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It's late when the others finally leave, having had as long of a discussion as they could manage. Younger-Martin tries to insist that they're both welcome at his flat, but Martin refuses. It won't be terribly comfortable, sure, but he and Jon have slept in much worse places than document storage together. In the morning, they can figure out more long-term arrangements.
Martin closes the door behind him and Jon positively collapses against him, almost boneless. Poor man, he's so tired that Martin can't understand a damn word he's saying—Jon hasn't had to deal with the very human need for sleep in a long time. His voice is a low, deep rumble, slurred with exhaustion.
"Let's get over to the bed, love," Martin prompts gently. "We'll have to get the other Jon to bring you some clothes in the morning, but here, here's some spare of mine."
Jon grasps at the joggers and shirt with a helpless fondness, his eyes filling with tears as he rubs his fingers across the fabric. "God, I forgot how soft your clothes are," he whispers, his words a little clearer now.
"Get changed, love," Martin instructs, his heart melting, and turns to grab some clothes for himself.
Once changed, they both climb into the cot, which isn't nearly wide enough for both of them. It helps, though, that Jon is part-octopus, because he basically climbs on top of Martin, one hip, a shoulder, and perhaps half a leg actually touching the bed.
"I'm sorry, Martin," Jon whispers now, emphasizing each soft word. "I'm sorry you've had to be here by yourself for so long."
Martin's eyes well up with tears, and he has to actively focus on his own words. "You're here now, love."
And he can tell Jon has more apologizing he wants to do, but Martin can't bear it. There are so many horrible things they've got to talk about, but Martin can only think about how unbelievably miraculous it is that Jon is back here with him, that he can be happy to be with his boyfriend and angry with him and afraid for him and guilty for his own actions toward him, all of the good and bad that they've got to work through yet. So he lets himself appreciate it: he leans forward a bit and kisses Jon.
The first hour after Jon had arrived, they'd kissed dozens of times, like they were drowning and only kissing would save them. Those had been urgent, relieved, frightened, desperate. This one is different, slower and more sure. They have time now—they might not know how much time yet, but more than they'd had before.
Kissing Jon is as familiar as breathing. His mouth is soft, warm, and firm against his own. One of his hands is holding a fistful of Martin's shirt like it's anchoring him to life, but otherwise, it could be almost any of the other kisses they'd shared before.
Then, and Martin isn't sure where the shift comes from exactly, but it changes. There's suddenly more heat, and he's slipping a hand under Jon's shirt, and Jon is using the tip of his tongue to trace Martin's bottom lip, and they're pushing closer together. Jon is scrambling for better purchase, and Martin uses his hands to help Jon climb fully on top of him, knees on either side of Martin's hips. It's only like this, Jon leaning over him but still pressed tightly against him, that Martin realizes he's responding to the situation in a way he rarely does.
This isn't new, but it's still a bit unusual. There'd been only a handful of times he'd really reacted physically to anyone, and of those few, two had been with Jon in Scotland.
At first, Martin has no intention of saying anything, instead appreciating every press of lips against his, then across his jaw and down his neck. He relishes the way Jon feels against him, but it's still more than enough.
But then, when Martin presses a kiss just below Jon's ear, Jon makes a low noise in the back of his throat, a sound dripping with desire, and Martin pulls back to look Jon fully in the face.
His eyes are half-lidded, dark and heavy, and his breathing comes in heaving gasps. He makes direct eye contact with Martin, though, and then manages to stutter out a question, tripping over his words a bit. Martin grins and says, wholeheartedly, "Yes."
Despite mutual desire, there's no rush to remove clothes. In fact, it seems to be almost the opposite, as he savors each moan and hitched breath coming from Jon's mouth as he reacquaints himself with each square inch of Jon's skin. After removing Jon's shirt, he flips them over, so he's instead leaning down over Jon in order to give each and every scar on his body the amount of love it deserves. Every mark is familiar to him, a path he's traced out a dozen times with fingers and mouth alike.
Jon's completely melted by the time Martin's reached the top of the joggers, absolutely relaxed under Martin's touch, making contented hums, and Martin stares up at his face for a moment, unable to believe that this moment is actually real.
His voice husky, Jon squints down at Martin with a half smile. "What?"
"I just love you," Martin says, unable to convey how he feels with any other words.
Jon throws him a grin and motions him back up, saying, "I love you, too," as Martin climbs back up him. Jon pulls Martin's shirt off before tugging him down for a kiss, and Martin lets his mind go fuzzy, only thoughts of Jon and desire and love passing through as he straddles Jon and returns his intense, hungry kisses.
Generally, Martin has a very low libido, and considers himself more sex-neutral than anything. Jon also lives mostly in indifferent to neutral territory, and so they've had to work very hard to establish a dialogue about all forms of physical intimacy and what they do and do not want at what times. But when they're both interested at the same time? It's like they suddenly forget about how to use their words properly.
Case in point, Jon is trying to say something into Martin's mouth, but the words blur together and Martin has to pull back, breathing heavily, to say, "What?"
Jon points down and then says, "Off."
"Right," Martin says, "yes, good." It takes some maneuvering, but then they're both in their underwear, pressed close together again. Jon is alternating between pressing kisses to, sucking on, and lightly biting the length of his neck, and Martin lets out an unusually high-pitched sound when Jon hits an especially sensitive spot. The noise of satisfaction Jon makes deep in his throat in reaction to it has Martin sliding his hand under Jon's waist band and taking him in hand, just to hear Jon make a deep groan.
Almost immediately, Jon uses his free hand to slide his boxers off and tug at the waistband of Martin's. Lifting his hips up, Martin lets Jon maneuver them away, and then he's pressing back against Jon, letting the movement of his hips create the right amount of friction to get them both moaning and stuttering out breaths. Jon's fingers press into his back, and Martin lowers himself down until he's chest to chest with Jon, his hot breath on Martin's ear, every noise from his mouth right there.
Then Jon hooks his ankles around Martin's thighs, urging him on faster, and Martin's breath hitches as Jon moves with him. Then Jon is coming undone under him, and it sends Martin over the edge, too.
For a few moments, they lay still, bodies flush, hot breath mingled as their heart rates steady back out. Then Martin peels himself off Jon and sits down on the other end of the bed to give Jon room to get up. After a moment, Jon's leaning into his side, pressing a kiss to his collar bone.
"I love you," Jon whispers as Martin wraps an arm around his bony shoulders to tuck him against himself.
"I love you," Martin replies just as softly. Then he takes a look around the small space at the back of document storage, noting where all their clothes have ended up. "Fuck, we have to go clean up now."
Jon laughs, and the sound fills Martin's soul. He'll never get enough of that laugh. "Still tissues over there?" he asks, gesturing vaguely to Martin's other side. "It'll be a start at least."
There are, and Jon and Martin take turns standing in the narrow space to wipe up a bit before pulling clothes back on to walk to the bathroom. Martin balls up all the tissues into one as they leave document storage, hand in hand, and says, "After the loo, want some tea?"
Jon grins up at him. "I always want your tea."
Jon leans against the counter as Martin works through the routine of making tea, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches Martin. It's the most comforting and familiar sight in the world, and Martin has no idea how he's deserved to end up here to see it all again.
Jon realizes Martin's caught him staring and grins, asking Martin to pause in his preparations to lean over and kiss Jon. Jon is delighted by this, and the remaining time it takes for the water to boil is spent with his mouth on Martin's.
They wordlessly make their way over to sit together on the old sofa, shifting and adjusting carefully so as not to spill the hot tea and yet end up as close together as possible.
For the first time since Jon arrived, they say nothing to each other. They drink their tea, they hold hands and run thumbs over the back of knuckles, they rest heads on chests and shoulders, and they exist, together. The way they're supposed to be.
Tea finished and mugs rinsed, they reluctantly rise and return to document storage. However, once back in the cramped room, they climb back into bed, pulling each other close. Martin leans down for another kiss, which Jon happily agrees to give.
And then Jon yawns, noisily and right into Martin's mouth. It makes Martin burst out laughing, dropping his head onto Jon's chest as he shakes with laughter.
Jon is making some sputtering noises, probably trying to protest, but the sounds are only fuel to his giggles.
Oh, maybe he's also a wee bit exhausted.
When he finally calms down, he realizes Jon is basically petting his hair, at what must be a somewhat awkward angle for his upper body.
"Ready to sleep?" he asks, his voice muffled a bit by Jon's borrow shirt.
Jon makes a noise of agreement that Martin more feels than hears, and he slowly extracts his head from its current position to rest it back on the pillow. Jon snuggles back in, making soft sounds of contentment.
It reminds Martin a lot of their first night in the safehouse, where he was somehow simultaneously still emotionally worn out and overwhelmed, absolutely bursting with feelings. They'd not talked much leading up to climbing into bed together, because what use were words when Martin had Seen how Jon felt? What could be said in the aftermath of an experience like Jon lovingly leading him out of the Lonely and accepting the quiet, tactile love Martin had passed back to him on the journey north?
They hadn't even assessed or discussed other sleeping arrangements. They'd made the bed with sheets that had obviously been cleaned, even if they smelled a little musty from disuse, found a series of blankets that would suffice for the night, and collapsed into a heap in the middle of the bed.
That had been the first time he'd heard Jon make small, happy sounds like this. They'd helped to thaw some of the rest of the fog from his bones, and he went to sleep feeling safe and loved, feeling like he belonged.
That feeling of belonging is more familiar now, but not less special. He truly can't remember the last time he felt this cherished before Jon, and it's not a feeling he wants to let go of, never wants to take for granted.