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The bed was supposed to be empty.Jon had opened the door, yawning, expecting to peel off shoes and jumper and fall onto the cot half-clothed for whatever sleep he could grab between now and when the next people filtered in.Instead there was Martin, sleeping with his mouth half-open, head turned and hands tucked beneath the pillow. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, a fact immediately obvious to Jon because the coverlet had slipped fair down to his waist. There was an expanse of skin showing, freckled and soft and rising and falling with each breath Martin took, and instead of turning and going, Jon stood there.Jon watched. Martin gave no notice he’d heard the door open and Jon come in, no notice that Jon was watching.So Jon kept watching.Martin didn’t shift, didn’t move, but Jon felt the pull, that slight shift in awareness that meant that his observation had weight. And as he continued to watch, Martin’s breath came into line with his own, or his to Martin’s, and really, what mattered was that Martin’s bare shoulders rose with Jon’s inhale and he shuddered into the hard cot with Jon’s exhale. Jon let his gaze sweep the line of Martin’s shoulders, the freckled curve of it as it led down his arm, disappearing under the pillow, watched as Martin continued to shift, ever so slightly, into the pillow and pooled blankets. As their breath aligned, Jon kept watching. He’d never thought much about his desires - for the most part, they were met without anyone else’s interference, but as he watched Martin, he suddenly wanted to be known. To be known he was watching, and as he watched, Martin responded. His shoulders hitched with his breath, and as Jon watched, as he thought that Martin should change into a more comfortable position, Martin’s hips shifted, moving so that he was flush with the bed, flat upon it aside from his still-turned head.As Jon watched, he thought. He thought about Martin, about the Archives, about what was required of a research assistant. Of what Martin had done — what they all had done and gone through — but especially what the shoulders in front of him, bare and freckled, and unmarked with scars, had borne. The scars were on the front, he knew, and as he thought about them, as he thought about seeing them, Martin turned, rolling entirely to lay on his back. He wasn’t comfortable in this position, as could be told from his face, which was still turned to the side and had furrowed in protest, but it put his scars on view: the small pitted stretches of skin where the worms had burrowed and Martin had dug them out. There wasn’t a corkscrew under the pillow as far as Jon could see, but as he thought about it, about Martin’s discomfort, of his scars, of the corkscrew, Martin turned back, one hand burrowing back under the pillow and pulling back just far enough to show Jon the handle of a letter opener. Mother of pearl and beautiful, craftsmanship work, but sharp enough to do damage if shoved into flesh, and Jon felt his mouth quirking up. Just one side, just a bit, but there was just that amount of pride. The Hive would not touch Martin.And the minute he thought that, Martin’s face settled, his hand curved about the letter opener, and his hips shifted, ever so slightly, into the mattress, rather than away from it it. Driving, rather than settling. The Hive would not take him, would not burrow in his flesh, nor would his flesh ever be anything more than part of a whole, an entire person, whole and perfect and human.His breathing sped and so did Martin’s. Martin’s brow furrowed once again, but instead of consternation, it seemed to be in concentration, as his hips shifted into the mattress in a slow rhythm and his hands flexed and relaxed, the letter opener forgotten but other actions denied. Jon would not touch him — could not— Martin would never be alone, but he would always be singular, always distinctive, as familiar to Jon as his own breath. As long as he was Jon’s, he would be untouched by horrors, by filth, by pain, by anything that would lead him astray from the guidance of the Institute, of Jon’s influence. And, if they did touch him, they would regret it. As he thought of it, Martin’s hips drove more insistently into the mattress, and a moan slipped from his lips, breaking the silence that Jon had been watching in, lived in.That moan broke Jon’s concentration, and as soon as he lurched forward, he immediately stepped back, back toward the safety of the light, away from Martin, tempting and open — as open as the sky, though now he belonged to the Institute and would not be stretched that far.His breath hitched as Martin’s did, the soft catch of inhale hooking and pulling something inside of him, though he only watched, no movements to follow as Martin moved faster, his small whimper sounding loud in the room, the continued gasps as Jon kept watching.He made the decision then, to stand there and continue watching, letting his eyes rove over Martin’s back, the play of light spilling from behind him showing every shift of Martin’s hips, the way his fingers flexed, clutching for something he could not have. Jon watched, knowing somehow how Martin’s skin would feel if he touched it now, how Martin would touch himself if Jon weren’t there, and as soon as he knew that, he saw them, the small, aborted movements and where they would go to completion. And as soon as he saw it in his mind’s eye, as soon as he thought yes, Martin’s whole body jerked, giving in and rolling to his side, reaching down and slipping his hand into his pants. He sighed and panted and gasped, but Jon didn’t hear any of that, not really. He was watching, watching the shapes Martin’s mouth made on those sounds, the way his eyes scrunched up, the way his wrist twisted on the upstroke. The cues that gave away his pleasure, so much so that Jon could almost feel it himself, just by watching. The way Jon knew Martin was coming before he does, and he had never felt so fulfilled.
That is, until another sound broke from Martin’s throat. A sharp inhalation, instead of slowing and steadying his breath.Jon looked up from the mess on Martin’s stomach to see Martin watching him back.Martin looked paralyzed, but his eyes darted every which way, as if by not moving, he could hide. Jon wasn’t a hunter — was the one pinned by Martin’s gaze, if truth be told. “You weren’t wearing a shirt.” Like that was an excuse, like it changed anything.“I. Um. I spilled tea on it. Earlier. An entire pot.” Martin’s eyes were still the only part of him that moved, glancing over in the corner where his shirt wais indeed, damp and draped and drying. Jon could almost smell the tea from where he stood. He wondered how he’d missed it before.“I’ll...be going then.” He still hadn’t broken eye contact with Martin, still hadn’t turned when he heard it.“Why did you stay?”Then, louder, again, “You stayed? ...you saw? Why?”There was a note to it that Jon didn’t recognize, a pull to answer. He could feel his mouth opening, the words about to spill from him and the surety that once he did, once it was known, everything would be okay if he just told Martin, so that Martin knew. Then he paused. Closed his mouth with a conscious effort and walked out the door, hands shaking only slightly as he pulled the door closed behind him with a: “Goodnight, Martin.”He knew, then, that neither of them would sleep tonight, but as he knew, thought about the call to answer Martin’s question and wondered if the pleasure of answering was the same as the pleasure of knowing.