Work Text:
"It's so good to see you!" Georgie says when she opens the door. "I didn't think you were coming, Jon says your schedule this week was an absolute nightmare."
That it was, but Martin's not going to let some minor issues like exams and night shifts keep him from attending Georgie's private parties. Martin loves them even when Jon doesn't attend, although these days Jon comes more often than not. Loves the atmosphere, the companionship, the chance to talk to people without feeling self-conscious about what he's wearing or how many toys he owns. "Happy to be here," he tells Georgie as he walks inside.
If he's a little unsteady on his feet, well, that happens. He'll be fine.
Inside there's a small clump of people around Georgie's coffee table, holding cups of soft drinks and talking animatedly. Martin's eyes slide right over them to the corner between the sofas, where Jon's dog bed is stood. Jon himself is in it, curled up the way he does, like his spine is just a suggestion. Martin takes a moment just to look at him, drink him in.
Maybe it's fatigue making Martin sappy. He heavily suspects, though, that he'd been this sappy about Jon right from the start.
What is it about Jon? Martin can't quite explain, can't put it in words. He's tried to write poetry about it, all of which wound up in fragments on scrunched and balled up pieces of torn notepad paper.
(One goes:
All the grace of a predator
and all the hunter's skill
focused on a feather
in my fingertips
He's thinking about it now. Poetry isn't so much a skill Martin has as something that happens to him, and it leaks out especially when he's tired.)
Before Martin can give the issue further thought, Jon notices him. He goes up on all fours and walks to Martin with quick nonchalance. Martin can imagine him with a tail, held high and proud.
"Do you ever want to wear a tail?" he asks Jon when he comes near.
Jon harrumphs. Of course such things would be below his dignity.
(Another fragment reads:
I never play. That is a lie.
I seek the beasts that run and fly.
If they are plastic, leather, fur,
There still is life in what they were.)
Martin blinks. He's on his knees before Jon, not quite sure how he got there. Jon's headbutting his hands for petting, though, so Martin can't say he minds. He runs his fingers greedily through Jon's thick hair. Martin had been looking up braiding tutorials on YouTube. He has no idea whether Jon would let him, but he can still watch them and daydream. "Hello," he tells Jon softly. "How are you?"
Jon mrrp! which is a pretty good answer, and insistently pushes up against Martin's hand.
"I know," Martin says, unable to hold back his smile. "I missed you too." He sinks his fingers to rub Jon's scalp, enjoying the satisfied noises he makes in response. Jon's so warm. He feels so nice to touch. The mats that Georgie put down are soft under his knees.
Martin jolts to realize there are hands on his shoulders. Jon's looking him in the face, brow creased. "Oh," Martin says, weakly. "I, I should get some tea. Do you want any?" Silly question. Jon rarely likes tea when he's being a cat. Martin should try offering milk, although he thinks he's read somewhere you shouldn't actually give it to cats. They're lactose intolerant or something.
A tug on his sleeve startles Martin. Jon's stood up, reaching down to take Martin's hand. Martin clasps Jon's, sheepishly, and allows himself to be brought to his feet. Jon leads him through the tiny flat with confidence, opening the closed bedroom door.
"Jon?" Martin says, uncertain. The bedroom is out of bounds, he knows that.
Jon, however, digs something out of his pocket to show Martin. A bit of paper saying, Permission slip to use the bedroom. No sex! XOXO, Georgie.
Martin groans. "Oh God. Jon, what did you tell her?"
Jon just looks at him, unimpressed, and shoulders him gently towards the bed.
"I'm not going to sleep in Georgie's bed," Martin says, aghast, even as he's herded into sitting down on it. "Jon! That's rude!"
Jon brandishes the note again, with his eyebrow raised.
Alright, maybe he's got a point, but still. "I haven't seen you all week," Martin says. "I appreciate the thought, but I want to be with you."
After a moment's consideration, Jon shrugs and climbs into the bed. He lays down on his side and pats the free half expectantly.
"Jon," Martin says, weakly. To his horror, he feels his eyes prickle. It's not that Jon's never shared a bed with him before. It's just....
(Another one of his fragments reads:
Don't look at me sleeping.
I never lie down but with one eye open,
waiting to run.)
Martin gives in and lies down.
He's not expecting for Jon to ooze across the bed until his head and shoulders are pillowed on Martin's belly. And yet, there he is. Martin gives in, asks permission and starts petting Jon's hair again.
Nearly asleep, Martin's eyes snap open when he hears yelling come from the other room. He tenses and prepares to get up. He doesn't know what happened, but having someone trained in first aid around can't hurt.
An insistent weight on his belly shifts a bit, only to return to its previous position with a faint grumble. Martin blinks and looks at Jon, still laid over him. And, to Martin's shock, asleep.
Outside, Georgie's voice is loud but firm. He can't make out what she's saying. What if she needs him to help? What if everyone is handling some emergency while he's lazing about in bed like the worst guest in the history of hospitality?
There's a very faint whistle, and Martin realizes Jon is snoring. His chest rises and falls and Martin looks at him, mesmerized. Martin remembers that time at the romp when Jon first asked him to watch his sleep, how proud he'd felt to be chosen, trusted.
Maybe if I moved him very carefully, he thinks, but it's not even nearly convincing. Looks like he's trapped here. Might as well surrender to fate. He lets himself relax, listen to the quiet sounds of Jon's peaceful sleep.
(There's one page Martin hadn't ripped out of his notebook, but he always pages past it as fast as he can. It says:
If you ask for water, I'll bring you wine.
If you ask for comfort, I'll give you mine.
Until you ask, it is my task
To have my comfort wait for you.)