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Jon didn’t like being touched.
Martin knew that. He knew it when Jon flinched away from Elias’ habit of putting his arm on Jon’s back, on Sasha’s teasingly light shoulder taps, on Tim’s impromptu hugs. And Martin tried to respect that.
Even if it was hard.
Hard because, well, Jon had no need to love Martin. Sure, maybe diving into the Lonely had seemed romantic. But, was it any different than what he did with Daisy? With what he’d tried to do with Sasha, breaking the table? Jon put himself last, his employees first. Martin knew that.
But it still hurt.
But Martin wasn’t someone to push things. He wouldn’t try to make Jon love him, when he didn’t. And he wouldn’t touch them.
So when they got out of the Lonely together, Martin dropped his hand and didn’t reach out for him again. When they rode on the train together, Scotland bound and heading to Daisy’s cottage, Martin didn’t put an arm around him. He didn’t lean into him on the seat together. He kept his distance.
He wanted to touch Jon. God, he wanted to touch him. He wanted to hug him until he couldn’t breathe, to trail kisses over his face and hold him close. To bury his face in Jon’s soft curls, play with his hair and run his fingers through the tangles and knots until they were smooth. Martin wanted to fucking spoon him to sleep, and cuddle him and kiss him and bite him and-
Martin spent the rest of the train ride looking determinedly out the window, so that Jon wouldn’t see him blushing, and ask what he was thinking about, because “making out with you, totally normal though” wasn’t a conservation he was ready for.
So Martin didn’t touch Jon. And Martin liked to think that Jon appreciated the gesture.
—--
How Jon managed to make it to the motel without breaking down, they had no idea. The whole day had been… well, a fucking nightmare.
Jon shouldn’t have expected Martin to still love them. Loved - that was the word they’d used, after all. Loved, not love. Loved. Past tense. A word that shouldn’t hurt as much as it did.
But it did hurt.
Jon hadn’t expected this. For Martin to… avoid him like this. It went beyond not loving him. It was as if they weren’t friends, even. The moment they stumbled out of the Lonely, Martin dropped Jon’s hand. They didn’t talk the whole train ride, Martin didn’t even look at them. He didn’t hold Jon’s hand when they walked to the motel they were staying at.
Jon wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss Martin so much, it was a conscious effort not to. At one point, when they were unpacking for the night, Jon and Martin’s shoulders had brushed - and Jon had to leap back, because otherwise they would’ve wrapped themselves against him and kissed him until neither could breathe.
Martin looked almost hurt, for a second. Then it was gone. And he apologized. And god, if that didn’t make it worse.
At one point, Martin said that he would be heading out to get dinner, pizza.
When the door locked, and the footsteps faded, Jon felt their heart break.
It wasn’t going to ever happen. Martin didn’t love him. Nobody loved them.
That’s how Martin found them, ten minutes later.
Jon was shaking, violently, hands gripping their knees. Their nails dug into the skin, so deep it looked like it might draw blood. Tears were fresh on their face, their breathing ragged. At Martin’s entrance, Jon panicked.
“No,” he whispered. Martin wasn’t supposed to see them like this. He wasn’t supposed to know that Jon felt like this.
“Jon? Jon!” Martin set down the pizza box, rushing over. He knelt in front of them, careful not to touch them or get too close. Putting up a hand, he made a placating motion. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
Jon shook their head.
And- because they were stupid.
Grabbed Martin’s hand, and pressed it to their chest. Martin made a surprised noise. But didn’t pull away.
“I’m sorry,” Jon choked out. “I know- I shouldn’t but- I’m sorry-”
“Hey, hey. It’s okay. It’s okay.” Martin soothed, still not moving. Jon shook their head, frustrated. Why wouldn’t Martin just hold them? Why couldn’t it be fair?
“I’m sorry. I need- I need you. Please.” Jon opened their arms, practically begging for Martin to just hug them.
“Jon, are you sure? I don’t want to-”
“ Please,” Jon choked.
Martin wrapped his arms around Jon, and Jon melted, all the tension leaving them as they sobbed into Martin’s chest. Burying their face in his sweater. Martin’s breath was warm, as he gently rubbed a hand over Jon’s back. “Shh… it’s okay… it’s alright, love.”
Love. Martin had just called him love.
Oh, fuck.
“I- I’m sorry,” Jon whispered. “I love you. I know you don’t love me, but. I love you. I’m sorry.”
It was the only two things that Jon could think of to say.
Martin felt his eyes well with tears, and suddenly, he was squeezing Jon tighter than ever, as if they might disappear. “God, Jon, don’t say that. Never say that. I love you so much. Don’t you ever think I don’t.”
Jon froze. “You. You still love me?”
“Of course,” Martin whispered, meeting Jon’s wide green eyes.
“But you said- in the Lonely- that you’d loved me. But not anymore. You said-”
“I said that?” Martin’s heart shattered. “Oh, honey. Fuck. I didn’t mean that. I never meant that. I love you, Jon, so fucking much. I always have. Please.” He stroked their cheek, brushing away stray tears.
Jon took a deep breath, breath hitching again. “I… good lord.” And he sobbed again, harder, and his fingers were clutching at Martin’s sweater, and he sniffed and looked back up with so much affection it made Martin ache. Martin took a shuddering breath. “Can I… kiss you?”
Jon grabbed Martin’s face and caught their lips together. Warm air mixing, foreheads pressed together. Jon wrapped his legs around Martin’s waist, and god- this was everything Martin had wanted. This was everything Jon had wanted.
It was...
It wasn't perfect, but it was right- and that was what mattered, in the end. Martin sighed against Jons lips, running a hand through his soft curls and holding him close. Jon's chest swarmed with butterflies, his heart fluttering at the gentle touches. It was... so odd to be handled so gently. Yet, in a way, a relief.
Things were going to be okay.