#starlight starwrite

“Starliiiight…”

A shiver ran down your spine, causing you to straighten your back. It was very much needed, seeing how you were slouching over your desk, but you knew what was coming next. You felt a towering presence appear over you. You did your best to ignore the bot’s looming glare, but eventually you were spun around in your chair to face him.

Moon’s face wasn’t a happy one. He hated when you stayed up this late. Your body was begging for sleep and yet here you were whittling away at one of your projects. He knew your eyes were well adjusted to screens, but he also knew that the more time you spend on that screen meant less time away from his screen. You need to sleep, to rest your eyes! His red eyes bore into your own. You could hear a low growl coming from his speakers as you tried to break eye contact, but was stopped as he placed a gentle finger under your chin. The touch turned inviting as his fingers began to cup your cheek. “You told me we’d sleep after that episode…”

“I know Moonie, but I wanted to finish this piece and—”

Moon began to hush you, a finger delicately landing on your lips. He could see your heart rate increase as well as the dust of pink sprinkled on your cheeks. His hand continued to cup your cheek, but began moving up. He easily took your headphones off, running gentle fingers through your hair. You practically purred as you’re pulled into his touch. You could feel him beginning to lean closer, face plate coming closer as he began to nuzzle your neck. You had completely melted and he knew it. It was easy for him to pull you up and out of the chair. You leaned into him hard, causing him to carry you easily in your arms. Immediately you yawned, almost like Moon had some kind of superpower. His low chuckles vibrated through his speakers. You clung into his sweater, nuzzling closer into his chest and causing the bot to blush himself. Not that you’d ever see, thankfully. Moon’s steps were light and gentle as he gathered the both of you into the large bed you shared. He was quick to curl you close to his chest. You fit nearly perfectly in his arms, and Moon was happy with how easy this turned out being… until you groaned and squirmed out his arms. A groan of his own escaped his speakers. “Starlight.” His voice is stern, but not upset,” You need to sleep.”

“I need to turn off my computer. And save my stuffs.”

Your slightly slurred mumbles made his circuits sparks. He had a pretty good poker face, but god did you make it hard sometimes. He furrowed down as you weakly struggled to get up and back to your desk. Moon didn’t need to hold onto you tightly though, since your body obviously didn’t match the excuses you were making. “You already know I handled that for you. Now rest, my love.”

“Mmmm… What about… brushing my teeth…?”

“One night won’t hurt you.”

“Moon!! You know that’s not true!!”

“Hush, Sunny. They need rest now.”

“And they need to keep up with their routine!! We’re supposed to help remind them to do it, not encourage them to skip!!”

“It’s One. Night. You’re making this difficult.”

“One night can lead to two! And then three! And then fo—”

“Are you talking… to Sunny? Is he mad? Is it at me?”

Moon refocuses back on you once your words hit his sensors. Your still in your sleepy state, eyes desperately fighting off the sleep. Both him and Sun were completely love struck by the sight of it all. Moon was quick to pull you closer, softly shushing you to try and push away the negative thoughts clouding your beautiful mind. “Not at all, my love, not at all. He’s… worried about us breaking your routine.”

“I could NEVER be mad at them!! Ignore me, ignore me!! One day is fine!! Don’t listen to me!!”

“Easier said than done…”“Mmm… I can go brush reeeeal… reeeeal quick—”

You let out a small squeak and a few giggles as Moon quickly clings onto you. He rubs his face plate into your neck, eliciting more ticklish giggles from you. You’re quick to return the cuddles, placing sleepy kisses along his neck and chest. Moon trills softly at your loving returns. He was surprised to feel your hands untangle from his torso and begin to trace the bottom of his face plate. You were trying to pull him away. He immediately backs up, worried that he may have overstepped a boundary somewhere, but was immediately met with a kiss pressed onto his screen. His fans kick to life and could nearly blow the blankets off the bed with how fast they’re going. You giggle happily into the kiss, slowly pulling away and leaning back into his chest again.

“Tell Sun… I’ll brush them twice tomorrow…”

“Brush what, Starlight?” Moon says, having already forgotten. His mind was a filled only with thoughts of you now. You chuckle again, and it quickly turns into a yawn.

“You’re silly…”

Jon wakes slowly, the dredges of some re-lived statement slipping out of his mind. His face is half-smushed in his pillow, but through his free eye he can see Martin across the bed, still asleep. Sunlight filters in through the lacey curtains and draws patterns across the quilt and their hands, which rest only inches away from each other.

Following the slow rise and fall of Martin’s chest almost lulls Jon back to sleep. For the first time in too long, he takes a moment to just lay there and… breathe; to feel his lungs contracting and expanding, his body pressing into the mattress. He closes his eyes and his eyelashes brush against the pillow. He doesn’t have anywhere to be. He doesn’t have anything to do. He can just exist.

A shift of the fabric makes him open his eyes again. Martin is awake now, watching him. Jon watches back. Neither of them says a word.

I really loved you, you know? Loved, past tense—but everything is past tense in the Lonely. It was once-there-was-someone-or-something-but-now-it-is-gone-and-I-am-on-my-own. It still lingers, still hovers on the edge of Martin’s being. His hair is shock-white where the Lonely leeched all the colour from it.

Jon’s limbs are heavy from sleep, so his movements are clumsy when he reaches out and puts one hand in Martin’s hair. Martin sucks in a breath, but his expression doesn’t change, nor does he ask Jon to stop, so Jon doesn’t move. Martin’s hair is soft as candyfloss, soft as a cloud.

“I love you,” Jon says, pleasantly surprised when his voice doesn’t tremble.

Martin’s eyes go wide like saucers. In a voice as steady as Jon’s and soft as his hair, he says, “I love you, too, Jon.” He puts his own hand on top of Jon’s and tugs it down to press a kiss to his open palm. “I love you,” he whispers again, so quietly this time that Jon’s not even sure he was meant to hear it.

Jon twists his hand in Martin’s so he can twine their fingers together. “Would you like breakfast? We can make pancakes.”

Martin squeezes his hand. “Yeah. Yeah, breakfast sounds great.”

~~~~~

Daisy doesn’t have any syrup, so they make do with butter and honey on their pancakes instead. 

Martin fixes them both tea. If he notices Jon watching him while he does so, he doesn’t say anything about it. Jon accepts his cup with a murmured thanks.

The table is a tiny thing, and it’s no difficulty at all for Martin to link his left hand with Jon’s across it.

When he finishes eating, Jon pushes his plate away. “I… I’ve been thinking. About something Peter Lukas said.”

Martin’s expression tightens, but he nods for Jon to continue.

“He said we don’t know each other very well. And I… it’s true, I think. At least for me.” He focuses on a point just to the left of Martin’s face. “But I would like to know you. I want to know everything about you—not because of the Eye, just—just for me. And for you.”

Martin’s breath hitches. “I want to know everything about you, too.”

They leave the dishes in the sink and curl up on the couch, facing each other, never unclasping their hands.

“What do you want to know?”

Jon considers. “Is there anything you want me to know first?”

Martin bites his lip and looks to the side. “I’m trans.”

Without thinking, Jon says, “Oh, I know.”

Martin turns sharply back to look at him. “What? How?”

“Um. When I caught you in your pants when you were staying at the Archives? You didn’t have a shirt on and you were wearing your binder.”

Martin exhales and runs and a hand through his hair. “I thought you thought it was a tank top.”

“I did, at first. But it had the trans flag colours on it, and I recognised them. I didn’t want to do anything rude or—or transphobic, so I did a little research after that, and that’s when I figured out it was a binder.” Jon resists the urge to stick his hand in his mouth and chew on his nails. “I, ah, I’m trans too? Um, genderqueer.”

“Oh! What are your pronouns?”

“He/him, I think.”

Martin sighs, relieved. “That’s good. I hate to think I’d been misgendering you. He/him for me, as well.”

“When did… when did you start figuring it out?”

“Around fifteen or sixteen? I couldn’t really start transitioning until I was an adult. Mum was… not supportive.” He looks away. “I think I must have looked too much like my dad.”

Jon rubs his thumb over the back of Martin’s hand. 

“I got top surgery last year, after she died. I… I was scared I wouldn’t like how it would look, after—after I realised how much it would make me look like him? I didn’t want to have that association every time I looked in the mirror. But I decided to go through with it, and I don’t think it makes me look like him. It just makes me look like me.”

“You look lovely, Martin,” Jon tells him sincerely, and Martin flushes to the tips of his ears.

“What about you? When did you figure it out?”

Jon recognises the attempt to divert his attention for what it is, but he doesn’t comment on it. “Just a couple years ago, actually. I came across the term while I was researching after I caught you in your binder, but I didn’t really… connect it to the way I felt until later. I also found another word?” This time, he does bring his thumb up to his mouth to chew on his nail. “Asexual.”

Martin nods and squeezes his hand.

“It means… not having sexual attraction. Which isn’t the same as romantic attraction, um, they’re separate things. So someone could be asexual and biromantic, which is like bisexual except romantic instead of sexual. It’s—um—” Jon gives up on the nail and just bites down on his whole thumb. “It’s—some aces—that’s shorthand for asexual—some of them like sex? But some—they just—it’s not—”

“Jon.”

Jon shuts up.

“Are you asexual?”

He nods slowly.

“And you don’t like sex?”

He nods again without meeting Martin’s eyes. “I don’t even like kissing on the mouth.”

Martin tugs Jon’s hand away from his mouth and holds it with his own, so they’re holding hands on both sides. “Hey. If you don’t want to have sex, or kiss me, I’m not going to make you. I didn’t fall in love with you because I thought the sex would be good.”

“But you like sex.”

“I—well, yeah. Probably. But—”

Jon looks up. “Probably?”

“I’ve never actually… done it? I never exactly had a lot of time, between working and caring for my mum. I’ve never even had a boyfriend.”

“Oh.”

“My point is, I’ve gone my entire life without having sex. I can go the rest of it, too. Especially if it means I get to be with you.”

“Oh.” His eyes start to sting. “Um.” He pulls one of his hands free of Martin’s to wipe away the wetness on his cheeks.

“Do you want a hug?” Martin asks gently, opening his arms a bit.

Jon nods and falls into them without a second thought. He’s not a loud crier, but he muffles the little sounds he does make in Martin’s neck. Martin rubs Jon’s back and rocks them a little, making quiet, comforting shushing sounds.

The strong wave of emotion peters out eventually, but Jon doesn’t move from Martin’s hold. 

“You okay?” Martin murmurs.

Jon nods. “Thank you.”

Martin giggles a bit. “We really just started out with the the heaviest stuff, didn’t we?”

Jon laughs and holds Martin tighter. “Should I have asked for your favourite colour instead?”

“It’s brown. Like your eyes.”

When Jon shows up at his flat at three in the morning, crying and hyperventilating, it’s all Martin can do not to bundle him into a hug and hold him until he calms down. As it is, he has to settle for toning down the disdain he’s pretended to hold towards other people since he made up his mind to trick Peter.

“Jon? What are you doing here? It’s three in the morning.”

“Yes, I—I’m sorry, I—I didn’t want to bo-bother you, but I ca-an’t—” His quick, shallow breaths cut him off and what comes after is unintelligible.

“No, stop, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.” Martin opens his door wider and gestures for Jon to come in. Jon obeys, barely looking shocked at all. Martin steers him towards the couch and tells him to stay there.

Martin finds a bottled water in the fridge and returns to the living room. Jon’s elbows are on his knees and his hands are clenched tightly in his hair, and he is rocking back and forth. He doesn’t look up when Martin stands in front of him.

“Jon? I got you some water.”

Jon releases his hands from his hair and holds them out. Martin hands him the water bottle. It’s a good thing he decided to go for the bottle instead of a glass; Jon’s hands are shaking so badly he probably would have just spilled the glass. He still dribbles some down his chin, but he wipes it away with his shirt sleeve. 

Martin waits for him to finish the bottle to say, “Better?”

His breathing has evened out, but he exhales deeply before he nods. His tears are beginning to dry on his face, and he wipes those away with his shirt sleeve, to.

Martin wants nothing more than to gently clean his face with a warm washcloth, but he can’t. “Alright. Tell me what you’re doing here.”

When he speaks, his voice is rough. “I… I need a ride.”

“I can’t. Ask someone else.”

Jon flinches. “I can’t. I—they won’t.”

“Who did you ask?”

“Um. Georgie. Basira.”

“That’s it?”

“M-Melanie would sooner kill me. Elias is in jail. Daisy is—Daisy is dead. I d-don’t know anyone else.”

Jon’s lower lip trembles and he bites it like that will make it stop.

Martin sighs heavily and stares at the ceiling. That reaction, at least, is not faked. Doing this could very easily tip Peter off that he’s not as committed to the Lonely as he “should” be, but if this drove Jon to his flat, and in such a state, it’s obviously important.

“You can’t take the tube?”

Jon shakes his head.

Martin sighs again. “Alright.”

Jon stares at him uncomprehendingly. “Al-alright?”

Martin gestures for him to stand. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Oh!” Jon stands quickly as Martin grabs his keys and wallet, then silently follows Martin out to his car.

“So? Where are we going?” Martin asks, his fingers poised to type an address into Google Maps.

“Ah… I don’t think a GPS will be able to find it. I can give you directions.”

Martin raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.

A few minutes into the drive, Jon lets out a soft, “Oh.”

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just… I forgot to bring a shovel.”

Martin actually turns his head to look at him before quickly looking back at the road. “Why do you need a shovel?”

Jon stares at his hands and giggles quietly, if a bit hysterically. “I’m going to dig up a grave.”

Martin’s surprised he doesn’t crash the car. “Jon—”

“Please don’t,” Jon interrupts. “Just… please.”

Martin grips the steering wheel tightly and doesn’t say a word.

“Turn left here,” Jon says after a few minutes. “No—Martin, I said left.”

“I know.”

“Then what—”

Martin pulls into the parking lot of a supercentre and parks the car. “Wait here.”

“But—”

Martin leaves the key in the ignition and gets out of the car. When he returns a few minutes later, he has two shovels that he puts in the back seat. 

Jon stares at him.

“You’re not going to dig up a grave with your bare hands.”

“Right,” he says quietly. “Thank you.”

The rest of the drive is long. Jon says, “We have to walk from here,” so they park the car, grab the shovels, and walk into the woods.

Jon stops and Martin almost walks into him.

“We’re here,” he says, staring at the ground under his feet. There’s nothing there to indicate it’s a grave—no headstone, no freshly turned earth—but there’s no mistaking the certainty in Jon’s voice.

They start digging. Neither Jon nor Martin are fit for this kind of work, and by the time the sky begins to lighten, their palms are raw and red.

“Jon,” Martin says, “I don’t think there’s anything here.”

Jon stops digging, but he doesn’t look up. “I…”

“We’ve been digging for hours.”

“Martin, I know he’s here. He’s in agony, I can’t just—it’s my fault he’s here in the first place. I have to find him and get him out.”

“Him? Who are you talki—”

The ground shudders ever so slightly, and Martin’s mouth snaps shut.

“Oh my g-d,” Jon says, and he drops to his knees and scrabbles at the dirt with his fingers.

Martin is suddenly very apprehensive that something is about to go wrong.

“Jon—”

A few fingers break through the surface of the dirt.

“Holy shit,” says Martin.

“Martin, help me,” Jon orders.

Martin gets down on his knees and starts digging again.

The arm attached to the hand thrusts out of the dirt, quickly followed by a second arm, and soon enough Jon’s wiping dirt off of a gasping face.

“Mike! Mike, it’s—it’s Jon, it’s Jonathan Sims. Hold on, I have to—” Jon drags a gasping, spluttering Michael Crew out of the ground, dirt cascading from his skin and hair.

Martin drags himself out of the grave—it’s a bit crowded for three people.

Mike makes weak flapping motions with his hands. He leans forward, still making those awful sputtering noises, and dirt falls from his mouth. Jon pounds his back as gently as he can, and even more clumps of dirt fall to the bottom of the grave.

Once it seems Mike's expelled all the dirt he can, Jon says, “Martin, help me get him out.” Jon gently moves one of Mike’s arms over his shoulder to support him. “Mike, I’m going to help you stand, and Martin’s going to pull you out.”

Jon helps Mike upright. Martin kneels at the edge of the grave, loops his arms under Mike’s armpits and heaves up and back. He drags Mike out more than lifts him, but what matters is that he’s out. 

He drags Jon out next, stubbornly ignoring the fact that this is the closest they’ve been physically since they hugged before the Unknowing.

Mike is on his hands and knees, head hanging down, looking like he’s trying not to collapse.

“Okay, let’s get him in the car,” Martin says.

Jon helps Mike into the backseat of the car and climbs in after him, leaving Martin to get in the front by himself. Probably better like that, anyway.

Mike stubbornly refuses to put on his seatbelt, though he doesn’t say a word or—as far as Martin knows, at least—use his powers. 

“Your flat is too far out of the way,” Martin tells Jon, even though it really isn’t. “I can either drop you off at the Institute or at my flat, but you can’t stay at mine.”

There’s a whirring sound and the sudden rush of wind from the backseat. Martin peaks in the rearview mirror to see Mike has rolled down the window. He’s looking up at the sky, but the angle is such that he can’t see Mike’s face.

“The Institute is fine,” Jon says. He goes silent, then says, more quietly, “Thank you, Martin.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not going to help you with something like this again, Jon. Don’t expect me to.”