away, the lighthouse beam sweeps through the gloom.

His notebook sits open on his desk, blank white pages staring accusingly at him. Several pages have been ripped out, crumpled, and tossed away, covered in jagged scratches of pen. He rolls the pen over in his fingers, eyeing the notebook.

Picking it up, he braces it on his knee, uncaps the pen, and lifts it. Stares. He presses the tip to the page. Stops, removes it.

it's like drowning

he writes, then scowls and crosses it out. Too Buried-esque.

like clogging, like stifling, like I could reach down my throat and rip my emotions out by their throats. maybe then I could strangle and kill them for good. maybe then I could feel something.

He thinks he can hear someone like his mum scoffing at him, telling him to write something real. Something that isn't so silly, so theatrical.

He looks at the lines for a long while. Grits his teeth. Crosses them out.

Martin watches Jon hurry into the Institute, soaked all the way through and shivering violently. Rain is pouring in unrelenting sheets beyond the doors, a steady drizzle of cold and grey and wet.

Maybe once, Martin would have fetched Jon a cup of tea, offered to hang up his coat to dry for him. Fussed over him all the way into his office, where once, Jon would have snapped out a terse, yes, thank you, Martin, before unsubtly ordering him back to work. Maybe once, Martin would have stood in the break room over a cup of tea for himself, warming his hands, chest aching so deep he feared it might shatter him into a million pieces.

But he can't do that anymore. So he watches Jon shake himself, grumbling about the foul weather, and storm down the hall to the archives without so much as giving Martin a glance.

It's better, this way.

Make yourself useful, Martin, his mum's voice echoes in his head. He's making tea. The Institute is dark and everyone has gone home for the night. Everyone except for Jon, of course, and Daisy, who has been sleeping in the archives ever since Jon dragged her out of the coffin by her fingernails.

Martin doesn't get it. He doesn't get a lot of things about Jonathan Sims, but he doesn't understand the whole Daisy situation most of all.

He remembers the way Jon had staggered into the archives with his throat slit and bleeding, choking out with wry humor that Daisy, the cop, almost killed him, as Martin pressed a handful of paper towels to the wound. He remembers the a rush of worry and anxiety and fury.

And now they're—

They're friends? Maybe more?

No, that's ridiculous. Don't be so melodramatic, Martin. Selfish, jealous boy.

His hands shake as he pours his tea. Stirs in the sugar. Burns his tongue on the first sip. A piece of prose has been rattling around in his head all day, itching to be written down. He doesn't think he has the strength to open his notebook again.

there's a pickaxe behind my eyes, chipping away at my face, causing such a thudding and pounding racket that I can scarcely gather my thoughts into neat little boxes, where they belong. tucked away. pocketed, pocketed, pocketed. I am pocket-sized; stuff me away and fold me into the dark, the background. hide me away. please don't look; I may fracture like stained glass.

Christ, Martin, his mum sneers.

He loses his pen.

It's an accident, and a harmless one, really. He's leaning over his desk—once Elias', once James', once Richard's, once once once all the way back to Jonah Magnus. Painted eyes bright and green and sharp with something, maybe it's amusement, maybe it's malice; who can tell, does it matter—and his fingers fumble, and he drops the pen.

Martin straightens, sighing, and gets up to look for it, assuming it had rolled under the desk. He sweeps his foot over the carpet, peers into the shadows, even paces the room a few times to make sure he's searching everywhere, but it's gone. Frustrated, he pushes the desk out of the way, causing a few papers to slide off and scatter across the ground. The pen still isn't there. He hisses lowly as the damn pen refuses to make an appearance. There's no way it just vanished. It can't have vanished. He very clearly dropped it right there, it should be somewhere on the floor, but the more he looks the more he becomes convinced that it's not.

He stops for a moment. Assesses the office.

It's a mess. The desk, haphazardly shoved to one side; cabinets flung open, none fully closed; himself, panting and flushed hot with irritation and in the epicenter of the disorder. His notebook is on the floor, face down.

There's no pen.

He can feel the anger rising, something burning and steely that squeezes his lungs and rings in his ears, and then—

Christ, it's only a pen, a voice snarls in the back of his mind.

It sounds like his mum.

She's dead and he's here. Sometimes Martin thinks he shouldn't be: here and alive and fine when everyone else is suffering so badly, but then he chastises himself—It doesn't matter. That's his mantra, these days. It doesn't matter how he feels about it. All that matters is that he does it, and he does it well, and no one else has to get hurt by monsters like Elias or Peter or the—the thing that stole Sasha, ever again.

He won't save the day, but maybe. Maybe he can save them. Even if it costs him his life.

Martin sucks in a breath. One. Two. Three. Four. He takes in another.

Faintly, he registers that his wrists are stinging from how hard he is pressing his nails to the skin. Not bleeding, not yet. He has the good sense to pull his hand away and inspect the damage. Four crescent gouges, likely to bruise, and bruise a dark, sickly purple, like rot. Like crawling, infestation, like Jane. He still has scars. He has not touched a peach in over a year.

He breathes deeply, sniffs, and then all at once he is crying. His eyes burn as tears well up and spill over, trickling down his cheeks in uneven rivulets, stopped by his scrabbling fingers that rub valiantly over his face in an attempt to quit, but somehow that only makes it worse and his chest stutters through a hitched sob.

Dropping forward, he gets on his knees and starts to pick up the papers he'd messed up, sniffling and choking down the involuntary sobs. His hands tremble badly as he grabs his notebook and presses it to his chest.

Useless arse, his mum growls. Can't even clean a bloody office because you're too busy getting all weepy over something you chose.

His teeth grind so harshly that his jaw aches.

"Shut up," he hisses, his voice horrifically watery and broken. His notebook slides back to the floor as his hands fly up to cover his ears, desperately trying to block out her cruel words. "Shut up, shut up, shut up, you're gone and you're not coming back and I'm still here when you're not so shut UP!"

He isn't sure how long he crouches there, hands shut tight over his ears, wracked with loud, gasping cries as his body shudders and shakes and falls apart.

It's only when he notices how quiet it is that he finally opens his eyes, lowering his hands.

He's on the beach. The fog curls, gentle, around his huddled form. The waves crash and collide with each other, sending great sprays of salt water into the misty air. His pants are covered in sand.

And the lighthouse looms before him, dizzyingly tall, it's outline distinct and crisp for the first time. Martin breathes in the scent of the sea and slowly rises to his feet. His head is fuzzy, but his chest doesn't hurt anymore, and he isn't sure why he was so upset in the first place. It was just a pen, after all. He sniffs, shaking his head, taking a few wobbly steps towards the lighthouse.

The door is open. Waiting. He can't see what's inside.

When he manages to reach the entrance, he pauses, glancing back. The empty expanse of beach and coastline is still there. It's rather beautiful.

Martin takes in a breath. Another.

He turns, and walks into the lighthouse.

[primalrageanddumbassery]

It’s A Quiet Room That Calls My Name

Word Count: 2,560 

Ships: Jonmartin 

 Warnings: Self Loathing

Brief Alcohol Mention

Insomnia

Fear of Abandonment

Crying

Brief Mention of an Abusive Parent (Martin' mum)

Repeating one sentence over and over

Swearing

Summary: Jon has been so distant since they arrived at the cabin. Martin wants to believe that he's giving Martin space, but the voices in his head have all but convinced him otherwise. The Lonely is returning, if it ever left at all. AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26342788

For all its faults, Martin really did like the safehouse. Sure, it was dusty, free of any decoration, and smelled like the 5 year old scotch left on the counters and in the cupboards. Sure, all blankets, pillows, and cloth-based items were moth eaten. Sure, the tiled floor of the kitchen was so bitterly cold that you could feel it through even your thickest socks (and occasionally even your shoes), making late night cups of tea borderline unpleasant, especially if you forgot to put on socks or shoes.

All of that said, the beds were cozy enough, the fireplace was gorgeous, and Jon was there. Martin couldn't bring himself to truly hate any place with Jon when it came down to it. Even the memory of the Institute had a little bit of a rose-colored tinge to it, if only because he had met Jon there.

So Martin bought rustic-looking signs with cheesy sentiments in cursive to hang around the house, a toothbrush holder to screw to the bathroom wall, and anything else he could find in the market to make the safehouse feel more like a permanent home than a random cabin he was hiding in with the man he... to be honest, he didn't know what Jon was to him, but he liked thinking of this as

their

house rather than their hideaway or, worse, their prison.

As much as he fantasized about being... whatever he fantasized about being to Jon, he couldn't help but notice how much space the other gave him. Sure, they'd eat together, play cards together (which was rather amusing as Jon only knew Trash and Go Fish), even just sit in what passed as a living room reading together, but Jon seemed so

tentative

, like he thought if he got too close Martin would disintegrate. In all fairness, Martin had been in such a fragile state at first that any attempts to come near him might have resulted in whatever outcomes it was that Jon feared, but within a week most of the immediate effects of the Lonely had worn off. He was almost certain Jon had realized that he was, for the most part, better now, but his companion seemed no more willing to make physical contact than he was the first week. For reference, they were now on week seven.

There was, of course, that tiny voice in Martin's head -too frequent to be in the back of his mind, but not loud enough for him to devote very much conscious thought to it for at least a little while- that was slowly filling Martin with a lonesome dread not unlike the kind he knew back when Jon was in the height of his paranoia.

He's just being polite, you do know that, right?

the voice would whisper.

He's only staying because he needs to. He just wants to keep himself safe. He doesn't love you the way you love him. He doesn't WANT to love you the way you love him. Who would? It's obsessive, disabling, disgusting. Not even your own mother wanted your love. Why would someone who could choose otherwise?

Soon, the voice wasn't a tiny voice anymore, but a voice demanding to be heard. It sounded remarkably like Jon's own voice. Soon, it wasn't very far away from the forefront of his mind. He could hear it all the time, with that

tone

Jon had when he was absolutely disgusted. The only tone Martin had known him to have for almost the entire first year they'd known each other.

In this instance, Martin was trying to read a book on the sofa. It was late at night, around 10:30, but he had long since given up on sleep and instead had resigned himself to trying to focus on the memoir he found on Daisy's nightstand. It wasn't working. His mind was so polluted with his worries that he found himself rereading one sentence over and over. His mind was so polluted with his worries that he found himself rereading one sentence over and over. His mind was so polluted with his worries that he found himself rereading one sentence over and over. His mind was so polluted with his worries that he found himself rereading one sentence over and over.

The soft sound of Jon clearing his throat brought him out of his thoughts. Martin looked up from the book in a bit of a daze.

"Oh, did you say something, Jon?" he asked, immediately worried he'd missed something important.

"Not yet, actually," Jon replied, "but I was going to tell you that I'm going to bed."

"Oh, okay. Sleep well, then." Martin looked back down at his book. There was a beat of silence.

"You should think about doing the same, Martin," Jon said softly. Martin looked up again, surprised.

"Oh, no, I'm alright. I have some things on my mind right now- I don't think I could sleep if I wanted to." Jon frowned with concern.

"Are you sure? You look like you haven't slept well. It might do you some good."

I do?

Martin thought. He hadn't noticed looking any different.

"I'll go to bed in a bit, alright?" he assured Jon. "You go ahead." Jon's brow furrowed and for a moment he looked like he was about to argue, but seemed to think better of it.

"Alright. Goodnight, Martin."

Jon almost shut the door to the guest bedroom behind him, but he seemed to think better of it and left it ajar.

--------------

Try as he might, Martin couldn't force himself to focus on his book. He would finish a page, but realize he couldn't recall in the least what he'd read on it. It wasn't even serving as a distraction anymore- his every thought was of Jon's distance.

Of how

lonely

he was.

He didn't put a word to it immediately, but then he felt the fog -perfectly devoid of temperature to contrast the warm cabin, just as he remembered it- curling around his arms and legs and neck and between each of his fingers. He knew then. He had no illusions about what the opaque gray fog meant.

"No, no, I'm out of there," he whispered, trying to fan it away. It didn't work, of course, becoming clearer and clearer as he felt himself start to fade out of vision.

"Stop it, stop it! I'm not lonely!" He gripped his head in frustration. The fog was unrelenting. The very worst part of it, however, was the sense, deep down, of relief. The numbness was returning and he knew how much

easier

everything became with it. A part of him, a bigger part than he would ever like to admit, wanted nothing more than to submit again. If he just let go...

Before he knew it, he was in the bedroom he was using, burrowing head-first under the covers. It was something he had done as a very small child, swimming to to bottom of the sheets like it was the ocean or a cave. Other than the rustle of covers as he went deeper, all other sounds were muted by the blankets. It had always sounded, to him, like he was utterly alone.

He was a good deal bigger now, and unless his legs were drawn up close to him, they stuck out the top of the blankets. It was surreal to be in such a familiar situation again but with a drastically different body. Even so, he knew why he had done it again.

It was pitch black under the covers, all of the sounds muted by the layers of comforter and quilt. In the quiet, he could more easily hear the pounding voice.

HE DOESN'T NEED YOU. HE NEVER HAS. THE ONLY REASON HE REMAINS HERE IS FEAR OF WHAT LIES OUTSIDE. WHY ELSE WOULD ANYONE VOLUNTARILY SPEND TIME WITH MARTIN BLACKWOOD?

This was loneliness at its finest.

A part of him was still reluctant, still conscious of the danger he was in. How he'd fought so hard to get out of the Lonely the first time, how he felt so much happier when he was able to just be with Jon like he should have been for the past year.

This was the part of him that made him cry. Even though he could feel the calm fog, the relievingly calm fog that whispered of its tranquility, of its numbness to him, he could still feel the tiniest sliver of himself that remained and protested. His sobs shook his chest violently, loudly. His first instinct was to try to quiet himself (

"Mum hates it when I'm loud, she'll be so mad at me..."

he thought in his delirium), but upon trying, he found that he couldn't. He was crying too hard for that to be even close to plausible. He hugged his knees, lying on his side underneath the blankets.

This is why,  

he thought.

This is exactly why he's keeping away from you. Look at you! You're a mess! What kind of crazy would he have to be to want to get involved with this shitshow? It's selfish of you to even consider letting him get involved. Jon does NOT need this kind of stress. Why, you're the most selfish man on the continent! The planet, even! After all Jon has been through? Why would you even THINK about asking for his help? You're such a-

"Martin? Are you okay? I heard you-"

Jon's voice stopped at the same moment that Martin froze.

"Martin, are you alright?"

Shit, shit, shit! He'll see my puffy red eyes, he'll see the fog- OH SHIT, HE'LL SEE THE FOG, HE'LL SEE THAT I'M FADING, I CAN'T BELIEVE I WAS SO-

He felt the mattress depress.

Jon has sat down.

"You can talk to me about anything, Martin. You

do

know that?" Martin took a shaky breath. The half of him that had been more than ready to return to the Lonely was uncomfortable.

"Y-yeah," he whispered finally. With a high degree of difficulty, whether from his own reluctance or the physical restraints, he slowly crawled out of the covers. Jon had clicked on the bedside lamp and was smiling at him.

"There you are." Martin smiled back shyly.

"Here I am." Jon looked him up and down, eyes catching on the fog. His breath hitched.

"The Lonely again?" Martin shrunk into himself, vigorously messing with the threadbare edge of the quilt. His fingertips were completely invisible. "Hey, hey, it's alright," Jon said softly. "I'm not mad if it's back. I just want to help it go away again, okay?"

This was probably the softest Martin had ever heard Jon say. He was surprised he wasn't a puddle by now.

"Ok-okay," Martin whispered. He relaxed his shoulders as best he could. The quiet that followed was almost tense with Jon apparently thinking about what to do next and Martin trying (in vain) to push away the thoughts again.

"Can you- that is, would you like to... talk about it?" Jon asked tentatively.

Don't tell him! He'll think you're ungrateful! He's giving you the space he thinks you need, you can't tell him that he's making it worse! What are you doing? How dare you even consider it? He's trying to be kind to you! Why would you throw it back in his face? Just lie, tell him you don't know how it happened, tell him it came out of nowhere and you're just fine, tell him-

"Martin? Are you still with me?" Jon's voice drew him out of his thoughts.

No, Jon's too smart for that. I have to tell him.

"Yeah, I am. I think I... I think I

would

like to talk about it." Jon nodded.

"Alright, then," Jon said. Martin took a deep breath, trying to figure out where to begin.

"I've been... worried, I think? Yeah, I've been worried recently. About how you feel about me. I mean, don't get me wrong- you're nowhere

near

the way you were in the beginning, and I'm really happy about that, but..." He trailed off, searching for the words. "Look, Jon- I know you're trying to give me space and not impose, but space is the complete opposite of what I need. I mean," he said with a half-assed laugh, "I've had nothing but space since that damned Unknowing. I- I mean, if you would be..." He took a breath to steel himself. "If you would be willing to get closer to me,  that would be good. For me. I think." Jon's mouth was slightly ajar in... surprise? Loss of words?

"Martin, I... I'm so sorry, I didn't realize that I... I should have kn-"

"No, no, Jon, don't do that, you had no reason to have known," Martin pleaded. "You didn't know and what's done is done. But now that you do know..."

"I'll do anything to make sure you don't feel that way again," Jon assured him. "Of course. I

am

sorry, though. I promise, I'll do whatever you need me to do." Martin smiled widely. Probably the first genuine, Martin K. Blackwood Ray-Of-Sunshine Smile™️ that had occured since, well, since the Unknowing.

"Is touching alright?" Jon asked softly. The half of him prepared to become Lonely again was still there and screamed 'no', screamed for Jon to leave, but Martin nodded.

"Yes. Yeah, it's okay."

Jon's hand reached out and covered Martin's.

"What do you see?" he asked gently. Martin smiled.

"You, Jon." Jon's grip tightened around Martin's fingers. His hand was substantially smaller, something that would have made Martin laugh in another situation.

"And I'm not going

anywhere

, you hear me, Martin? I'm staying right here, right by your side as long as you need me." His green-brown eyes, so calculating so much of the time, looked at Martin with nothing other than pure adoration. Martin felt himself tearing up.

"Thank you, Jon," he whispered. Jon chuckled.

"Oh, Martin, don't

cry..

." he stood up and moved to the other side of the bed so he could sit next to Martin. He slid into the covers and put a gentle hand on the cheek that faced away from him, guiding Martin's head to lay on Jon's shoulder. Martin laughed a bit, relaxing. He had to shift his body sideways so he wasn't bending down to do so. Jon's arm settled around Martin's shoulders.

The fog isn't gone, but it's getting there. Martin knows it won't just disappear. It's had too lasting an effect on him to just

disappear

. He's still a little bit lonely, but that's alright. He has Jon, and he's positive now that Jon won't leave him. He'll heal in time.

"Jon?"

"Hm?" Jon hummed in response.

"Would you... would you stay in here with me? In the bedroom?" Jon smiled.

"Of course." He pressed a kiss into Martin's hazelnut curls. "As long as you'll have me." Martin chuckled.

"You're never going to sleep in that other bedroom again in that case." Jon shrugged.

"Then so be it."

Thank you SO MUCH for reading!!!!!!!! Bro I enjoyed writing this so much! It went through several drafts over the past few days so I was just a tad bit worried but!! it's fine!!! and I'm happy!!!!! And by the way, the swimming under blankets thing? You cannot imagine how fun that is. I did that when I was a kid ALL the time and quite frankly if I had a bed larger than a twin, I would still do it. I would highly recommend that you try it as soon as possible. Pro tip- it works best in a large, king or queen sized bed, and even better if the covers are tucked in at the end of the bed. And again, if you want to know what the song is that this fic was named after, listen to Long Shadow by Della Mae because it fucking SLAPS https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B7J30ksWBRE&feature=youtu.be

This fic was originally posted on my AO3 account. If you like my content, feel free to hop over there and check out the rest of my work! I have two more TMA fics out so if you liked this one, check out 'And The Hounds of Heaven Rise' and ‘But Now I’ve Come Back To Wash Out The Stains Hey! I love you! Take care of yourself, okay? Go get yourself some water to celebrate the fact that you're a cool person! Or food if you haven't eaten recently. Or your meds if you need them! Stay safe and remember that you're radder than, like, a whole jar of peanut butter! I repeat: THANK YOU FOR READING! ~Beck

[roombagreyjoy]

“Shh. Come here. It’s just a nightmare.” prompt for jonmartin >:3

OKAY THERE IS A PERFECTLY GOOD EXPLANATION FOR THIS: I had a perfectly good draft, already edited, ready to be posted. But it was too angsty/filled with anger/not enough comfort for all the hurt and I had a TERRIBLE week and I woke up from a nightmare (oh, the irony) at 6AM and wrote this one instead on a burst of fear-induced mania in like four or five hours. I've barely edited it, so bear with me.

PS: I’m so sorry.

Seriously I did my best I’m so sorry.

-----

Prompt #2: “Shh. Come here. It’s just a nightmare.”

Read it on my AO3 Page as well

Alternative Title: Nightmares Aren’t Fun

[They really aren’t]

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Pairings: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims

Content Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Depression (not explicit), feelings of solitude/loneliness, low self-esteem (not explicit), there’s literally an Apocalypse going on what else do you need to know

Addendum: I am so sorry, I had a perfectly good draft and went for this one I just wrote in four hours nonstop instead, the other one was too angsty/angry/sad and I had a terrible week so I chose to remake the entire thing I am so sorry, the first part of this is very statement-y and it was completely on accident but then again as your resident nightmare expert what can you expect, please don’t kill me I tried my best and I only have one (1) brain cell.

Length: 2515 words (do not trust AO3 I know it’s 2515 don’t fucking @ me)

-----

It’s a weird feeling, waking up from a nightmare. You don’t realise when you’ve woken, you just… are waken, sometimes bolting upright in bed due to the shock, others jolting awake with tears streaming down your cheeks; heaving, or breathing rapidly, or just straight-up sobbing, with snot coming out of your nose in the least dignified way possible. The heavy weight of the world on your shoulders, the fear clinging to your soul, rooted deep beneath your skin, in your brain, in your heart, in your lungs and your stomach and your knees and your shoulders and your chest and your teeth and your eyes and your tongue…

You can feel it clutching at the last cracks of sleep left within you. Sometimes it takes a while for it to be left behind. Can be minutes. Can be hours. Sometimes you carry that fear with you for a day, two days, a week… oftentimes not even remembering what exactly it is you’re supposed to be afraid of.

Waking up from a nightmare with someone by your side is an even weirder feeling.

At least, it is, for people who are not used to having anyone by their side at all.

When you have been lonely for so long, companionship can become a prison as well as a salvation. The balance is hard to find, processing your emotions is more complicated than it used to be when you were alone. You have someone else there; someone who’s affected by your actions and whose actions you’re affected by. Someone who depends on you and on whom you depend. It’s in equal parts comforting and terrifying.

Especially when you’ve just woken up from a horrible, terrible, godawful nightmare.

That had just happened to poor Martin Blackwood, who, in fact, did not quite remember what the nightmare was all about at all! All he remembered is that it was horrible.

But, then again, this is the Apocalypse, isn’t it? It’s supposed to be bad. Awful, even. And that, it was. He shook a little at the touch of cold hands tentatively brushing past his arm and resting on his bare shoulder. He could already feel the tingle in the back of his head, like his brain was tickling, but not necessarily in a good way. The more awoken he was, the more his senses started brushing off the tiredness and sleepiness, he became more and more aware of it. The feeling of being watched, of being observed; the underlying fear of being judged. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to keep that fear at bay. ‘You’re not judged. You’re safe. You’re okay. Being looked at does not mean being submitted to judgement.’ A constant reminder, time and again. The incessant push to make his brain rationalise the situation. Trying not to break. Not like this. Not in front of Jon. He already had enough on his plate as is, to have to deal with him even after the nightmares.

It’s hard to convince yourself of some things when your entire life you’ve felt otherwise.

He did not open his eyes, but he leaned into the touch when he felt Jon cupping his cheek softly. The feeling of his hand on Martin’s skin was comforting; his skin was rough, coarse, the texture of his palm uneven and scarred, his once delicate, slim fingers now slightly bent, fragile, yet their touch was certain, his fingernails only a little too long (Martin bit at them when he was stressed, but Jon never did; he resorted to nervously tangling his fingers instead). He felt himself letting out a long breath of air he didn’t know he had been holding until then, and with it went some of the tension bottled up deep inside his body, when he felt Jon’s thumb slowly caress his cheek in a circular motion. He didn’t open his eyes yet, and he felt the other man’s hand shifting slightly, at an infuriating slow pace, probably in order not to startle him. Said hand slowly reached up, and he felt Jon’s thumb softly against his skin again, this time in his eyelid, moving upwards, tracing his eyebrow, his index finger drawing circles over his forehead with a gentleness almost unparalleled… Jon ran his hand a few times through Martin’s hair, in a calming motion, only for his thumb to then trace the way back down, gently playing with his ear, lingering there for a second or two, before it made its way to Martin’s jawline, lips…

Jon finally let his hand down, and Martin begrudgingly opened his eyes. He was staring at him. Of course, he was staring at him. He blinked whatever was left of sleep within him and smiled back. He stared at the other man for a few minutes, without saying anything. Jon seemed reluctant to say something either. Martin eventually blinked. Jon didn’t. He finally opened his mouth, his voice coming out hoarse yet filled with such affection Martin felt his stomach twist for a second with what he might have once called butterflies. Not anymore, though.

“You’re beautiful, you know.” Was all Jon said. Martin knew he didn’t look beautiful. He could still feel the tears drying up in his cheeks, although he didn’t know why he was crying in the first place, and he sniffed. He shifted his body, so he’d be looking up, to the ceiling. The sounds of the outside world were… bad. They were bad. He shook a little beneath the bedsheets.

“Do you, err… do you want me to bring you another blanket?” Jon asked, cautiously. “The one in the couch is… very comfortable.” He was aware Jon knew he wasn’t shaking out of coldness, but he nodded regardless.

“I know.” Martin said. He was the one who put it there, after all. That’s where Jon spent most of his time after the change. He used to stare silently at the wall, shaking. Sometimes he would let out small huffs of air, like he was trying to laugh but his voice wasn’t there to laugh with him. Martin took the warmest looking blanket he could find (Daisy was, apparently, not one for seeking comfort underneath a blanket and a warm cup of hot cocoa) and put it around him, making sure to cover him entirely. He used to leave Jon like that for a while, not wanting to invade his privacy, but sometimes he felt the need to rest a hand on his shoulder, whisper comforting words he knew Jon would not believe (after all, neither did he), kiss his forehead or his hair… although he wasn’t sure Jon even noticed he was there most of the time.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t an unknown feeling to Martin. So, he carried on, he made tea…

But the tea was gone.

So was the world.

Martin shook slightly harder. Jon bent over his arm to stare at him properly, this time; his green eyes glowing almost imperceptibly to the human eye. If Martin didn’t know, he wouldn’t have noticed. He always noticed, though.

“Are you sure about that blanket?” He asked again. “It’s… I…” He closed his mouth in defeat, at a loss for words.

“Yes. Yes. Go grab it,” Martin conceded. “… please.” He added.

Honestly, he just wanted to get Jon out of the room for a bit, give him a chance to collect himself. To function properly. To take a deep breath without feeling a pair of big, inquiring eyes upon him. Of course, Jon knew this. He should feel guilty. He just didn’t have it in him to feel guilty anymore. This, Jon also knew. Martin wished he could believe there was something Jon did not, in fact, know, at that point. But he had chosen not to care about that either. Not anymore. It was only going to hurt the both of them if he did anyway.

Jon, however, got up silently, took his share of bedsheets he was leaving behind and tucked them closer to Martin so he would keep the warmth his body was leaving behind. Not like Jon produced a lot of body heat, tiny and cold as he was, but the gesture was sweet. It made Martin feel slightly better, and also, slightly guilty, now for real. He closed his eyes with a soft, quick hum and heard the door open and close behind him. There was no need for Jon to close the door, he shouldn’t be long if all he needed to do was retrieve the woollen blanket on the couch, but Martin realised. This was Jon’s way of giving him some privacy. He still felt observed, but this time, the only pair of eyes he actually didn’t mind being observed by were gone.

It did take some of the tension out of him, however. The cabin was… safe. Allegedly. At least, he thought so. And the feeling of being watched decreased significantly with Jon being out of the room. He heard him fumbling in the adjoining room through the paper-thin walls, but he didn’t know what the other man was doing. He used this time to calm himself down as best he could. He sat on the bed, stretched a bit, felt his shoulders crack and moved his neck around. He took a deep breath, held, let it out, repeat. Five breaths later, he felt almost like a person. Almost.

“Jon?” He called out, voice loud enough for the other to hear. He didn’t wait for a response or a confirmation that Jon had, in fact, heard him, when he added: “I think you can come back in now.”

Jon opened the door trying his best not to let his eagerness show, carrying the infamous woollen blanket and… two mugs. For some reason. Martin eyed the man who stood in front of him suspiciously. Jon, patient as a saint, waited, leaning against the doorframe. Finally, Martin nodded, and he made his way to the bed. He didn’t climb onto the bed outright, sliding his knee up first instead, and dropping the objects he was carrying on the mattress carefully. He took the blanket and rounded up the bed until he got to Martin’s side. He placed it gently over his shoulders, instead of putting it on top of the bedsheets.

“I think we can both curl up under there.” He commented casually, a smile painting his words with comfort and love. Martin couldn’t help but smile back, softly.

“Sure, that sounds good.”

As much as he wanted to ask about the mugs, he knew he had to let Jon do his thing, on his own time. This was as much of a coping mechanism to him as it was to Martin.

Finally, with Jon on his side of the bed, Martin opened up the blanket as the other man positioned himself beneath the bedsheets. He took his side of the blanket as well, curling up beneath Martin’s big arm, pressing close to his side. He let out a content sigh and Martin’s heart beat a little faster. He didn’t even care how they’d ended up in this situation, all he cared about was the man who embraced him in his arms and hid his face in Martin’s neck, taking a deep breath. Martin absentmindedly pet Jon’s hair while his gaze diverted to the mugs, standing on the corner of the bed, untouched, empty.

“Jon…”

“Oh! Yes, right. Sorry.” Jon let out a small chuckle, not unlike him these days, but that would’ve been foreign to Martin before all this happened. He seemed so much better than… well. Before.

To some extent at least.

He knew though. He knew Jon was only putting up a show. Martin had been the one in charge of taking care of them before, and he knew Jon felt like it was his turn now. Martin thought it shouldn’t be like this. They had to take care of each other mutually, not just take turns and whatnot. While he was lost in thought, Jon had reached up for the mugs and handed one to Martin. The one with the tartan print on it.

“What’s this?”

“… A mug.”

“No- yes. Jon, I know it’s a mug-”

“Oh. Yes. Sorry, I-”

They kind of stepped on each other’s words for a bit until Jon decided to shut up, looking away with a flustered expression and a shame-induced smile that was still too endearing to Martin to avoid blushing too, himself.

“Look. I… why did you bring the mugs? You said there was no tea left and…”

Jon patiently waited for him to finish. But he didn’t. When it was clear he wasn’t going to say anything else, Jon sighed and pressed harder to Martin’s flank, shifting his own mug in his hands abstractedly.

“I know you like that mug.”

“What?”

“When… when everything was… when I didn’t… before I… well.” Martin did not press him to continue, just as Jon had waited for him to sort out his thoughts. Jon let out a quiet damnit and looked up in frustration. A storm raged in his eyes, and Martin slowly brought his hand to the other’s knee, squishing softly. Jon resumed, sometime afterwards, leaning into Martin’s touch almost desperately, like a sailor stranded at sea for far too long.

“When there was still tea left,” he said, and Martin knew. He had tried to talk to Jon about it, but the blame, the shame, the pain, the fear… it was all too much for him still. Maybe time was running out. Maybe not. Maybe it was all in his head. It could be. He didn’t know. There were so many things he didn’t know these days… But he wouldn’t push Jon. Not so hard. Not yet. Not still. He nodded, and Jon continued, a pinch of sadness crawling onto his voice. He tried to hide it with a cough, but he couldn’t. “When there was still tea left, you used to take these two mugs to make it the most often. You always kept the one with the tartan pattern on it, so, evidently, I assumed… you know.”

“Oh,” Martin whispered, softly.

“Yes. Well.” Jon coughed again. “It thought maybe… even if it was an unconscious choice, you know… I just… maybe, just maybe, it would make you feel better.”

Martin felt a warmth in his body that he knew was not because of the blankets, or Jon’s body next to him (though that sure helped), he smiled, tears threatening to bloom out of his eyes once again, albeit this time for very different reasons. He kissed Jon’s hair and kept his face buried there, the smell of the person he loved the most lingering, covering him, plunging him into memories of a different time, a different world, a different life. He closed his eyes and kissed Jon again, in the same spot, over, and over, slowly, gently, taking in as much of him as he possibly could, while his hands clutched the tartan mug.

Nothing else mattered. For now, he was safe. Jon was here. They were safe.