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Tendrils of thick, freezing fog curl around Martin, slipping between his fingers. It passes through his lips, invades his breath and courses through his veins. It stabs his lungs, sharp and frigid, and caresses his heart in a tight squeeze. It vows to never let go, numbs the pain that sits inside him as a peace offering.
It's… calming. Almost… freeing.
This whole place is.
Martin stands upon a craggy cliffside surrounded by an endless ocean, the ground beneath his feet covered in a thin layer of snow. The distant sound of the tide fills the dreading silence, ebbing to and fro, the occasional crash against tundra rocks.
Peering over the edge, he mindlessly watches the waves. The chills of vertigo threaten to drag him down, to plunge him into the dark waters below and drag him into the endless void of the sea. However, the algid anaphia of The Lonely remains unparalleled. It freezes Martin's legs, holds him close and keeps him still, unwavering like a statue. It reminds him he's safe, protected by the absence of warmth. No doubt settles in him.
“Martin…! Martin! Where are you!?”
In the distance, disturbing the white noise, someone calls for him. It's familiar, baritone and nasally with a posh tone behind it. Martin turns and scans the area through glassy eyes and foggy lenses. He catches a figure pushing through the mist from his peripheral, visibly breathless and disheveled, but determined in demeanor, and when they see Martin, they perk up. “Martin!"
“Jon…?” Martin calls back, his speech sullen and monotone, echoing as if in an empty theater. “Is that really you…?”
“Yes,” Jon promptly answers, letting out a choked laugh as he catches his breath, holding his stomach. “Yes, I-I'm here. I came for you.”
“Why?” The question slips out before Martin even hears it himself. It makes Jon pause, clearly taken aback.
Exhaling through his nose, straightening his posture, Jon stammers, “I… I-I thought you might be lost.”
“Lost…?” Martin momentarily looks down at his blurry, translucent hands. The word sits heavy in his mouth, uncomfortable and bitter. That's not right. He knew where he was.
“No… I don't think so… It's safe here, Jon…” he retorts, “I'm safe here… I belong here...” It's so easy to admit, that weight rolling off his tongue as he reassures Jon with dull conviction. “It feels right…”
Martin starts to unconsciously step back towards the cliffside, snow crunching gently under his boots. Each step was lighter than the last as parts of himself began to fade.
“No…” Jon shakes his head. He cautiously follows, raising his voice. “No. This isn't you, Martin. I-I know you think you're safe, but that's what it wants. It's lying!”
“But it is me...” Martin gives a dry laugh. A runaway train of childhood memories flashes past his eyes. So many moments alone, fending for himself, blending in crowds. “It always has been…”
As Martin stops at the edge, the wind picks up around them, the cold piercing through his jumper. Goosepimples rise on Martin's pale skin, and somehow, he knows what that entails. The clouds beckon him to join, and he takes its hand with no hesitation, soon to become the chilling air they breathe.
“I've always loved you, you know…?” The unprompted confession drips out of him like gentle rain, yet it hurts more than the shards of ice tearing his lungs to shreds.
“No, no, no-! Martin, wait!” Jon runs and lunges for him, but Martin dissipates under the archivist‘s grasp. The last wisps of himself encircle Jon – a feeble attempt at one last goodbye – before evaporating into the dreary sky.
Finally in The Lonely's embrace, Martin becomes one with the fog.
༄.°•°○•☁︎•○°•༄.°
Now, he's in the hands of nothing.
It reminds him of the cruelty that lies just beyond here. Whispers tales of monsters, betrayal, and heartache.
It offers him sanctuary. A place to call home. Somewhere to never face those dangers ever again.
It bundles him in blankets of fear, and cradles him like a mother would her child, uttering false words of reassurance and comfort.
He closes his eyes, leans against Its chest and clings to every syllable as the ache in his lungs subsides. He's aware he's merely feed, something to quell Its unabated hunger, but he already accepted the fate he was given. Dying here is a merciful alternative. Euthanasia.
In the soothing voice he's grown familiar with, It lulls him to sleep, and Martin draws what he believes will be his final, conscious breath.
༄.°•°○•☁︎•○°•༄.°
Something, someone, somehow jolts Martin awake, forces open his cocoon and rips him out of his foggy haven. He's back in the tundra, barely corporeal once again. He nearly misses the distant buzzing fade from his head.
Wait. What happened? He shouldn't be here. Why was he-?
Someone's touching him, shaking his shoulders, shouting for his attention. They feel so far away, like a memory of a dream; barely tangible against Martin's fading fingertips; only a shape through Martin's low vision. Yet, he knew. It's impossible not to. He looks at the silhouette in front of him with dour, cloudy eyes, and discerns them a second time.
“Oh… Jon…”
The archivist lets out a shallow sigh when recognized, hands moving down Martin's arms. Somehow, behind all the fog, he sees Jon's expression, currently filled with ease.
“You didn't leave…?” Martin asks.
“No. Not without you.” It's said quickly, so matter-of-fact, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and Martin's heart skips a beat.
Jon wavers a second, then adds, “I just… I had to take care of Peter first.”
“What do you-”
“He's gone now. He's gone.”
It takes a moment for Martin to realize what Jon exactly meant. So… he's dead? With how Jon said it, did that mean he got rid of Peter himself?
The knowledge of Jon being a potential murderer should be upsetting, but something deep in his psyche tells him Peter's death was well deserved. Martin didn't care for him. Not in the slightest. Actually, Martin loathed Peter. How couldn't he? After all the blatant lies, his persistence about some made-up entity that needed stopping, separating Martin from all his colleagues… All to win some dumb bet with Elias.
And stupid Martin fell for it, because he wanted to protect everyone. To prevent another unneeded tragedy befalling the institute. To keep Jon and his remaining coworkers alive.
Before, Martin would be seething, red and hot and blinding, with thick tears he couldn't get control of. Now, that anger was trapped under a dense layer of ice, drowning alongside everything he used to be. It bangs against the barrier in protest, but the ice was resilient. It wasn't breaking through anytime soon.
Well, if Martin was grateful for one thing Peter did, it was bringing Martin here. Even admitting that left a sour taste in his mouth.
Any words Martin may have had were lost, so he only acknowledges Jon with a small hum. The faraway waves take silence's place once again, and just like before, it's Jon who disrupts the stillness, delicately taking Martin's hand as he says, “We shouldn't stay much longer.”
Glazed irises stare at their conjoined hands. Sheer skin, veiled by fog, blended with deep bronze. Martin's heart stutters again.
To see Jon come back for him, set foot in The Lonely and insist on taking Martin back, made him feel… Well, just that. Feel. Something he hadn't experienced in a long time. The butterflies in him flutter for only a moment, frail from the frost built up on their wings, and, even if brief, it was… nice. He almost wants it to happen again, makes it tempting to follow and return to the real world, maybe regain some semblance of emotion.
No. He wants to stay, run to the fog with its offers of endless solace and respite. Jon stripped Martin from it, and for what? To return to the neverending horrors waiting outside? Witness even more deaths and disappearances? Endure the pain that threatens to rupture his chest at every waking moment, knowing he truly has no one?
Here, he's given an anesthetic and a place to rest. It made the pain tolerable.
What's the point in leaving?
“Come on,” Jon's tightened grip pulls Martin out of his internal debate. “Let's get out of here.” The archivist gives him a small, weary smile, then gently tugs Martin towards him.
But Martin doesn't budge. He fades for a moment, just enough for Jon to let go and let Martin's arm fall limp by his side. “I can't…”
Jon stops with a hovering hand. “Wha…? But, Martin-”
“Think about it, Jon…” Martin interrupts, cut and dry, “There's nothing left for me… Mum's dead… Tim and Sasha are long gone... Everyone else tolerates me, at best... And you… Everything is after you, and you go after it… You'll eventually die, too… You already did once… I don't have anyone else to go to…”
Jon stares wide eyed, speechless, as if Martin slapped him in the face. He might as well have.
Neither speak as the sea continues to move around them, unbothered by the growing tension hanging in the air. Eventually, Jon gives, looks down at his oxfords and grips his upper arms.
“Yeah… Yeah, you're right. A-About me, that is. I… You're right. A-And look, I know how awful I was to you, and I'm so sorry-” Jon's voice cracks, cutting himself off with a sharp inhale and taut shoulders. Then he swallows, looks up, and takes a timid step towards Martin. “But, I promise, I'm not leaving you. I mean, I don't want to leave you. I… I need you.”
For a split second, a spark flickers in Martin's chest, Jon's words flint and steel, but the kindling’s too damp, and nothing ignites. He gives a wry chuckle and looks towards the endless ocean with melancholy. “You don't need me, Jon... No one needs me... I’m sorry…”
“No. No, Martin. Martin. Look at me. Look at me.” Jon guides Martin towards him by the shoulders and gingerly cradles his face.
“Whatever Peter or The Lonely told you, isn't true. You know that. I know you know that.” Jon says, stern with furrowed brows. An absent wind picks up his long hair as he speaks up, and his eyes… Were they always this green? Shimmering like polished emeralds, piercing so easily through the fog? “Look in front of you, Martin. Look, and tell me what you see.”
As Martin gets lost in those glowing, gem-like irises, static thrums in his temples and spreads through his limbs. It crawls into his chest, steadily burns and warms his frozen viscera, thawing the icicles within his lungs and dissolving the fog residing in his brain. The condensation obscuring his eyes and glasses evaporate, and when he blinks, “I see…”
He sees salt-and-pepper curls that flow freely, stray strands framing a long face. He sees a coarse beard and thick eyebrows sat upon it, with thin lips and owl-like eyes under black lashes, and a sharp, aquiline nose in the middle of it all. He sees varied scars settled and healed on rough, dark skin, gained from countless horrors, each with a story behind them.
Martin sees someone he loves so much more than he probably should.
“I see you, Jon…” He says in a quiet, shaky breath. Steam trickles out his lips, and echoes no longer trail behind his words. “I see you…!”
The frozen dam that The Lonely, Peter and Martin constructed within the past year cracks and bursts, washing over him. Rueful laughter gradually bubbles up Martin's chest until the flood overflows and becomes wrecking sobs, tears flowing freely down his cheeks.
“Oh, Martin…” Jon lets out a breathy sigh, pulling Martin down into a hug. He immediately recuperates, holds Jon tight and buries himself in the crook of his neck. His shoulders shake violently as he weeps, tears soaking Jon's ratty cardigan more than The Lonely's mist had.
“Y-you're real,” Martin murmurs, almost in disbelief.
“Yes...”
“You're… a-actually real…!”
“Yes…” Jon repeats, softer. He rubs Martin's back in small circles, and Martin reels at the small gesture, because he truly feels it. Not like before, where everything was so mute and distant. Now the touch sets his nerves alight, almost scalding, but Martin couldn't care. Jon's so warm compared to the freezing tundra they stood in, and he smells faintly of fresh earth and sandalwood.
“I w-was…I was so a-alone,” Martin sniffs, trembling in Jon's arms, stumbling over his words.“I thought I-I w-was… I thought y-you were-”
“Hey, hey,” Jon pulls back as he shushes Martin and caresses his cheeks, fruitlessly wiping falling tears with his thumb. “It's okay. You're here. I'm here now. I'm here.”
Pressing their foreheads together, Jon mutters reassurances until Martin calms. Tears continue to fall, no longer an intense downpour, instead a light drizzle. He couldn't remember the last time he cried like that. It's almost a relief.
Martin holds Jon's wrist with shut eyes and leans into the palm of his hand, relishing in the warmth. Overwhelming emotions, be damned. For the first time in a while, Martin feels alive.
“...Did you mean it?”
Martin's head shoots up at the quiet question, looking at Jon with wet, doe eyes. “W-what?”
“Earlier, when…when you said you loved me. Did you mean it?” Jon asks again, this time hushed, slower. Not condescending, Martin noticed, but careful, picking up each word one by one.
Oh. The Eye. Jon's trying to avoid using his compulsion. He trusted Martin to tell the truth. Something about that made Martin's heart swell, a balloon at the brink of popping.
Still, he briefly considers saying nothing. Putting blame on The Lonely would be such an easy getaway, and nothing's stopping him from using it. He could just push the topic aside and keep the charade going. He's been playing it for years. What's a few more?
Should they even discuss this here? For gods sake, they're in the middle of a Fear's domain!
Yet, Jon is watching with a large, reverent gaze. There's a hint of fondness in them as he waits patiently for an answer, and Martin’s sure those butterflies in him rose from their graves, flapping around at full force. He couldn't lie to Jon. He just couldn't, and part of him didn't want to.
“Yes. I did.” Martin admits in a whisper, and a significant weight he didn't notice before lifts off his shoulders. After all these years of hiding… Wait.
“I-I mean, do! I do!” he suddenly clarifies in a small panic. He follows with a nervous chuckle, muttering, “Mean it, I mean? V-Very much.”
Jon blinks, then laughs lightly, his eyes creased and his smile warm. It's beautiful, reminds Martin of an early sunrise, wrings his tender heart so tight it hurts, and he can't stop the wavering smile that begins to form on his lips because he remembers how it is to feel good again. To experience felicity and desire and gratitude and love-
Then Jon kisses him, and Martin returns it without second thought. It's small and chaste and awkward – with chapped lips and bumping noses and the mild taste of salt from tears and ocean air – but it's theirs, and it's enough for the flame in Martin's chest to be set ablaze.
They pull apart, and- Oh. Martin is smiling. He's actually smiling. The tears haven't stopped, but now it's accompanied with a wide grin. When was the last time Martin smiled like this? A bright, genuine one. The kind that unabashedly showed teeth and made his cheeks hurt. He couldn't recall.
The moment passes. Martin closes his eyes, basks in the relative calm of it all as the flame in him simmers down. For once, everything feels alright…
Until the cold gnaws at his bones, no longer the comforting presence it once was. He shivers, realizes he's freezing compared to Jon. His wet hair and damp clothes cling to his salt-sprayed skin like glue, and a bout of fatigue falls over him, threatening to drag him down.
Dread sinks in his gut. This is far from over, isn't it?
Great concern befalls Jon, but it’s quickly replaced with fervor. After all this time, he finally lets go of Martin's face, opting for his hands instead. He doesn't miss the way Jon briefly winces.
“Let's go home.” Jon says.
Home. The word plays in Martin's head, stuck repeating on a broken record player. Any doubts and concerns he has are hushed, for now.
“How?” Martin strains to ask, pushing past his scratchy throat and exhaustion.
“Don't worry. I know the way.” Jon responds with confidence. He's already leading with a slight limp, eyes illuminating bright enough to see through the murkiness. This time, hand in hand, Martin follows without hesitation, lagging behind. They walk along the rocky cliffs, snow crunching under their feet.
The Lonely calls Martin's name like a siren's song, melodious and inebriating. He tries to ignore it. The pull in his chest is insistent, and the echoing pleas are clear as day, but he continues forward, focusing on the firm hold he has on Jon.
Eventually, the sound of the ocean wanes behind them, replaced with footsteps on concrete. The fog parts around them, and when light leaks through, brightening the world around them, Martin remembers nothing but warmth in intertwined hands.