As Leonid sat on the couch, shivering as he wrapped his coat tighter around himself, he couldn’t stop thinking about that strange foreigner.

That foreigner didn’t hide anything. It was something Leonid had trouble wrapping his mind around.

With the world they were in, and the fears of non-humans gripping people’s minds, one would think someone like the foreigner would try harder to hide who he was. He was lucky that no one in the house seemed willing to go through the trouble of being outwardly hateful; no one wanted to stir up a ruckus when the homeowner called all the shots with a trigger-happy finger. He had let the foreigner in, so they would have to live with him, whether they were accepting of people like him or not.

Perhaps it helped the foreigner's case that he was just so…likeable. That’s what it was. Though some complained that he talked too much, the complaint was half-hearted, said with light smiles as the foreigner rambled on and on, passionate with exaggerated motions to try and convey what he was saying to them. His smile was contagious, his large eyes wide with excitement, glad that people were willing to listen to him despite the barriers.

And he did everything he could to help the others in the house. He helped the homeowner cook, sat with the widow in the bathroom despite the rotting stench, kept the blind man in the kitchen company, and took care of the kids when the mother or teacher in the office were too tired.

Watching him made Leonid sick. Didn’t he know how the world treated people like him? Didn’t he know the comments the other guests had made when he first arrived, how some of the people he helped had talked so poorly of him just a few days prior? How they would have called him a visitor and had him shot had he been just the slightest bit rude to them?

Hunger gnawed at Leonid’s stomach, and he curled deeper into himself. He had managed to stay at this house for quite a long time without suspicion. No one tried to speak to him anymore, and it was probably for the best. If people were to find out about his secret, nothing good would come of it. Nothing good ever came from it, and each time he had been found out, the cold sunk deeper into his bones, and the black hole in his stomach consumed a little bit more of his body.

He didn’t dare to eat. As far as he was aware, he was the only visitor in the house, and though he had no attachment to any of the people inside, he liked having a roof over his head, and conversations that he could listen to from a distance. Their voices became familiar, comforting, and though none of their words were directed towards him, he liked pretending that they were, answering their questions and adding to their thoughts in his head.

When the foreigner came into the living room and sat with the tall man and burned firefighter, he thought nothing of it. They spoke to him as if he understood, and it made Leonid wonder how accurate the foreigner’s responses were to what they were saying. Were they having two different conversations, or did they manage to understand each other through tone of voice alone? Imagine that, being able to connect with others through nothing but your shared humanity.

No wonder he was so cold.

A hand was waved in front of his face as the foreigner stared at him curiously. Leonid stared back, both of them seeming to be waiting for the other to speak first.

After a few moments, the foreigner cleared his throat awkwardly, his eyes flicking up and down Leonid’s body as if assessing him. He pointed at him, then hugged himself tightly and made a brrr sound as if he were shivering, then raised his eyebrows as if asking a question. Leonid nodded slowly.

The tall man said something that sounded like an attempt to explain Leonid’s behavior to the foreigner, but Leonid could hardly focus on his words as he watched the man spring up to his feet, a finger tapping his chin in an almost comical expression of thought. He reached a hand up to Leonid’s face, and he quickly pulled back, his stare unblinking as he watched the strange foreigner cautiously.

The foreigner pulled back at the same time as Leonid, saying something that he assumed was an apology. He placed his hand on his own forehead, pointing at himself before pointing at Leonid. Leonid’s head tilted to the side as he stared.

“I d-don’t have a f-fever. This is j-just how I’ve always b-been.” He stated. The foreigner continued to stare him down, an awkward yet gentle smile on his bruised and bloodied lips. Leonid wasn’t sure why he bothered saying anything at all. He didn’t have that connection that the humans seemed to share. The foreigner wouldn’t understand.

Leonid nodded in reluctant acceptance, allowing the foreigner to place the back of his hand against his forehead. The foreigner’s brows scrunched together with confusion as he leaned in closer to him. Leonid felt his heart skip a beat, embarrassment reddening his cheeks as he realized with a start this was the closest he had allowed anyone in...he didn’t even know how long.

The black hole in his abdomen spiraled and churned, but all he could think about was how bad he probably smelled, how much he was sweating under his layers of clothing, the burning pain in his broken fingernails. The foreigner wiped his hand across Leonid’s forehead, clearing off a sheen of sweat, and he wanted to be murdered on the spot; it would be far more merciful than this.

The foreigner’s brows arched in surprise as he exclaimed, “Blf’iv yfimrmt fk! Ziv blf hfiv blf’iv mlg roo?” Leonid didn’t respond, pulling his scarf up over his face, breathing into it to try and warm up his cheeks and realizing in embarrassment that his breath smelled bad as well. There really were no redeeming qualities to him, it seemed.

He continued to shiver. Just because his body acted like he wasn’t cold didn’t mean that he suddenly felt warmth. The foreigner watched him carefully, and Leonid could feel the pity in his gaze, looking at him as if he were a starving, disease-ridden puppy on the street.

Dogs rule the world now, that’s what the pale visitor had told him one night. He supposed he was meant to be one of these dogs, roaming the streets free as a bird, infecting anyone he could with whatever sickness turned them into the inhuman visitors they were now.

The foreigner made a motion telling him to stay where he was, saying something before walking out of the room. He felt like a dog that had been told to sit, and he chewed hard on his tongue as he realized with annoyance that he was obeying. The tall man and firefighter had continued their conversation, paying Leonid no mind as he waited for the foreigner to come back.

Left alone with his thoughts, he felt his embarrassment and self-consciousness fade away, being replaced once again by the agonizing cold as the black hole sucked away any warmth he was capable of feeling. Sweat drenched his sides as his body attempted to stave off a heat he did not feel.

Or perhaps it wasn’t heat that it was staving off. Maybe the black hole simply worked his body so hard that it was constantly exhausted. Maybe all the heat the black hole absorbed stayed somewhere inside him that he couldn’t reach, a furnace, a sun hoarded deep within him, a part of him greedily stealing all the warmth for itself and leaving him out in the cold.

He didn’t know how the black hole worked. He didn’t know how his body worked. He didn’t even know when the black hole had appeared, whether it was before he became a visitor or after. It certainly wasn’t a human trait, but it wasn’t a visitor trait, either.

Even in the world of dogs and humans, space and society, he was an observing outlier.

The squeaking of the door hinges pulled him out of his mind as the foreigner returned. Walking slowly over so as not to spill, he carried a large bowl in his hands, steaming and emitting a pleasant scent. He gave Leonid a kind smile, one that Leonid found himself physically unable to return, as he placed the bowl down in his lap.

Steam wafted up to his face, the bowl warming his lap and hands as he held it steady. “Blf hvv R dzmgvw gl nzpv xsrpsrignz, rg’h ivzoob tllw uli ru blf’iv hrxp li sfmtlevi li zmbgsrmt orpv gszg, yfg dv wlm’g szev zmbgsrmt gl nzpv gszg, hl R slkv blf orpv klgzgl hlfk!” He said excitedly, continuing to ramble on, taking a spoon and stirring the creamy broth for a moment before holding up a spoonful, cupping a hand under it and bringing it to Leonid’s lips.

Leonid found himself allowing the foreigner to feed him, though he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t know this man, this man hadn’t even spoken to him until what couldn’t have been more than half an hour ago, and the little conversation they had didn’t have anything meaningful behind it. He had no clue what the man was even saying as he paused every few moments between spoonfuls, making wide gestures that gave Leonid absolutely zero context to his words.

But the soup was good. While it wasn’t the food he needed for sustenance, it warmed his insides, the thick consistency sticking to his stomach and throat, holding in that warmth for just a bit longer. The foreigner paused his feeding for a moment to swipe away the sweat from Leonid’s forehead, placing the back of his hand there for a moment to check his temperature a second time.

He supposed that’s why the foreigner gave him this. It blended their two realities; it gave Leonid the warmth he needed, but was also good for if he was sick, like the foreigner seemed to believe he was.

Leonid attempted to take the spoon from the foreigner, but the man caught his hand, looking down at his scabbed-over fingers and broken nails with a frown, before placing his hand back down in his lap and continuing to feed him, mumbling something to himself before continuing his one-sided conversation as if nothing had happened.

The foreigner was so…insistent. In a way that Leonid couldn’t understand. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the foreigner as he continued to ramble and feed him, watching each blink of his eyes, each twitch of his brows, each word formed on his lips.

His lips were still untreated, no ointment or bandage applied to keep the holes from getting infected. All this time interacting with the other people in the house, and no one had thought to help him treat his lips? After all the help he had given to them?

As the foreigner helped him finish off the bowl, he sifted through his mind for the right words, finding a strange urge in him to do or say…something. As his mind latched onto the right memories to form the words he nodded at the foreigner, saying an awkward, “G-Gszmp blf.”

The foreigner’s face lit up, smiling so wide Leonid worried his injuries may reopen. A warmth spread through Leonid’s body with his smile, a new kind of warmth that didn’t get sucked into his black hole, sitting in his chest and curling up around his heart. For just a few moments, his body went still, the shivers that racked him pausing just long enough for Leonid to force his lips to curve upwards in an untrained, awkward attempt to return the man’s smile, hoping that it gave him at least a fraction of the warmth that Leonid had received from his.

~~~

For reasons that Leonid couldn’t understand, the foreigner decided to continue talking to him. It was almost like he enjoyed talking to brick walls, as he would ramble on for ages without Leonid making any sort of indication that he was listening aside from his dark, unblinking and dead stare.

 But he was. He took in every word intently, trying to get a handle on what expressions matched with what words. The foreigner’s face was incredibly animated, his arched brows emphasizing each emotion he felt. It made him easy to read, and easy to copy. By this point in his life, Leonid had grown used to studying people to try and copy their emotions, learning what face to make during what circumstance.

With him, it felt like he was learning a whole new set of emotions, one just as foreign to him as the man himself. It made him wonder about cultural differences in expression; was everyone from his country as expressive as he was? Was it a cultural expectation, or necessary to properly speak their language? He supposed he wouldn’t be able to find out. There was no one like him nearby, and as far as they knew, no way of getting him back to his home, wherever that may be.

The foreigner would drop a name every once in a while, speaking of that person with a light fondness that caused his eyes to glaze over, as if he were remembering better times. It was a man’s name, and with the foreigner being as unabashedly open as he was, Leonid knew what that meant, his black hole sending a cold spike through his heart that made him pull his coat tighter around him.

He didn’t know why he responded to that knowledge the way he did; perhaps it was envy. A desire for someone to be able to talk about him as freely and gently as the foreigner spoke about his...dear friend.

The sun slowly set over the small house, the other guests seeming to breathe sighs of relief as the heat of the day began to die down. The foreigner stretched and stood up, saying something before beckoning for him to follow. Leonid found himself standing up and obeying.

They wandered around the house, the foreigner peeking into each room as if checking on everyone. Leonid didn’t really see the point of it, the homeowner already checked on everyone multiple times a day, making sure no one had tried to kill each other when he wasn’t looking. The teacher in the living room greeted him with a gently cheerful tone, speaking a few words in broken Georgian that the foreigner responded to with glee.

They went to the kitchen, where the children gathered around him, the young girl telling him about some insane thing that the conspiracy theorist had told her about that she now believed wholeheartedly. Leonid shot the theorist in question a confused glare from behind the foreigner as he nodded along to what the young girl was saying. The foreigner simply smiled and nodded, listening intently to the young girl. As if he knew what she was saying, as if they understood each other through their shared humanity alone.

They moved into the bathroom, where he sat down silently next to the widowed woman. Leonid rarely went in there, a part of him worried that his hunger would get the better of him, and he would give in to the desire to consume the rotting corpse in the bathtub. It would probably just make him sick, as well as be a surefire way of getting him killed, either by the homeowner or the widow herself.

The foreigner talked quietly to the widow for a moment, making hand motions that looked like he was wrapping something around his fingers. After a few moments, the widow nodded in understanding, pointing up at the shelf above the mirror. He thanked her, getting back up on his feet and reaching up to the shelf, searching around for a moment before pulling out a first aid kit.

He turned back to Leonid with a subdued smile, reaching over and taking his hand. He placed the first aid kit on the washing machine, pulling out some disinfectant and bandages, studying Leonid’s broken nails as if trying to decide where to start.

A part of Leonid knew that he needed to pull away. He couldn’t have this man do this for him. If his nails healed, he would just pull them off again, and the foreigner’s efforts would be for nothing. There was no point in him trying to heal. It would just be a waste of bandages.

The man’s hands were warm, gentle as he pressed the disinfectant-soaked cotton to his nailbeds. Leonid could feel his gaze on him as he watched for the sting of the alcohol to reach Leonid’s face, but he had stopped feeling pain a long time ago, all except for the biting cold. His hands trembled as the foreigner tried to hold them steady, but for once he wasn’t sure if it was the cold or his own nerves causing them to shake.

The foreigner was silent for once, his eyes focused and his lips pressed tight as he began wrapping the bandage around his fingers. Leonid glanced behind him and saw the widowed woman watching them with a blank expression, her knees pulled up to her chest as she sat next to her husband’s corpse.

Leonid could only assume the foreigner was being quiet solely out of respect for her. His usually flamboyant personality wasn’t a good match for a woman living at her husband’s funeral. And he knew that, and respected it.

He watched the foreigner wrap his hands, his motions slow and measured, making sure the bandages were neat; not too tight, but not too loose. His gaze turned up towards the foreigner’s lips. Why was the foreigner treating him before himself? Why had he not even asked for the first aid kit until now? As he finished, his smile was kind, marked with an innocence that contrasted the bruises and blood. Leonid searched through his eyes for some hint of manipulation, of some chance that he may be using this to get something out of him later on, but found nothing.

Why did the foreigner care so genuinely?

~~~

An hour after their moment in the bathroom, the foreigner was finally pulled away from his side, the mother in the office asking him to watch the kids for a moment. The homeowner had let a pair of twins into the living room, taking up the rest of the empty seats to Leonid’s left. The twin next to him lit a cigarette and brought it to her lips before engaging in a conversation with the tall man to Leonid’s right.

With all the people in the room and the smoke of her cigarette, he quickly began to feel like he was suffocating. Leaving the living room, he found people sitting in the hall, heard the kids in the kitchen, people snoring in the office, talking in the closet, and crying in the bathroom.

There were too many humans everywhere. He couldn’t stand it.

With nowhere else to go, he checked to make sure the homeowner wouldn’t see him, then slipped out the front door, leaning against the porch railing and taking a breath of fresh air. All the humans now feared leaving the house, afraid of the pale visitor coming by and killing them. But Leonid would be safe, and no one would dare to come out here to join him.

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and stuck one between his lips, lighting it and allowing the smoke to warm his lungs for a moment. The outside world had become dead quiet, save for the occasional howl or bark of the starving strays that roamed the streets. According to the humans inside, the heat of the day never truly left, dying down by only a few degrees at night and seeming to increase more with each day. The world smelled of burnt flesh and ashes, the grass a sea of yellows and burnt blacks.

In the distance, Leonid saw the pale visitor, a human head held in one hand by the hair, dragging the spine and the rest of its body along the ground, still attached by a few threads of skin. He looked over at Leonid and met his eyes, then gave him an uncomfortably wide grin, waving cartoonishly at him before continuing on his way. He wouldn’t be stopping by the homeowner’s place that night, Leonid knew that much.

He let out a puff of smoke, placing a hand over where his stomach would be, his fingers pushing deep into the empty cavern. He supposed he would have to eat soon. While he didn’t fear the pale visitor in the slightest, he also didn’t want to appear weak or soft-hearted to him the next time he came around.

He heard the door creak open behind him, and his hand moved down to the hem of his sweater. Whoever just stepped out of the house would be the easiest target. He turned around, beginning to lift his sweater up.

“Dszg’iv blf wlrmt lfg sviv? Rg’h wzmtvilfh! Szevm’g blf yvvm dzgxsrmt gsv mvdh?” Leonid froze, his shirt lifted halfway, the bottom half of his swirling void exposed to the foreigner. The man didn’t seem to notice, his brows pinched together in concern as he glanced around, checking for danger.

Leonid found himself unable to move, still as the grave as he watched the man scan their surroundings, before he eventually turned back to him, his eyes trailing down slowly, a flustered look overcoming his face at seeing Leonid’s shirt lifted up, which quickly morphed into shock and confusion as he stared directly into the void.

“W-Why aren’t you d-dying?” Leonid found himself asking, though he was afraid as the words left his lips. He pulled his sweater back over his abdomen, hugging himself as if to give the foreigner an extra layer of protection away from the black hole.

He didn’t want the foreigner to die. He didn’t know how he had survived seeing into the void, but he bit back any questions he had, afraid that just thinking them would cause reality to correct itself.

The foreigner seemed to recognize this, blinking a few times and shaking his head to rid himself of the image of the swirling hole in Leonid’s stomach, forcing himself to try and unsee what he saw. His eyes grew concerned again as he closed the gap between them. “Blf mvvw gl tvg rmhrwv. Rg’h wzmtvilfh lfg sviv.” He said, pointing at the front door and taking Leonid by the hand.

He didn’t want to go back inside just yet. Leonid leaned against the railing, taking a drag from his cigarette. He looked back over at where he had seen the pale visitor, seeing that he had wandered off, likely searching for someone else to torment.

For now, the humans would be safe outside. He pulled out his cigarette box and offered it to the foreigner, trying to smile at him in a way that looked reassuring. The foreigner stared at him for a moment, before glancing down at his abdomen, thinking for a moment before pointing at him. “You are visitor?” He spoke slowly. Leonid didn’t answer, but that was an answer enough in itself.

The foreigner watched him for a moment, before taking a cigarette, letting out a light laugh and pointing at his lips. “R ivzoob hslfowm’g yv hnlprmt fmgro R svzo, yfg tlw, R szevm’g szw z xrtzivggv rm hl olmt.” Leonid handed him his lighter, watching the man stick the cigarette between his lips, taking a long drag as he lit it, sighing in content as he breathed out the smoke. He nodded in thanks at Leonid, before placing a hand on his shoulder and gently pushing him towards the door.

“R wlm’g xziv dszg blf ziv, rg hgroo uvvoh wzmtvilfh lfg sviv. Ovg’h tvg rmhrwv, xlnv lm.” Leonid didn’t understand this man. He knew what he was, he knew he’d be safe out there with the rest of the strays, the hounds, and the visitors. Why was he bothering to still bring him inside to live amongst the humans?

Leonid stood still on the porch, watching the ash grow on his cigarette as he stared out into the dying world. As the foreigner realized that he wouldn’t be following him back inside, he hesitantly took his place next to him, leaning against the railing and staring out at the world with him, watching as parts of the city continued to burn and crumble in the distance.

The foreigner was just...too good. He was far too gentle and caring with him. He didn’t understand it. Leonid watched him out of the corner of his eye, seeing his expression turn somber as he stared out into the world, a hopelessness entering his usually bright eyes.

He wondered if he could fix that. For once, a part of him wanted to infect someone with the visitor disease. He wished he knew how he had become a visitor, or what being a visitor actually meant. What had happened, was it painless, what did it change in him? All he remembered was his life as a human, and his life as a visitor, and the upsettingly small differences between then and now.

He was still alone. He was still cold.

Leonid looked over at the foreigner. Would he enjoy being a visitor more than he did? His lips were a sore reminder of humanity’s cruelty, each vile glare he surely must have received through his life an arrow pointing at all of the human race’s wrongdoings.

He had no reason to be as good as he was.

The foreigner felt Leonid’s eyes on him, meeting his gaze and giving him a reassuring smile despite the heartbreak in his eyes at seeing the end of the world, knowing that he would likely die far from home and misunderstood, unable to communicate with anyone he could potentially trust.

Even if Leonid knew how, he didn’t know if he’d be able to find it in himself to infect him. Turning him would be a betrayal of the trust he had given him. Leonid found himself surprised to be thinking that, to be worried about betraying someone, to even have someone he could betray.

The foreigner trusted him. He cared about him. And he could hold onto Leonid’s secret without his world collapsing.

With this realization, heat spread through his chest, up his neck, filling his cheeks. The shivers that racked his body lessened, his black hole swirling slower. He was still cold, freezing in the heat of the dying sun, but looking at the rays of the foreigner’s smile made him, for just a moment, feel like he was experiencing the warmth of a sunrise.

The foreigner saw him relax, and took the opportunity to lead him back inside, to which Leonid obliged. He would go back to living among the humans, knowing that at least one of them was aware that he was a hound.

He needed a way to thank the man for his warmth. This time, Leonid took the foreigner by his hand, guiding him to the bathroom. He reached up to the shelf above the mirror, taking the first aid kit and placing it on the washing machine.

He met the foreigner’s gaze as he brought the disinfectant-soaked cotton to his lips, the foreigner’s face growing as red as the blood on his lips. He wanted the man to know how good he was, to feel some semblance of warmth from his cold, dead body.

"Oh, well, let's go then," Martin says, finishing up his sandwich and standing up to gather his coat. "It's not too cold out. We can walk around downtown until lunch hour is over."

"I--" Jon wants to protest, but he realizes that yes, getting out of this small cafe would be very welcome. "That's . . . that's a good idea, actually."

His leg can't bounce when he's walking, and the early winter air is cold but not biting, and the walkways aren't crowded. Jon can feel himself calming down by the time they get a block away from the cafe. Maybe he had been a little anxious, after all. This was a very good idea. Martin has very good ideas, he thinks.

"If that cafe was too much," Martin is telling him, and thankfully Jon is actually able to listen to him now, "there's another place we could try next time. New Indian place, right around the corner from the Institute. Tim says he goes there whenever he has a PT appointment, to treat himself."

Jon wants to go back to the fact that Martin wants there to be a next time, but for now there's something more pressing to address. "Tim's still doing physical therapy?" he says. He'd thought he was finished weeks ago.

"Yeah, he says it's just follow-up appointments. He's mostly okay, they just need to make sure he's improving, I guess." Martin shoots him a sidelong look. "I thought you and he were close."

"Not, um . . . not so much anymore." Jon stuffs his hands into his coat pockets, ducking into his collar. "We don't really . . . talk."

"Oh," Martin says. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah." Jon doesn't want to get into it. Thankfully, Martin doesn't press the issue.

"Are you still going to PT?" Martin says instead. "You don't have to tell me, obviously. I just . . . I never see you outside the archives anymore."

Jon bites the inside of his cheek. "I, um . . . I sort of . . . stopped going. After the second appointment."

Martin stops short in the middle of the sidewalk, and Jon has to double back. "Christ, Jon!" he says, not angry, but aggravated. "You can't just skip out on that stuff, you could do permanent damage--"

"Martin, I'm fine," Jon says. "See, I'm walking around and everything. Trust me, if it was bad, I'd have kept going, but the whole thing was a waste of time and I had work to get done--"

"Your health comes first," Martin says, with finality, before his demeanor softens. "I'm not an idiot, Jon, I notice you staying late and coming in early, I notice when you skip meals. You're running yourself ragged. It's a job, Jon, and trust me, I know how important this work is, I get it, but none of it, alright, none of it's more important than you."

Jon blinks at him. He wants to protest, but every half-formed rebuttal sounds either defensive or outright silly. Martin is right, after all. Jon just wishes that he weren't, because then he wouldn't have to reevaluate everything he's been doing for the past two months.

Martin goes on, taking a step closer to him. "Just . . . you don't need to keep throwing yourself at a wall, Jon. At least give yourself a break every once in a while."

"I can't just walk away, Martin. O-Or, I don't--" Jon's voice has gone shaky. He clears his throat and tries again. "I--I don't really know how. There's just . . . there's so much, and I don't know where any of it leads, if it's leading anywhere at all, and . . . I just . . . I've no idea what I'm supposed to do about all of it."

Martin gives him a look that Jon doesn't know how to place. It's not pity, or condescension, which Jon would expect from most everyone else. He just looks . . . sort of sad. His hands are clasped in front of his chest, tugging restlessly on his fingers. "Jon, would you . . . um, that is . . ." Suddenly Martin thrusts his open arms out towards Jon and blurts out, "Would you like a hug?"

Jon's speechless. What a thing to be asked, he thinks, and especially by a coworker, no matter how well they know each other, it's completely unprofessional, and even if Martin were his closest friend, which he isn't, but even if he were, why on earth would Jon of all people need a hug? Sure, he's not doing all that great, but Martin doesn't need to know that, and anyway how is a hug supposed to fix anything, especially a hug from someone who doesn't know the half of what Jon's been going through lately, or how scared and confused he's been, or about Jon's very serious problems that are complicated and terrifying and can't be fixed with something as childish and simple as a--

"Yes, please," Jon says, the words coming out in an exhale of pent-up tension, and he all but collapses into Martin's open arms. His face lands just under Martin's chin, half-tucked into his shoulder, and he's just barely able to wrap his arms around Martin's midsection as Martin hugs him back tightly, squeezing him against his chest, and Jon had never known how strong Martin was, how much he had been hiding beneath those soft jumpers of his. His arms, all muscle beneath fat, feel as though they could fight off an army if they really wanted to, and despite his nagging paranoia, Jon can't help but feel utterly protected by them. He feels himself relaxing, bit by bit, sinking into the softness of Martin's chest, letting him hug him closer, just tight enough to be secure without hurting. As he leans into the hug, he doesn't feel any concern about Martin losing his grip or slipping backwards. Martin can take his weight; he knows this. He is as solid and reliable as a wall, and just as stubborn, and he will not drop Jon. Jon lets out a deep sigh, his breaths evening out and slowing, tension seeping from his limbs until he feels entirely relaxed. He feels cared for. He feels safe. It's been so, so long since he's felt safe.

He doesn't even notice that he's closed his eyes until Martin's arms shift around him, and Jon realizes they've been hugging for probably way longer than is normal. His eyes snap open and he backs off, hands sliding away from Martin, clearing his throat awkwardly. He tries not to miss the gentle security of Martin's arms.

"Um," Martin says, sounding like he's about to apologize, but Jon interrupts him.

"Thank you," he says, trying to keep his voice even. "That was--I, um. I needed that." When was the last time he'd hugged someone? Jon can't even remember. "It was really nice," he says quietly. Another one of Martin's brilliant ideas.

Martin nods, looking relieved, and perhaps a little fond, though it may just be Jon's imagination. "Anytime," he says, and Jon thinks he might mean it. He hopes he does. "What are friends for, eh?"

Jon blinks. Are they friends? How long has that been the case? He looks at Martin, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, a small smile on his face, and he thinks that yes, maybe they are friends. It would be nice to be friends, anyway. If Martin says they're friends, Jon won't correct him. "Yeah," he says, and he's very glad to see Martin's face brighten at the word. "I, um," and Jon needs to clear his throat again, "I-I'll try. To have a break once in a while."

"Promise?" Martin says, and Jon can't help but laugh.

"I promise."

Martin nods. "Okay. Good."

"This, today, lunch I mean, this was nice. I'd . . . um. I'd like to do it again."

"Oh! Um, sure. Definitely," Martin says, smiling.

"We can go to that Indian place," Jon says.

"Sure," Martin says. "Tomorrow?" His look is hesitant, but Jon's answer is immediate.