Martin waves from where he stands in front of their cabin, soaked from head to toe as he spreads his arms to welcome the heavy rain falling all around him.
"Thanks." Jon pulls his cardigan tighter around himself, pushing back into the safe, blessedly dry doorway. "But I think I'm good."
"Joooon", Martin says in what can only seriously be called a whine. "Come on, don't be a killjoy."
"Have you met me?" he says dryly, and Martin laughs, he laughs, light and carefree and- beautiful, so beautiful, and he does a silly little twirl in the rain as he comes over to Jon with that smile and those bright eyes, grabbing his hand.
"Oh, Jesus Christ", Martin says, exasperated and endlessly fond, tugging on Jon's hand, not hard enough Jon couldn't stop him if he really wanted to, and still Jon goes, lets himself be pulled from under the safety of the canopy and into the curtain of rain that instantly wets his hair and soaks through his cardigan.
Jon gasps, but it's not a gasp of cold discomfort, it's...
Martin beams at him, cheeks flushed and glasses full of drops and wet locks of hair dripping onto his shoulders, and he's stunning, breathtaking, and his hand is warm in Jon's.
Jon releases a breathless laugh, and Martin's smile grows impossibly brighter as he looks at Jon through the rain.
Jon closes his eyes, turning his face towards the sky as he takes a deep breath, wet drops falling on his cheeks and catching in his eyelashes. When he opens his eyes again, Martin's beaming smile has turned into something painfully soft and tender.
"There you go", he says, "Not that bad, huh? You old grouch."
"I'm not old", Jon says, all offence sacrificed to the smile he can't seem to lose.
"Could've fooled me", Martin grins, tugging on one of the grey streaks in Jon's hair, just as he twines their hands together more tightly. "Dressing like a retired professor-"
"You like the way I dress", Jon says, because he knows it's true, and Martin shrugs.
"That is off the point, Mr Sims."
Jon groans, shrugging out of his dripping wet cardigan and throwing it onto the veranda, and it's sort of cold and weird, yes, but Martin's here, and the air around them smells of petrichor, and the rain runs from Jon's hair onto his shoulders, down his scarred arms and hands, fresh and cleansing.
Jon turns around, leaning forward on his tip toes to wrap his clammy, bare arms around Martin's neck.
"Shut up", he says, smiling as their noses brush together.
Martin's shaky breath is warm against Jon's rain-wet skin.
"Make me", Martin says, just loud enough to be heard over the drumming of the rain. His lips part softly, waiting.
Jon is only too happy to oblige.
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