Work Text:
When Jon finally found Martin, he was leaning on a tombstone atop the only filled grave for acres, all the color washed out of him. He looked made of stone himself, his form seeming not carved, but eroded into soft, slumping shapes by centuries of wind and rain. Not that there was any weather this deep inside.
Jon felt like he'd been tracking Martin for weeks. How long had it felt for Martin? Jon lowered himself so his face was level with Martin's, knees crackling.
Martin's eyes were half-open, lashes colorless and spiky as rime. He didn't track Jon's finger in front of his face. When Jon shone his phone torch into Martin's eyes, his pupils contracted against the light, but he didn't blink. Jon gently patted Martin's cheeks but, though they were round and soft-looking as ever, his flesh seemed to have stiffened and become as cool as the air.
Jon rested his hands on Martin's face, stroking softly with his thumbs and hoped that, despite his own poor circulation, it'd be enough to begin to warm him. He realized after a few minutes that his avoidance of Martin's vacant gaze was no defiance of the Lonely at all, and made himself look Martin in the eye. He thought hard about the vice of longing around his own chest. He imagined the joy he'd feel if Martin shook himself awake and gave him the smile it felt like he'd spent half his life missing. He tried to convey it all through his eyes. At last, he began to put his feelings into faltering words.
When nothing happened, he began to experiment. Slaps on the face. More timidly, but no more effectively, a kiss laid on his cool lips. Using his hand to block the faint breath issuing from Martin's mouth and nose, then realizing after a few seconds of no response he could suffocate him with terrible ease like this, and, panicking, pulling his hands away. He stuck his finger in his ear, then in Martin's mouth and managed only to creep himself out with the feel of the stiff, dry tongue beneath it.
Knees aching, Jon at last sat back on the loosely tilled earth and considered the problem of Martin. It was becoming clear there was nothing he could do for him within the Lonely. He'd have to get him out. But how?
His face went hot as he realized there was something else he could try. Jon, slowly, with an apologetic wince toward Martin, climbed into his lap, turning so his back was flush with Martin's chest, and then pulled Martin's arms around his body. Jon had to loop his own arms tight around Martin's--like a molded plastic toy, his body eased back into its original position unless held in place.
Wearing Martin wrapped around himself, Jon closed his eyes and opened his Eyes, feeling for the same boneshaking frequency of being that had allowed him to slide between places. He had it. He held it. He held Martin around himself fiercely, trying to transmit it through him as well.
At last, faint and slick with sweat, Jon gave up, letting his head fall back against Martin's shoulder. They were in the deepest heart of the Lonely. The barrier here was a bunker wall, not a curtain. He had, though, felt something interesting when he'd opened his senses.
There was a second path out. Fainter, older, but much shorter to walk than the one Martin and Peter's passage had cut from the panopticon to this field of graves. If Jon could just transport Martin's body that far, he was certain he could bring them both through.
A surge of energy filled Jon--he wasn't sure where it had come from, but he wasn't going to question it--and he heaved himself from Martin's lap and stood looking down at him, considering the problem.
Had Martin's posture softened? Was his head drooping slightly downward? If Jon were able to pull him to his feet and support his weight, would it be possible--like a beer-sodden student--to get him to reflexively follow Jon's steps?
Jon had no reason to be hopeful, but he had to try. He couldn't think what else he could do.
The first step was to uncross Martin's legs. Jon couldn't pull them entirely straight, and his knees kept slowly regressing back to their bent state, but if Jon could pull him upright, at least his feet would be beneath him. Martin's arms were easier, having already been pulled from their resting position. When Jon took Martin's hands and gave them an experimental tug, he thought the shoulders and elbows felt slightly more pliant than they had before.
Martin outweighed Jon by at least half again--was probably closer to twice Jon's size--so it wasn't as though Jon could just grab Martin's hands and use his own weight to haul Martin to his feet. He'd have to use his own strength to lift him vertically.
Jon wouldn't have thought he could do it, except he had to do it, so he would do it. He'd been stronger after waking up from his coma than he'd been before but he'd also been...freshly fed and he wasn't that now. He'd been writing checks against his body's overdrawn account for some time, and had no idea how much longer he could keep doing it.
Tremors were even now running through him and he wasn't sure whether they were excitement or exhaustion warning--he'd just attempted to force himself and Martin into another reality, and that cost--but it wasn't as though there was anything to do about it. There was nothing to feed on in this barren world, and waiting wasn't going to make Jon any readier.
Jon pulled Martin forward until his back was free of the gravestone, then looped his arms beneath Martin's armpits and around his back.
Which do you lift with again? Oh. The legs. Well, too late on that. His spine was already feeling the strain. Jon reshuffled his feet and lifted.
It worked. Sort of. Jon got Martin to a crouching stand, then walked his arms down Martin's torso a few inches at a time, until the top half of him was drooping over Jon's head and his legs were straight. Martin seemed to be softening up further--wrapped around Jon earlier, he'd felt like one of those hard, rubbery seats on an amusement park ride. Now he felt more like flesh, though cool flesh.
Jon joggled him side to side to no effect then, after a moment to brace himself for the effort ahead, took a step backwards. Martin sagged forward bonelessly, almost driving him another step backwards. Jon held his ground with a grunt of effort.
"Come on, Martin. One foot in front of the other..." Jon pushed forward again, recentering the weight beneath Martin's feet. "Let's rest and try that again."
Jon repeated the backwards step to the same effect, and swore. "You're going to have to help me out here, Martin," he wheezed, smoker's lungs complaining. "Pretend Jane Prentiss is back there. Pretend I'm back there that time you broke the laminator." Jon's legs were trembling beneath him. If he pushed Martin upright again, there was a very good chance they'd overbalance and go tumbling over the top of the gravestone. Gritting his teeth, Jon instead took a second step backward.
And Martin's foot came forward.
If Jon could have cheered, he would have. Instead, he took another step, and the opposite leg came forward. It was no accident! It was working! If this kept up, they'd manage it. Slowly, of course, and with plenty of rest breaks. Jon took another step and Martin followed. And another. Another step backwards, and Martin was reacting faster now, Jon was certain! And another--
And Jon tumbled backwards into an empty grave, Martin tumbling after.
When Jon regained consciousness, he regretted it. Every part of his body was blaring competing alarms. He was being crushed. He couldn't breathe. He tailbone felt like it had been pulverized and his head wasn't much better. It hurt to open his eyes-- even the morbid unlight of the empty gray sky above him made the backs of his retinas scream. He saw it was Martin crushing him, so at least his end would be romantic.
Not what he would have guessed.
His hands could move a little. They felt smooth cold satin, and he had to force his eyes open again just to check. Yes, he and Martin had fallen into an open coffin at the bottom of an open grave. He laughed into Martin's shoulder, and it hurt. He passed out again.
When Jon woke, he was surprised by it, but not displeased. He could still barely breathe, but his head felt better and he was numb from the waist down. He also felt warm, which seemed a good sign this deep in the Lonely. Maybe Martin had no heat of his own, but he was insulating Jon from the chill.
Jon had to face it: there'd be no lifting Martin from the bottom of a grave under his own power. His choices were to relax and die beneath him, or get free and find help. Elias or Peter Lukas or...
At the thought, Jon realized for the first time where Peter had gone. He was very close, actually. Well, thought Jon, impressed and a little intimidated. That explained the fresh-tilled ground.
The downside was that, if he succeeded in unearthing Peter, he'd likely not be eager to help Martin. One step at a time, Jon reminded himself. Get out of your own grave first.
Jon wiggled. His hands and feet had the most mobility. His trunk the least. He wiggled and writhed and tried to push himself upward, out from beneath Martin. He cursed the coffin. If it hadn't been pinning them together on the sides, he could have simply rolled Martin off of him. He was making progress--now he and Martin were nearly cheek to cheek instead of his face being flattened into Martin's shoulder--but he was also tiring. Jon stopped and let his head lay back, staring up at the empty sky and letting his breath slow.
In the pause, he felt Martin's breath against his neck. His warm breath.
"Martin!" He exclaimed. "Martin, look alive!"
Martin didn't.
"Dear god," Jon groaned, "I've got to do everything myself, haven't I?" He began wiggling with increased alacrity. He was getting somewhere--the pressure on his chest was easing--when the crown of his head hit the end of the coffin. "Son of a bitch!"
Seemed another natural moment to stop and regroup. He was getting seriously overheated. His back was probably soaking the satin beneath him. Martin was no longer protecting him from the chill of the Lonely, but suffocating him with his own trapped heat.
Jon finally had enough freedom of motion to bend his arms, press his hands to Martin's shoulders. He was able to push Martin away and hold him up just long enough to get in one good deep breath before his arms gave. Martin's cheek was soft and warm now--Martin's own heat?--and Jon thought he'd seen hints of color in his face.
"Martin, if you're in there--if you can hear me--it'd be a tremendous help if you could get off!" Jon's wiggling took on a new goal--not to move laterally, but to rouse Martin from his trance. He was pinned as firmly as ever but it didn't stop his attempts to writhe. And his hands were free now as well. He raked them through Martin's hair, dug his fingers into his armpits, squished his cheeks.
Pulled Martin's face to his own and kissed his slack lips in between hollering his name into his mouth.
Though Martin remained a stubborn dead weight, Jon realized with a start and a flush of embarassment something was happening.
"Are you serious?" his voice was thin with shock.
Martin's dick, hardening into Jon's hip, felt like the kind of serious that would leave bruises.
"Martin!" Jon ordered with all the sternness he could muster, "wake up this instant! I'm not going to have a vegetable get off on me!"
No response. No verbal response. Martin's cock twitched.
Jon squeezed his eyes shut, considered his options, decided pride had no place here, and used the purchase of his heels against the bottom of the coffin to work his hips beneath Martin's.
Just when Jon was beginning to think he was accomplishing nothing but making himself even more exausted and sweaty, Martin shifted atop him.
"...kin'...Jon. S'annoying. Stop."
"How do you think I feel?! I can barely--" Martin blinked down at him, realized the problem, and groaningly got his arms under himself. Jon arched his back and took a deep, relieved breath. "Thank you."
Martin looked down at Jon mistily. "I feel weird. Did something happen? Where are we?"
How much did he remember? Jon wasn't sure where to start. "The Lonely. Do you remember being taken into the Lonely? I came here after you." But Martin had stopped listening, realizing belatedy that he was drilling a hole through his former boss. Martin managed to roll himself a bit to one side, shyly glancing at Jon to check whether he'd noticed. Little late for that, Jon thought, averting his eyes.
"Yes...I think I...it's starting to come back, I think." Martin's face wrinkled in disgust and he made a bleh face. "Did you stick your dirty finger in my mouth, Jon? That's revolting."
"Oh, that you remember."
Martin was supporting himself on his elbows now. Jon realized he could probably squirm out from beneath him easily, but didn't.
"You said you loved me," Martin smiled wonderingly. "I remember now. You cried for me."
"You don't have to look so smug about it!" Jon said crossly. "What are you, some emotional sadist? Is that why you l--" left me?
It was a joke until Jon's voice broke, then suddenly, it wasn't. He hid behind his hands, ashamed. "S-Sorry. I--"
"Jon--" The tenderness in Martin's voice wasn't helping matters. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"
The relief was so strong, Jon couldn't speak. He just breathed through it.
"You're scaring me, Jon. Can I--" Martin's strong fingers, finally warm now, gently pulled at his hands. Jon let him tug them aside and lay looking up at Martin.
Martin saw something in his face that made him say a soft oh.
This time, Martin's lips caught his, warm and mobile and leading. After what felt like hours being pancaked beneath him, Jon was astonished to feel his own arms rise to wrap around Martin's, his back arch, his entire body wanting to surge up into Martin's, closer and closer. The slide of their lips together, the ticklish play of Martin's tongue against his, was not enough. He wasn't sure whether anything would be. His ribs had felt like they'd enclosed a cold void for months, like he was being crumpled inward by the force of missing Martin. Now, he was so full, he felt delirious. He kissed Martin so he wouldn't say the ridiculous words that wanted to spill out of him.
Some time later, Jon helped Martin boost himself out of the grave. Martin reached down with both hands and reeled Jon up so quickly, he collapsed into Martin's chest, making him stagger back a step. "Wow, Jon, are your bones hollow?"
"Careful!" Jon hollered, clinging to Martin, startled by seemingly teleporting six feet straight up.
"I've got you," Martin assured him, a thumb beneath Jon's chin raising his face to look into Martin's. Jon was about to say something about how cheesy he sounded, but Martin's beaming face, mouth flushed with kissing and cheeks pink-abraded by Jon's stubble, stopped his breath.
"Just be careful," Jon said instead, looking away. "That's how we got into this mess. I wasn't watching my step."
"You mean that wasn't another genius plan? You do love flinging yourself into pits."
"You know, Martin," Jon said, tucking himself under Martin's soft, heavy arm, "it'll be a while before I'll hear anything from you about the quality of my plans."
And they stumbled off together toward the end of the Lonely.