#tmabb2021

[ID 1: Two digital portraits of Martin and Jon from the podcast The Magnus Archives next to each other. The portraits are uncoloured line-art on a grey background. The background isn't flat grey, but has varying shades of grey and blue giving the impression of shimmering metal or wafting fog. The left portrait features Martin, a fat Polish-Japanese man with short, curly hair, large glasses, freckles and a knitted jumper. Martin is wearing large glasses on his wide nose and a simple stud-earring. There is a frown on his face, his mouth is downturned and there are tears in his eyes that are the only colour in the portrait (blue). He is looking to the right towards Jon's portrait. Jon is a depicted with mixed-ethnicity (Jordanian, Pakistani, Indian) and has long, curly hair that is being blown to his front, the left of the portrait as he is facing towards Martin's portrait. Jon is shown in profile, he wears semi-circle glasses and a knitted jumper with a loose neckline. There are multiple piercings in his ear and scars on his face and throat. Jon is wearing an anguished expression and tears are streaking down his face. The tears are the only colour in the portrait (red). The two portraits are placed side-by-side on a light blue background and the artist's signature is visible on this frame at the bottom left corner. It reads "@captaincravatthecapricious" /End ID] 

They keep walking. The previous domain and its landscape is already slipping away, its imprint on their surroundings like water down the drain. The path he and Jon had been walking is only grass now, with no indication of walking towards or away from anything in particular. It’s not the first time this has happened — dream logic and all — but Martin can’t help the way the hair rises on the back of his neck at the realization.

The fog is dense. A sheet of mute grey, so thick you would think it solid before you pass right through it. Thick like honey with none of the warmth, sticky and cloying in a way that, for Martin, is a little too close. A little too familiar. Familiar like empty hallways and cold shelves in the Archives. The numb wave of simply vanishing when someone came too close. It scared Martin the first time it happened. It scared him every time; until one day, it didn’t.

Nothing hurts here.

It feels right.

Don’t say that.

This isn’t right, this isn’t you.

A sudden feeling of dread bursts like a flare fire in Martin’s chest. It’s unfamiliar — a warm glow in his veins against the chill of the fog. Martin’s used to the gentle fear of the Lonely, the quiet emptiness. But this is thrumming, desperate, seeping under his skin like a boost of adrenaline and it almost feels. Good?

The thought sends a shudder down Martin’s spine. He shakes his head, like he can physically force the thought and feeling away.

It almost works. He goes to squeeze Jon’s hand, mutual anchors adrift. Only to be met with the feeling of his own nails against his palms.

Martin stops walking. He turns once, and again, circling himself as his own fear replaces any other thought.

“Jon?!”

Jon was — he’d been right here. Martin doesn’t recall when he’d stopped feeling Jon’s hand in his. He can’t remember, he can’t he can’t he can’t—

He feels the warm heat, again, deep in his chest. Martin called it dread because that’s what it felt like at first. But it feels like — like drinking coffee on an empty stomach, a jittery energy that makes your heart pound and your hands shake but you feel alive even if it hurts.

He’s surrounded by grey and mist, and he’s certain that the fear he’s feeling does not belong to him.

...

The realization that Jon's hand is cold, and the realization that Martin is gone, come at the same moment. It’s accompanied very briefly by confusion, before it falls into terror so acute it burns to the bottom of his lungs.

"Martin?!" Jon calls, purely on instinct. His voice echoes back at him, reflected flat and damp against the thick curtain of fog. When he yells again, the echo is a bit louder, and a bit longer. When he breathes in, it clings to his nostrils, his throat, cloying and wet and drowning. He turns to backtrack. That makes the most sense, Jon rationalizes, pleading against his own panic. Martin was right behind him. He must be close, he must be . Just a few more steps, just slightly out of Jon’s line of sight—

“Martin!”

If Jon wasn’t watching his own feet, he wouldn’t have known he was walking. He could be walking in a circle, for all he knows.

What he does know, is that Martin is vulnerable to the Lonely, and Jon had to pull him straight into it. Stupid, stupid—

Jon forces himself to breathe, though it’s a drop in the tidal wave of panic rising, rising. He breathes again, and focuses on Knowing. Calling on the Eye is all but second nature to him now, but this time, it answers his call with an achingly joyful silence. He tries again, because he has to. It has to work, because he doesn’t have anything else.

The ache isn’t a metaphor, anymore — it pounds and throbs against his eyes and his Eyes. It’s not unfamiliar, but it’s been ages since it felt like this. He digs his heels in, and it feels something like forcing his hand down a garbage disposal, where his hand is his brain and the drain is a gaping expanse of nothing so deep and empty and unknowable that scratches like nails against a chalkboard—

youarealoneyouarealoneyouarealone

Jon doesn't care that his jaw aches from clenching his teeth, he doesn't care that his head is pounding and he feels sick and fear he forgot he could still feel is creeping into his throat. Because Martin is gone and he needs to help him—

but you can't help anyone, can you?

Jon never stopped being afraid. Afraid for Martin, afraid for the friends they still just barely had. Afraid for himself, afraid of himself, afraid of the future and the nagging voice telling him there was no fixing this and it would always and forever be on his shoulders. But it had been easier since leaving the cabin. Loathsome as it is, the power of the Eye thrums beneath his skin, and he knew that he could protect himself, protect both of them from this exact thing.

Or, he thought he knew.

Warmth trickles from behind closed eyelids, and Jon doesn’t need a mirror to know it isn’t tears. A voice that sounds like Martin chides him for pushing himself too far, the ghost of gentle hands wiping blood from his face. But it’s only a memory, so misty and far away Jon could sob.

“Please… Martin, I-I can’t...I need to-”

His ears are full of static and waves, and he thinks he might be walking but he’s so tired and he doesn’t know where when why.

Somewhere where Jon can’t hear it, a tape clicks on.

...

Martin doesn’t register the mechanical whirring at first, buried under his foot falls and ragged breaths intercut with shouts of Jon’s name. But he’s quiet for a moment too long, and for better or for worse Martin can recognize the sound of a running tape recorder from a mile away. It’s tucked neatly into the side pocket of his backpack, where he definitely had not put it. He awkwardly bends an arm to grab it in a fit of rage. He shouldn't bother wondering how they get here anymore but it's just so bloody annoying—

Martin barely stops himself from smashing the thing straight into the ground. There’s static — clicking and far off, inter-cut with the screech of wind and the sound of steps that are too light to be Martin's. He brings it closer to one ear. It's not recording. It's playing. And then—

“Mm- Martin? I...I don't-”

It's Jon, it's Jon , tinny and echoing softly over the background noise. Martin feels an awful mixture of relief and fear. Jon’s voice is muffled and small and it makes Martin's heart ache, ache like his cold, cramped fingers clutching the edges of the tape recorder.

“I was, we were... you were here and now I'm, not? I'm not here, and you're not here and I- ”

Jon's voice cuts off with a breathy gasp.

“I'm... I'm all alone. ”

The dread burns beneath Martin’s ribcage, and nononononono. He takes off, where the sickening tug of familiar fear pulls taught in his chest, stronger with every step.

...

It's a beach.

Edges faded, curled frays of a polaroid long forgotten. It's a hazy quality Martin recognizes from his earliest memories. Like a radio station bathed in static, more feeling than anything concrete.

Nearby, sea water ebbs and flows in slow, unassuming waves. Martin is barefoot, and that makes sense. Right? He curls his toes into the wet sand, rough against the soles of his feet.

It's a dingy afternoon — grey clouds hanging over grey water lapping against a grey shore. The tide drones white noise. And Martin is alone.

But he always was on the beach. He thinks. Maybe. Left to his own exploits more often than not, even — especially — on these sorts of days. He tries to remember where, or when, but the thoughts slip away like waves at low tide. Feet that feel far away carry him parallel with the shoreline. The haze and ache of this not-memory stops him from questioning why his steps don't leave footprints behind.

There's something solid in his hand. Martin unclenches a fist — his fist, his fist — and finds a piece of a seashell. Jagged, broken along its edges. Any hint of its color is now bleached to a two-toned grey. It's not his best find, but he’ll add it to the collection nonetheless. Martin doesn’t remember hunting seashells, but it feels right. Like the others tucked away in a shoebox under his bed, out of sight of…someone. Martin can’t remember who.

There’s a family. Or, what Martin assumes is a family. He had been alone, and then he blinked, and then there was a group of people further down the shore. Far enough away to be only silhouettes. Martin can’t pinpoint the moment of realization, of the discovery that he is not entirely alone. The sea shell sits cold against his palm.

Two figures stand, side by side, as a smaller one runs towards an approaching wave. No sound reaches his ears, but Martin can imagine the squeals as whoever-it-is gets splashed by the water. If Martin really tries, there might be a hint of it on the salty wind. Bright laughter like the peal of a bell. They run back towards the other figures, scooped into shapes that look like arms, with movements so practiced it must be familial.

A familiar ache, slow and hollowing, pulls at Martin’s chest. Like the tide eroding rocky shores into sandy beaches. He keeps walking. He’s not ready to go yet, even though he’s cold and hungry and he must be expected somewhere by now. The edges of the sea shell dig into his skin when he clenches his fist.

...

Jon is sitting at a desk.

It’s a new desk — well. Not really. It’s quite old, with names and doodles scratched into the faded wood. It creaks and moans in all the wrong places, deafening when he so much as shifts his weight. So he sits deathly still and pays rapt attention to everything except anything he should probably be listening to. Jon can’t remember what it was he was supposed to be listening to.

But it’s school, so it must be a lesson. Jon remembers those. It feels right, in the general, vague sort of way that saying excuse me in a crowded station feels right. The classroom looks like a classroom, with desks that somehow squeak less than his, with books on bookshelves, and dingy windows facing a cloudy sky and empty courtyard. There’s a clock on the wall that ticks with the passing seconds, just loud enough to be heard from the back of the room. The teacher’s voice sinks into the walls and the floor and Jon can’t be bothered to catch the words before they slip away.

He blinks, and then he’s standing. The edge of the desk digs into his leg, through the fabric of a uniform skirt that’s a little too small around his waist. The other kids — there were other kids? — are looking at him. The teacher is looking at him. Jon is staring at the names carved on his desk. Derrick. That’s a nice name. He wants to keep note of it for later. He can’t remember why he wants to do that.

Something surfaces to the forefront of Jon’s mind, and it sounds like new student and introduce yourself . That’s him, right? He can feel the eyes of the other kids boring holes into him, holding his feet in place and holding his tongue in his mouth. The teacher says his name. Words he cannot say dig sharp into the back of his throat, dulled by a numbness he cannot name. Time passes, and it could be seconds or minutes or years. He blinks, and he’s sitting again. The kids are still looking at him.

Don’t be so dramatic , a voice whispers the memory into his ear. You’re not the one who needs to find a job. With a numb finger Jon traces the names carved into his desk, and ignores the tears that drip into their cracks.

...

Martin’s knees are shaking. The faster he walks the less he can feel it, but every jittering step sends tremors through his legs and his chest. His hands are shaking too, clenched and unclenched in sporadic cycles. Fingers slipping against sweaty palms. Concrete sidewalk passes in a blur under his feet. A right, then a left. The signal is red but no one is coming, so he keeps on. He doesn’t remember where he’s going, but his body does. He tries not to think about it. He’s not thinking about much at all, except everything all at once.

His eyes flit between neighborhood buildings, old brick and stone. He can’t remember what he’s looking for; but every shadow sends white hot electricity through his spine, and if he isn’t looking down every dark alleyway at the same time he might simply fall to the ground and never get back up.

There’s a door in front of him now. It’s his door. Martin doesn’t remember this brown door with the brass knob, but the sight of it is like a balm on his racing heart. It’s home.

He doesn’t immediately. reach for the door knob. He thinks he wants to.

This is home.

No it’s not.

Open the door.

Do not open the door.

It’s safe.

It can’t be.

It has to be.

All at once he grabs for the knob, pushing against the door with all he has. But adrenaline throws off his timing. The latch turns with his full weight against the wood and he falls through the doorway, pain shooting through his knees and elbows despite the shag rug that lines the hallway. It’s not as soft as it looks. It’s coarse and rough under his palms, bad texture in all the wrong places. Martin ignores it in favor of scrambling to his feet to slam the door closed. Too hard — he knows he’s not supposed to slam the door, been told over and over not to, but the thought is only a ghost of a habit buried under the screaming of his nerves. He freezes with his back against the wood. But the hall is dark, dark , he can’t see he can’t see—

Martin grapples blindly for the switch next to the door. Light floods from overhead, but it only goes so far. Shadows creep in from every corner, from the narrow staircase to his left and the edges of the living room and the darkness beyond the doorway across from him. He knows it’s a kitchen, but he can’t remember why he knows it’s a kitchen. It doesn’t matter. He goes for another light, the floor lamp next to the reading chair that he’s not allowed to sit in. Then the lights in the kitchen. Even the ones above the sink that buzz and flicker in protest.

He opens doors, too. To the toilet, to the coat closet, to the food cupboard. After that, he makes for the second floor. Every creak of the stairs splits the silence in two, drills itself into Martin’s skull. But he keeps going, frantically turning on lights and opening doors. He’s not allowed to go into the bedroom at the end of the hall, but he doesn’t care. The room is empty anyway, which confirms what he already knew when no one shouted at him for slamming the front door.

The last room is his. Right? Martin can’t remember what his room looks like. But the knob feels familiar beneath the curl of his fingers. The door groans open on old hinges, the way it always does. But Martin still flinches against it. It’s not quite dark — the window across from the door paints the room in the bluish-grey haze of early evening, just barely enough light to see by. There’s a bed against the far wall, beside a nightstand and a dresser and an old, towering bookcase. Stacks of familiar books that Martin has never seen in his life cast long shadows across the desk that sits in front of the window. He thinks he sees one of the shadows move. He turns on the light before he can find out for sure.

Then Martin is standing in the middle of the room. His room, his room. His chest aches from the force of his heart beating against it. His throat is tight around the breaths he’s forcing in and out of his lungs. He had something to do. But now all the lights are on and all the doors are open and he doesn’t feel any safer. He moves to the bed and he sits, back against the wall and legs tucked up to his chest. He stares at the beige wall across from him. And he doesn’t move. The light from the window dims until the sky beyond it is almost black. And he doesn’t move. His arms start to ache from the tightness of his grip, and he thinks one of his legs has fallen asleep. And he doesn’t move. The house is silent, and he is alone. And he doesn’t move.

The front door opens. There’s the sound of keys and bags being placed on the floor and someone asking why are all the lights are on? Slow steps come up the stairs, down the hall, the sound of his name in that tired, irritated way that he hears when he’s done something inconvenient. He knows that voice, the pace of those steps, and yet Martin is certain he’s going to see that thing . Fear keeps his mouth welded shut, he can’t scream or move and those black legs are going to grab him and take him away just like they took—

...

Martin gasps. He opens his eyes too, though he can’t remember when he closed them. His head is swimming and his heart is fluttering, the way it does when you’re woken up from a nap you didn’t expect to take. Or a nightmare you didn’t expect to have. He’s staring at grass, brittle but damp with dew. The moisture clings to the backs of his hands, to his trousers where his knees are digging into the ground. The air weighs against him like a physical force, but breathing it in feels almost like relief.

He forces his next inhale to slow. In. Out. His forearms are burning with exertion, and his fingers ache where they clench fistfulls of grass and dirt. How long? Martin brings a trembling hand to his face, and when his glasses slip off of his nose, he lets them hit the ground.

Martin doesn’t remember getting here. He was. He was with Jon, then he wasn’t with Jon, and he still isn’t with Jon. He was walking and then—

It was too vivid to be a dream. Even Martin’s worst nightmares didn’t feel like…that. It was familiar, like a memory. But he doesn’t remember remembering . He doesn’t—

“I grew up by the beach, actually.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Bournemouth to be exact. Spent more time than I probably should have wandering around on the beach. It was - wh- what’s that look for?”

“Oh! Nothing, heh, it’s just - you don’t exactly have “beachy” vibes.”

“Oh, well sorry to disappoint you-”

“Hah, I didn’t - don’t look at me like that, Jon! I just -”

“No no, please enlighten me, Martin, what are my vibes like?”

He and Jon had been cooking dinner when the topic came up. Daisy’s kitchen was small, but it’s not like they needed a lot of space. They chopped vegetables and argued about the validity of Martin’s personality assessment before falling into each other in fits of laughter. It’s something Martin kept filed away with other fun facts about Jon, like how he prefers his jumpers to be two sizes too big, and how he takes his tea on the far side of too sweet. He grew up by the coast, he was raised by his grandmother from a young age, he—

Fuck.

Martin listened to the tapes. Jon’s tapes — the ones after Prentiss, and the ones after Leitner, and the ones leading up to the Unknowing. It felt wrong at the time. But Martin had already gone to Tim’s funeral, and his mother’s, and it felt like he’d already gone to Jon’s in all but name. Martin could only spend so many evenings in silence next to Jon’s hospital bed before he lost it. He’d just needed to hear his voice.

He remembers the statement. A cold, sinking feeling had settled in his chest as soon as the word Leitner left Jon’s mouth, slightly distorted by the hum of the tape player. But it didn’t surprise him. No one worked for the Institute without a reason. And watching someone get taken by the impossibly large legs of an impossibly large spider is a damn good one. Martin feels sick.

Fuck .

He grabs for the tape recorder. It’s overturned on the ground to Martin’s right — he must have dropped it. It’s still running, but all Martin can hear is static.

Fuck.

Martin stands. His feet are numb and his knees protest as loud as they can and Martin doesn’t think he’s ever felt so old. But he starts walking, and then he starts running. Not blindly. The fog shifts around him, and Martin knows it. He knows the fog, he was a part of it once — maybe he still is. Maybe he will be forever. But he thinks about Jon, and moves towards where the fog is the thickest. Wherever the Lonely doesn’t want him to go is where he needs to be.

...

Jon doesn’t recognize this room. But he does. He should. It recognizes him. There’s a divet in the mattress that matches his shape, and the sheets wrap around his legs and it feels something like a home.

He’s shaking, though. It could be that the room is cold. Which it is. The tips of his fingers are icy, even clenched around the bed sheets. He must have been sleeping. Dreaming? He doesn’t remember falling asleep and he doesn’t remember waking up. Is he awake now? What is that supposed to feel like? Surely not this.

His legs itch. The coolness cuts into him as he pulls back the covers, but he shakes it off. He scratches at his skin and it almost helps, but then he stops for too long he can feel crawling . Like little insects burrowing underneath where his nails can’t reach. He double, triple-checks, but there’s nothing there. He presses his forehead to his knee and tries to…think? He doesn’t know. He’s still shaking, and it still isn’t because of the cold. Anxiety thrums through his nerves, like the exact moment you realize you’ve forgotten something important, lost a wallet or a key or something that isn’t easy to replace. Maybe he can just stay here and breathe and—

There’s a knock at the door.

Not the bedroom door. The front door, through the living room and next to the kitchen. It’s entirely unassuming. Three raps in succession, quick but not too quick. Firm and deliberate, but not desperate. It terrifies him to his core.

Jon scrambles out of bed. There’s a clock on the bedside table, but the display is dark. He reaches for the bedside lamp, but he stops halfway because he knows it won’t turn on. No power.

The same knock comes again. It sends the same shooting panic through him, and it’s a well-worn path. There’s a pounding exhaustion behind his eyes that closing them doesn’t fix. He’s still shaking. It’s worse now that he’s standing.

He doesn’t know why he stood. He knows not to open the door. He’s always known not to open the door.

He sits. He might have been trying to sit on the edge of the bed, but he bypasses the mattress for the floor. Markedly less comfortable, but it feels good to lean his back against something solid. He presses his knees to his chest, grabs his forearms with his hands and tries to. Stop. Shaking. She can’t knock forever.

Jon doesn’t know what time it is. The room is dark — the drapes are fixed tight over what Jon assumes is a window. If he was feeling brave he would take a peak, to catch a glimpse of sunlight or moonlight or maybe a person walking on the sidewalk below. But he’s not. So he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what time it is, and he doesn’t remember the last time he did know.

In the shadow he can still make out most of the room. A bed against the far wall. A two-shelf nightstand, with a dresser and a bookcase next to the door. But there’s a hamper in the corner, with sweater sleeves splayed over the rim. The book case is less for books and more for other things. Some knick knacks, odds and ends, the sorts of things you wouldn’t notice missing right away. A small vase of what looks like homemade pottery, a polaroid camera with a scattered pile of pictures next to it. A pile of yarn that Jon thinks he might have tried to use for something. Notebooks, pencils, scraps of writing in a penmanship neat enough for Jon to question whether or not it’s his. It has to be his. Why else would it be in his room?

The knock comes again. It doesn’t surprise him, but the sound still chokes his throat in a way usually correlated with tears. They sting his eyes but he doesn’t let them fall. He’s too tired. But against his will he does make a small sound in the back of his throat. He doesn’t remember the last time he spoke.

He’s hungry. Has been for some time, judging by the hollowness of the sensation. But he remembers that he’d already arranged all of his canned food in little rows on the kitchen counter. There’s only two cans of peaches left, he has to be careful. He could probably eat now, if he really wanted to. But it’s not the first time he’s been hungry. And he’s tired, now. Later. Later is good.

Jon closes his eyes. He closes his eyes but does not sleep. And wonders if anyone is actually missing him.

...

For all that Martin can navigate the fog, he still gets flashes. Bits and pieces of things that he knows aren’t his now, not overwhelming enough to stop him but pretty damn close. He sees dark library shelves, a lone bench in an empty London park, an apartment that used to see two people and now there’s only one. Sometimes it overwhelms him, but he doesn’t stop moving, he can’t stop moving—

Martin is in an office. He knows this office. Jon’s office. The single reading lamp on the desk hardly illuminates the room. Jagged shadows fall across bookshelves and filing cabinets, filling the cracks of the room with darkness. He isn’t sitting in his chair, no, he’s sitting on the floor. Legs crossed, statement in his hands. Two more open in front of him, more spread out in haphazard piles just within arms reach. There’s a notebook open with a page half-covered in hardly legible scrawl.

His back aches. He grips the statement tight enough to crease the paper. It’s not enough to stop the trembling of his fingers. Martin knows he shouldn’t be able to read the words floating in front of him. His back is to the only light source, silhouette falling across the page in front of him. But he can still read it. There’s a dull buzzing, an ache deep in his skull that makes Martin want to stop reading but he knows that only makes it worse.

It’s late. He doesn’t know this because he checks the time; he becomes aware with no preamble that it is 1:37. He should be asleep. He should at least lay down. He should be a lot of things that he isn’t. He’s exhausted down to his bones in a way sleep can’t fix anymore.

There’s a noise in the hallway, accompanied by a chill that Martin is all too familiar with. He snaps his head up, fast enough to hurt. There’s a surge of something warm, an inexplicable excitement that comes over him, strong enough to make him stand. He knocks over a pile of statements on his way to the door, but he doesn’t care. He pushes it open hard enough to slam it into the adjacent wall. The sound echoes long and loud down the hall.

As quick as the sensation comes, it leaves him. And Martin knows he’s alone.

Martin shakes his head, forces himself back to reality. Back to his current reality of fog and putting one foot in front of the other. He can’t stop.

Martin almost jumps when he sees a silhouette take shape in the distance. He knows, he knows it’s Jon, and his next exhale leaves him less like a breath and more like a cry. His legs pick up their pace before he can think.

“Jon!”

He’s kneeling. Head bowed and arms slack, palms upturned and resting on his thighs. If he hears Martin coming, he makes no show of it. Martin reaches for him before he’s stopped running, and it sends him crashing to the ground. His knees slide against the dirt, the sting of it hardly registered.

“Jon?”

Martin stops. His hands are hovering between them, and he realizes he doesn’t know what to do with them. Jon hasn’t moved. His head is turned down just enough that Martin can’t see his eyes, perfectly still. It’s then Martin notices the fog — it has tendrils curled around Jon’s hands, his wrists, his neck. It clings to him like roots into soil, firm and unrelenting in a way that something so fluid shouldn’t be. Like—

The world shifts again, and Martin sees himself. Shorter hair and different clothes. He almost doesn’t recognize himself, so washed out and still. The edges of him bleeding into the open air in a way that would have to be a dream if Martin didn’t know better. Hands that aren’t his, smaller and marked with scars, reach out in front of him. To him. It was Jon. It was always Jon.

Martin forces himself back to the present. He finally settles his hands against Jon’s, fingertips brushing against his open palms. Jon’s hands are cold . Martin curls Jon’s fingers into his, squeezing in the hopes of providing some amount of warmth. He catches a slight movement out of the corner of his eye, and feels a drop against the back of his hand. Martin looks in time to see the next drop hit, smaller but no less dark, red against his skin. It sends Martin’s heart into his throat, almost as much as Jon finally moving. He lifts his head slowly, with a heaviness that’s obvious just by watching the movement.

It’s blood dripping from Jon’s face, carving lines from his eyes down across his cheeks. His eyes are clouded over and grey, swirling and empty. It rips something apart in Martin’s heart.

“Jon?”

...

Jon does not like hospitals. He never has. He hoped childishly that being introduced to them early enough in life would have desensitized him. That seeing to his mother’s appointments and procedures would have become routine enough for this to not level his emotional state with a metaphorical steamroller. Not that that matters now. Because his mother is dead.

It’s a standard hospital room. Plain walls, plain chairs, a single window high enough from the bottom floor to not overlook much of anything at all. Jon looks at the heart monitor next to the bed. It’s not plugged in. It doesn’t need to be. It doesn’t need to be, even though there’s a person on the bed next to it that isn’t dead. He isn’t dead.

Jon doesn’t look at him. He can’t bring himself to do it. He looks at his feet instead. Trainers against beige tile floor. Entirely unremarkable. There’s a clock on the wall. The first time Jon had come here it annoyed him. Now it’s something to focus on that isn’t anything else. Even the bustle of doctors and nurses in the hallway sounds far away next to the constant drone of it.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Jon listens, and stares, and says nothing at all. There’s no one who wants to hear the sound of his voice, anyway.

...

Jon doesn’t realize something has happened until nothing is happening. It’s still, numb and quiet in a way that echoes through him. The fear and loneliness and bleeding despair isn’t gone but it’s. Distant. Muffled, buried as far and as deep as he can manage. Maybe he can keep it there, forever, if he just breathes slowly and does not move and does not think.

Something touches him. There’s a stretched out pause between that realization, and the realization that it’s his hands that are being touched. The slightest pressure, light and gentle and almost nothing. But then the pressure bleeds into warmth. It tingles against his fingers, under his skin in a way that’s almost painful. Jon remembers things touching him, hands and knives and worms, and how much they hurt. This is so close to hurting. But even then it’s not bad, it’s just. Strange.

When Jon remembers where his head is, he moves it. There’s an ache in the back of his neck that shoots down his back. It’s been a long time since the ache was physical, muscle, bone. He doesn’t understand. So much had been moving and happening and now it feels like he’s never moved in his entire life. He’s tired.

There’s someone in front of him. They look nice, physically. They have a round face, freckles sprinkled across their nose in a way that Jon thinks he’s always had a fondness for, in general. But it’s hard to remember. Even with the stretches of seconds between Jon’s thoughts the person hasn’t left. Which is odd. The things he sees usually shift and move before he has a chance to solidify them, only leaving behind burned acres and hollow ghosts of feeling with no source. But this person is still here, and Jon gives in to the desire to simply look at them. Dark blonde curls splay across their forehead, damp from the mist but no less endearing. And their eyes. Blue and bright and shining behind thick rimmed glasses. There’s a crack in one of the lenses. Their eyebrows are drawn, irises fliting back and forth in a way that seems. Frantic. Desperate. Searching? Are they looking for something?

That moves something in Jon’s brain, turns a gear that had been rusted to a halt. A brief fire of terror that’s gone as soon as it had come. But the thought lingers. Jon had been looking for something. Right? Something was lost.

Maybe this person can help. Or maybe, maybe Jon can help them find what they’re looking for. It would be nice to help someone. Jon tries to speak, but it catches dry in the back of his throat. It’s been a long time since he used his voice. He tries again. Slowly.

“H-hello.” Jon finally says. The word lands flat on his ears. It’s loud against the sound of nothing, raspy and quite unpleasant. Jon hopes he doesn't scare this nice looking person away. But he would understand if he did.

“Do you… can you-”

Talking is harder than thinking. Which is saying something, because Jon’s thoughts are twisting and slippery things that fade in and out with the fog. It’s hard to hold on to one — let alone speak it with his own voice. But this is important, this is so important , someone—

Someone! It's someone. Someone is lost and Jon is looking for them.

The person says something. Jon knows because their lips move and the sound settles in the air between them. But it washes over him, gone as quick as it had come. Jon was always bad at listening. He hopes the person isn’t too upset.

“Could you - could you help me? I’m…”

What is he? What has he ever been? His chest hums with the sound of his words, but they don’t feel like they belong to him.

“I’m looking for someone, I-I think. I…”

Why does this person look like that? Their mouth is open, moving fast around the shape of what Jon thinks is words, but he’s too distracted by the person's eyes. They look so sad . The lines on their forehead and around their mouth are twisted and deep. Jon might be sad, too. But it’s distant, superficial in the way that something happening in an old novel is sad. Jon thinks it runs deeper than that — he can feel it if he really, really tries. Deep and aching, as much a part of him as fossils are a part of the earth. But it’s hard to do that right now. It’s hard, and it hurts, and it’s easier to observe it from a distance. Arms length.

He’s distracted again. Jon tries to remember the someone he’s looking for. He’s Looking, because lowercase-L looking can’t help him anymore. He remembers fog and fear and loneliness that scoops him out to his core. That’s what this is, he Knows. The Lonely. But that’s what he is, too. It’s fitting.

Jon hears it when the person says Jon, and it stills his thoughts for a moment. His name? He tries to hold onto it. Maybe one name will help him remember more names. He tries to Know, and he Knows there are none. There is no one left. That’s why he has to—

A hand reaches for Jon’s cheek. His first instinct is to flinch away from it — his heart skips a beat and his lungs seize, but he’s too tired to extend the reaction to his limbs. When the contact is made Jon hardly feels it. But it is warm, warm like it was against his hands. A thumb strokes his cheek, just under his eye. There’s a feeling of wetness, but Jon doesn’t know where it came from. It doesn’t matter.

“Jon, just - just look at me. It’s me.”

The warm sensation makes listening to the words easier. The person has a nice voice. It trembles and cracks down the middle, but Jon doesn’t hold that against them. He feels much like trembling and cracking down the middle himself, falling to the ground in one million pieces too small and jagged to be put back together. He wants to fall apart, he wants to be left behind with the fog and the grass and the soil where no one has to look at him or touch him or say his name in the oh so nice way this person says it.

“It’s me, Jon. It’s Martin.”

Martin. The name hangs in the air longer than the rest of the words. It falls onto Jon’s ears like something familiar, but too distant to properly nail down. It’s a nice name, like the rest of this nice man looking at Jon like he matters. Like he’s important. Why does the sound of it hurt?

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t-”

I don’t know, I don’t remember, can you help me?

“I think… I think I’m looking for someone, someone who’s…lost. Could you help me?”

The man’s eyes widen. They soften after a moment, tears sticking to eyelashes before dripping silently onto pale cheeks.

“Oh, love.”

That makes Jon feel…something. There’s hardly room for it but it makes a home inside of him anyway, pushing his lungs to the side and making his next breath harder than the last. What an honor it must be, to be called love by this man. In his voice. With his soft looking lips and eyes that Jon wants to permanently burn into his memory. Jon can’t imagine who would be so lucky, but he thinks he might be jealous of them. Maybe that’s what this swelling feeling is. But Jon doesn’t have time to be selfish. He’s spent too much time being selfish. If this man knew how selfish he was he would leave and never come back, and Jon wouldn’t blame him.

“Please, I left someone alone that - that I shouldn’t have. I need to find them. But I can’t-” The hitching sob that comes out is a surprise to Jon, even though it’s his own voice betraying him. He tries not to dwell on it.

“I can’t remember and I - please, can you help me?”

The man brings his other hand to Jon’s face. It feels safe. Gentle, but earnest. And familiar. The warmth, the stroke of thumbs across his cheekbones stirs something in him that Jon can’t name. But he knows it. The man leans in closer, and Jon couldn’t look away from him even if he wanted to.

“Jon, look at me.”

Jon could never deny this man anything. He knows this with certainty, even if he doesn’t know why.

“Just, look at me, and…and tell me what you see.”

What does he See? He can’t See much of anything — the Eye has left him, like everyone else. But this man is here. Jon can see his eyes, memories of wariness and concern and fear and relief. He can see glasses cleaned on the edge of a well-worn sweater, crooked slightly on a face poking through the threshold to an office. A smile offered in passing, a file left on his desk by gentle hands.

And the more Jon looks at him the more it hurts. Is hurting better than feeling nothing at all? Jon doesn’t know, but once it starts to hurt it’s hard to stop it again. The heat spreads to his throat and his lungs like a forest fire. He gasps.

Martin is saying something and it’s hard for Jon to hear again, but this time it’s because of the blood rushing in his ears. But he can hear voices, a single voice, telling him to rest, telling him to go home, asking if he’s alright. A voice coming through a tape recorder, missing the warmth that Jon had grown to be comforted by, without his expressed permission. And laughter, sometimes. Fleeting and all the more lovely, a sound Jon wants to get lost in.

He breathes. He breathes in and smells something gentle, maybe chamomile, maybe sandalwood. The smell of a sweater that he loves to wear even though it doesn’t belong to him. The smell of tea on his desk, in his hands, on a table in a house far away that doesn’t belong to either of them.

He can taste it. It’s tea, different flavors, but always with the right amount of sweetness. The taste mingles with something else, something indescribable, clinging to soft lips that meet Jon’s halfway. It’s the taste of dirt in his mouth, clawing his way out of the crushing earth because he can’t stand the thought of leaving someone behind.

Martin’s hands are still on his face. The hands that feel so familiar in their shape, the curl of their fingers, the slight roughness of their palms. He imagines holding them. Fingers entwined with his, squeezing tight as to not let them slip away. A slack grip in sleep, in the unoccupied space between two people on an old mattress that creaks and groans but still supports their weight. A grip somewhere in-between, gentle but present on a couch in front of a burning fire, and a sense of safety and affection strong enough to chisel Jon’s heart clean in two. The hands that warms Jon’s face, prickling relief like walking into a warm house in the dead of winter.

Martin’s fingers brush the edges of Jon’s hairline, and Jon remembers the sensation of having his hair played with. Something that someone used to do for him. Golden afternoon sunlight and cups of tea lukewarm on the table, hands combing through his hair, braiding and unbraiding over and over because the plait was never the goal. Jon played with his hair too, as he fell asleep while Jon kept watch. Running a hand through his soft curls even as the allure of sleep weighed on his eyelids.

Jon curls his numb fingers, almost subconsciously. He tries to remember the sensation of hands and hair and holding a cup of tea to his chest. He moves his arm. He’s not sure how long it’s been since he moved - long enough to hurt. His movements are slow and uncoordinated, numb with cold, but he reaches for Martin’s wrist. Martin meets him halfway. He intertwines their fingers even though Jon’s aren’t working very well, but Martin doesn’t seem to mind, and oh , oh. Jon knows this hand. He knows these fingers that fit into his like puzzle pieces, like a matched set.

“ Martin. ” The name all but falls from his lips. It feels just like he remembers. He knows this name and this face and Martin. It was always Martin.

The tears still drip down Martin’s cheeks, around the curve of his sudden smile. Jon smiles too, reaching desperately to wipe Martin’s tears away. But his hands are too cold and too clumsy, and he only makes it to the collar of Martin’s jacket. But Martin wraps his arms around him and pulls him close and Jon sinks into it as far as he can. He feels Martin’s heartbeat from where he buries his face in Martin’s shoulder. It’s strong and fast and solid and the best thing he’s ever known. Jon moves his arms to match Martin’s hug, grasping like he’ll slip away if he ever lets go. He very well might. He doesn’t want to find out. He wants to hold Martin and tell him that he loves him and that he’s sorry.

Martin is saying something and Jon berates himself for not listening again. But it’s hard to hear over the sound of this bone crushing relief that Jon didn’t think he would ever feel. Martin’s voice is soft and soothing against Jon’s shoulder and Jon thinks that might be the point. So he lets the sound wash over him, moves a shaking hand to run fingers through Martin’s hair. The way Jon knows he likes.

“I’m so sorry,” Jon murmurs. He wants words that can properly encapsulate the things he wants to apologize for. That he left Martin behind, that he’s Seen these memories that he realizes now aren’t his own, that life was cruel enough to let these things happen. That Jon isn’t enough to stop them, even now.

Martin moves, and then Jon can see his face again. It’s so lovely, even tear-stained. Jon’s is too, it’s okay. Jon tries again to wipe them away and actually succeeds, cold hands to slightly less cold cheeks.

“I’m so-” Jon tries again, he needs Martin to understand , but then Martin kisses him. It’s soft and warm and desperate and Jon kisses him back with everything he has. When they break apart Jon opens his mouth again, but Martin speaks first.

“Jon,” he says. “It’s - it’s okay. I’m the one who needs to be saying sorry.”

Jon shakes his head as he searches Martin’s face. Not just because it’s his favorite face to look at, because he sees sadness and regret and…guilt? Something that Jon finds achingly familiar.

“Did you-” Jon swallows. “Did you see…?”

Martin nods. He knows. He knows and Jon knows and Jon doesn’t know what to do with relief that feels this terrible.

“I don’t know how,” Jon tries. “Or…or why , or-”

Martin cuts him off, gently. “It’s me, I think. Or us, maybe? A mix of the Eye and the - the Lonely.”

“Oh.” Jon breathes. That…that makes sense. And it’s nice to have something explained to him for once.

He still tries, though. He looks into Martin’s eyes because he needs him to understand. “I’m- I’m sorry. For-”

For everything.

“For leaving you behind.”

Martin shakes his head, this time. “ I’m sorry for leaving you. And… and for-”

“It’s okay.” Jon doesn’t need him to say it. Jon doesn’t think he deserves it either, but it doesn’t feel fair to argue about this right now.

Martin pauses. He looks like he wants to argue, so Jon adds: “We can talk about it later. Somewhere less...depressing?”

Martin laughs softly before he nods. He grips Jon’s shoulders.

“Can you stand?”

“I think so.” Jon answers, truthfully. Martin stands before offering a hand to him, which Jon takes without hesitation. Pulling himself to his feet isn’t the easiest thing he’s ever done even with Martin supporting his weight, but it isn’t the hardest, either.

Jon is so used to Knowing that he tries to find a path for them to walk without thinking about it. He gets a stabbing pain behind his eyes for his effort. He pushes a hand against his forehead, keeping the other firmly in Martin’s grasp.

“Sorry, I-”