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Jon misses the keyhole twice when he tries to unlock the door to his flat. "Don't say anything," he says, as Martin trails behind him.
"Me?" Martin says, slightly high-pitched.
"It was dark in the hall," Jon says forbiddingly. "I couldn't-- oof." And he collapses; Martin is alarmed for a moment, before he realizes Jon fell into the welcoming expanse of the sofa. "Not one word," Jon says, muffled in the cushions.
"What words would those be, hmm?” says Martin, the very soul of innocence. “Something about how you aren’t in fact invincible, and can’t pull off three consecutive days of working sixteen hours and sleeping three?”
“It was four last night,” Jon mumbles.
“Slacker,” Martin says, heavy with affection. He sits down on the sofa’s armrest, noting Jon is making no effort to get up. “How dare you.”
“I could do eighteen hour days for a week in college,” Jon says, plaintive.
“Newsflash: you’re not in college anymore.” Martin asks permission and, on receiving it, pets his hand down Jon’s back.
Jon turns over on his side, leaning into the touch. His face looks drawn. He looks exhausted.
“Shall I get the heavy blanket?” Martin murmurs. The repetitive quality of petting Jon is lulling him into calmness, as well. He’ll make up the sofa once Jon’s settled.
But Jon opens his eyes and frowns. “I didn’t ask you to come over so I could sleep.”
“Maybe you should have just slept,” Martin says softly. “I could’ve waited another day to see you.”
Jon takes Martin’s hand in his and kisses his palm, right below where Martin’s engagement ring sits. “I couldn’t have.” He shakes his head. “I doubt I’d fall asleep, honestly. Too wound up.”
Martin knows that feeling. “Rope, then?” It usually settles Jon down effectively.
Jon nods decisively. “That sounds nice.” His voice is slurring, drowsy.
For a minute, Martin has a pang of conscience. Jon’s not entirely in his right mind; should they be engaging in any kind of play? On the other hand, this is an act they’ve done dozens of times. He knows Jon well enough to anticipate his reactions, and it’s not like Jon hasn’t said yes.
Jon pushes himself up and rubs his face into Martin’s hand. “Please?” he says.
Martin folds like a cheap collapsible chair. “Alright, alright. Settle down.”
He’s taken to keeping some rope, and a spare pair of safety shears, in Jon’s flat. Jon’s still on the sofa when Martin’s fetched them, but now he’s lying on his back, dark eyes trained on Martin.
“Free permission to touch,” Jon says, leans back and shuts his eyes.
Martin sits at Jon’s feet, maneuvering them into his lap for better access. He can feel Jon untense as he winds the rope around his ankles. Martin cinches: he likes the feel of rope coming together, secure and satisfying. With each pass of the rope Jon is kept more firmly in place, right here where Martin wants him, where he’s safe.
He’s just past Jon’s knees when he hears a delicate snore.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Martin says, looking up at Jon’s beatific - and unmistakably asleep - face. “I love you so much,” he whispers. He undoes the rope, which makes Jon frown a little in his sleep, but doesn’t wake him up. He takes him up in his arms, oofing. Jon’s eating better. It’s a guilty pleasure, to realize the little extra padding was helped along by Martin’s doing.
As Martin settles him down in bed, Jon reaches out sleepily, fingers interlacing with Martin’s, their engagement rings knocking together. “Stay,” Jon mumbles, barely conscious.
“Of course,” Martin says, low and heartfelt. “Of course.”