wherever you go.

wip i literally just moved this to its own account for whenever zick's ready to write some gays

[sweaterstained]

hivebody​:

@sweaterstained || send me 💬, and i’ll use a line from a sentence meme i’ve reblogged to make a starter for you. || STILL ACCEPTING!

     “I’M STILL not sure I understand the whole tradition.”

      Hᴇ ᴅᴏᴇsɴ’ᴛ want to talk to her, he doesn’t want to talk to her, he doesn’t want to talk to — 

      “Can you please just give me back my phone.”

[sweaterstained]

sealone​:

     HE LETS out a brief laugh. “I’d be quite surprised of the contrary! He isn’t really an easy person to get on well with.” He would know. The first memories he has of Elias - or James, as he went by at the time - are all but pleasant, and frankly, if someone had told him back then that he’d end up marrying that man he’d have laughed in their face. So really, he does see Martin’s point quite well. (But all jokes aside, if the moment ever comes he won’t hesitate to protect Elias. Martin seems like a genuine nice fellow, but that’s all. Nothing more than a pawn, maybe a soul he can claim for his patron if he plays his cards well.)

     “Would it be better if I told you I need the most mundane type of help? Well, as mundane as it can get in a place like this, but you get me.” He takes a sip from his coffee - and is the smoke rising from it curling around his fingers unnaturally? or is it a trick of the perspective? - and lets that question sink in before setting the mug on the desk again and saying: “You see, Martin, I have some… personal research to make, and I thought to myself, well, this could be a great opportunity to finally get to it. But I’ve never been the library kind of person, and while I can handle most of the burocracy decently enough, I wouldn’t know where to start from if I had to look for documents and statements myself. Think of yourself as some sort of secretary. Someone that knows this place well enough to help with my research.” He leans back on the chair, mismatched eyes but both equally sky-like clear. “In return I will answer any questions you might have and always be honest with you. And help you with anything you might want to know and need, of course.”

     Iᴛ ғᴇᴇʟs like a trap even more now: he's sure of it. Offering answers from someone who he already knows is involved in some way or another with the lying bastard that's been in charge before is hardly a promising aspect, but he suspects he lacks any good opportunities. Any, at least, that let him stay close enough to form a plan of bringing this whole ordeal down, and that have him appear this unassuming. Nobody would think of sweet Martin as their eventual downfall.

     And, well. Something mindless to keep his head too busy to think. He's thrown himself into work during Prentiss, he will do it again now. Maybe more so. Who could he turn to, anyway? He's the last one left.

     Oh god, he's the last one left.

     He sighs. It's a deliberate thing: one that sounds like giving in, like he has no choices and no prospects. (He doesn't much.) Something that will make him sound and look that much more unassuming, that much easier to handle. He starts picking up the files scattered across the desk — if he's to be a secretary, there's no reason why he shouldn't start with the immediate workspace and have at least a glance at them to see if there's something more interesting than business reports — and when he opens his mouth again, it's with a much more calm and dry voice.

     "If I'm supposed to do all this, I want a raise. London's expensive."

[sweaterstained]

sealone​:

     THE WAY Peter keeps smiling throughout this entire conversation might be infuriating to say the least. It might almost look as if this situation was but a game to him - and in a certain sense it would be correct. It has been a while since he and Elias have indulged in one of their little wagers, so he can’t deny he feels a certain excitement at the perspective to have victory safe and sound in his hands. Not to mention that, pulling another person into the fog, not to have it consume them but for them to become part of it, is a way of serving as well. When he looks at Martin, he’s actually looking past him - at all the tiny marks left on him, nebulous tendrils curled around his body. Too loose and too pale for now, but not for long.

     “I’m not asking for their trust. Surely, I would prefer it if they did trust me, but I’m not going to force them. Or you.” No need for that when the Lonely already has such a tight grip on him. Saying he might feel some sort of kinship with Peter goes entirely against the very basis of Forsaken, but… well, imagine that same sentiment but in a situation where being alone is the point. Just twisting the world as it is known a little bit, making it fit a different point of view - as all fears do. 

     “Look, Martin. I’m not your enemy. Your relationship with Elias might not be the best, but it doesn’t have to be the same with me.” His smile seems oddly sincere. “I’m just trying to do my… well, his job as well as I can. All I’m asking for is your help.”

     Tᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ Peter is infuriating alright, but he does his very best not to let it show. He's been fairly good about keeping his emotions at bay most of the time, at least the deeper ones. A parting gift of his mother, surely. When the fact that you're a living breathing bleeding human being is enough to upset the beast, you start to conceal those parts, knowingly or not. So while he does sigh in exhaustion, it's not near where near the anger that boils in his veins.

     He will figure out what to do. Eventually. For now, he'll play along as long as he has to.

     "The mere fact that Elias put you in place means nobody will trust you. We don't exactly have the most fond memories of him. Or the warmest relationships." To put it lightly. Frankly, he has no idea what kind of person Elias would let close enough to take over in his absence, it feels like a trap in every sense but literal. It feels like a trap in every sense but literal.

     "Don't expect any help that's not absolutely necessary."

[sweaterstained]

hivebody​:

     GIVEN THE point at which he has come - given how he is now more similar to her than who he used to be, but she won’t say what he must already know - it’d be foolish to believe he’s as terrified of her as once. Feeding off the few crumbs of fear he might still feel would be easy, but she’ll restrain herself. Helen likes him and the Archivist both, and Jane has quite a peculiar relationship with the Archivist, thus upsetting any of them isn’t her goal. (She’s been told of what he can do, of course. Rumors run fast and doors creak open even faster, thus she won’t push her luck.)

     "It does’t surprise me.” The worms wander closer, but never too close to enter his comfort zone. (They don’t like the cold, either. Jane wouldn’t be surprised to see a few of them disappear the moment they crawled an inch too further.) “Are you sad to see we are still alive?” Not like his answer matters. Not like she needs his permission to be alive.

     Sᴀᴅ ɪsɴ'ᴛ exactly the word he would use. Upset, yes. Angry even, but more at Jon. He loves him, truly, deeply, but that doesn't mean he has to agree with all his choices. And it's not as easy to get rid of potential problems for himself as it is for the Archivist, so it seems he's at a bit of an impasse with her now. Until she slips up, eventually. Because apparently "she tried to eat all of us" wasn't good enough of a reason. (He thinks of Jude. And he thinks how it's very convenient for Jon's rage and lack of forgiveness only affecting those that had a direct impact on himself.) Of course he could just leave at any time, but.. perhaps he's a bit curious.

     Still won't be a friend of hers. Ever.

     "Not sad, no." It comes reluctantly. He knows she's aware he's not as scared of her, but his dislike still must be clear to her, as if the fog curling around him spells it out. "But not happy, either. The last time was enough for a life for me."

[sweaterstained]

heyerald​:

     IT IS weird, isn’t it. Physical contact has never come easy to him - only in a very few exceptional cases - but right now he couldn’t imagine himself pulling away from this hug. (If Martin ever decides to let him go first, that is. Being the Archivist doesn’t hold much meaning anymore when your boyfriend is taller and bigger than you and can pick you up effortlessly.) So he accepts the kisses and finds the room to place a couple on the other’s cheeks as well, and eventually, after some undignified wriggling of his arms, he can even cup Martin’s face and bestow a proper kiss on his lips. Nothing too fancy, nothing too too much - just them and this brief moment of peace. It would be foolish to belief it can last any longer, but they have to make do with what they can have.

     "It does seem so.” He even looks down at the arms wrapped around him before settling his eyes (just two of them, but so green and so bright) back on Martin. “So should I suppose you’ll keep me trapped all the way to London?”

     "I ᴛʜɪɴᴋ I just might." His expression is one as if he seriously considers it. Of course he doesn't and they both know better: but the idea is tempting nevertheless, to just never let go of Jon anymore. (And this he plans on: to hold him to himself in the metaphorical sense. One way or another: together.) They both know that this is but a temporary reprise and they will have to deal with the outside and the horrors and whatever awaits them (Jon, he corrects himself in his mind. He just tags along, but all this is meant for Jon) soon enough again. But for now, he can pretend.

     Just a little longer. Just a bit.

     "I don't suppose you're too keen on the idea, then? Making your grand entrance as The Archivist, carried by your boyfriend?"

[sweaterstained]

heyerald​:

     HE KNOWS - in a very mundane way - that Martin’s attempts will bring to nothing, nonetheless he lets him do, head jerking slightly backwards to follow the rhythmic movements of the brush. He should perhaps try to relax, enjoy this moment at its fullest and just be grateful that for once they don’t have to drag themselves through another series of horrors, but he can’t. The pull is gone and there are no clouds, no trails of ants or fire to point at him like beams as if he were the center of the universe, and that’s what makes it even harder. He cannot explain any of it - he won’t, just like he won’t talk about the hole growing wider and wider inside him with every step closer to their final destination. He doesn’t know what it means yet but doesn’t doubt he’ll find out soon. No need to worry Martin without a real reason.

     A laugh, quiet and warm. “My grandmother would’ve disagreed. Not about the relaxing part, rather about your technique.” He probably never told Martin about his grandma. He probably never told anyone, except for a few mentions to Tim. Opening up doesn’t come easy - and he doubts it ever will - thus even just hinting at his childhood should be considered progress on his part. “When I started letting my hair grow she insisted she’d personally brush it, even if she was rather the opposite of gentle.” He digs more memories up from the fresh soil, and he chuckles. “We did argue about it times and times again, actually. It always felt as if she wanted to brush my hair off my head.”

     "Sᴏᴜɴᴅs ʟɪᴋᴇ a real piece of work. Fighting against it, I mean."

     He corrects himself easily enough. Not everyone has as... complicated a relationship towards their guardians as he does with his mother, and he doesn't want to assume, although it does linger for a moment. But that's on Jon's terms, not his, even if he might attempt to coax a couple more things out of him. Nobody ever said subtly steering a conversation towards a specific topic was anything bad: if Jon truly didn't want to talk about things, than that was that. God knows he keeps enough secrets, and Martin can sense them, but not quite pick up. It hurts in a way, all of that, but he knows he's no better and here's to hoping Jon will trust him with the important things when time comes, at least.

     Just like he himself is selfishly trapping them in this dream for a little longer, honey sweet threads wrapped around to stick to the skin and make it harder than it needs to be to get out. Is it so wrong to want a little bit of peace, of normalcy?

     "Well, for me, it's more about the act itself right now. Y'know, some people supposedly like spending time with their boyfriend that doesn't involve sight seeing of terror. It might come as a surprise to you, but I promise it's true."

[sweaterstained]

@heyerald | cont.

     Mᴀʏʙᴇ ɪᴛ's selfish. To a degree, he's aware it is: that he just wants some peace and quiet, something normal, even though he knows that, despite time not having any real meaning anymore, every hour they spend hiding away here, there are people outside going through torment and torture and who knows what, and if he were to actually look, he could see how Jon looks more miserable with the day, especially compared to how vibrant he had been on their journey so far. In fact, he had never seen Jon look quite as... vivid, and agil, and content as he did while they wandered the hellscapes of this new world, and maybe that scares him. That scares him more than any domain could. It's not that he is scared of Jon: but there's certainly something off about seeing the man you love bloom in between carnage and death and despair.

     (He sees it. On some level. He just doesn't want to admit that he does.)

     So he takes more mundane tasks to heart, like attempting to fix the mess that manifested in the other's by now so long hair. It's not with much success so far, and a part of him doubts it will be, and even if he manages to fix it now, it will look the same in rarely any time at all, much less than something like this would require normally. It's just a part of who Jon is, now.

     "It won't do to hurt you." He says it softly, but there's the hint of a smile in his voice. "I'm trying to relax us both. Pulling on your hair will have the opposite effect, I fear."

[sweaterstained]

@sealone | cont.

     Hᴇ's ɴᴏᴛ even sure where to start. This whole situation is still... unnatural to him. He's not quite sure what, exactly, he expected with Elias gone, but it wasn't someone like Peter to step in. If anyone, he expected someone, well. More versed in actually doing the job, and also the image of Elias trusting anyone with it seemed a little odd, but he supposes it might come more from a money aspect. It's no secret the Institute was funded largely by Lukas' money, so perhaps it made sense. Most certainly, he didn't mean to end up playing secretary, not even properly having time to deal with his own feelings, things that still... seemed so unnatural. Tim and Daisy were gone, and Jon — well, he might as well be gone too, and it was probably easier to attempt and accept that that trying to stick to some stupid hope.

     Tossing himself into work was really all he could do, he just hadn't expected that kind of work.

     It doesn't mean he isn't constantly exhausted from pulling himself together, as if he hadn't been doing that since Prentiss before, and only stretched out thinner as time went on.

     "Anger. Grief. Fear. You can't just expect people to pretend everything is fine after something like that, and they certainly neither trust nor like the Institute. Or you, for that matter."

[sweaterstained]

hivebody​:

@sweaterstained || STARTER CALL.

     SHE LOOKS at him and something echoes inside her hollow chest, perhaps the remnants of a different path she could have walked hadn’t she been pushed to another direction first. And then - that loneliness she felt on the other side of his door (a lifetime ago; or so it seems; or maybe it is, in this world that moved on and changed) has grown stronger, become part of him, sunk its foggy roots so deep inside him. It doesn’t disgust her as much as the Eye does, but surely a creature made of multitudes such as her can’t stand the thought of being too close to someone so utterly alone. But still she lingers around, as two voices carry another conversation behind her back, and all her eyes are on him when she stops before him, far enough for (her) comfort.

     “Don’t worry. I’m not going to touch you,” she says as if to reassure him. “Helen has taken a liking to you.” And he travels with the Archivist, and Jane and him are - ah. Almost like old friends.

     Fᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴀɢᴏ, he had been so afraid of her. Had been barricading himself into his apartment, terrified she would come through; and then lives weeks and weeks scared of her. Now, he merely wonders if he had been feeding her all this time. He still doesn't like her, not at all, and some of that old fear still lingers, but there is some security in the fact that he has Jon to fall back onto, and vanish before she can come too close. She is, a little, but he can manage for now. Another step, or any worm too close too, and he'll be nothing but thin air to her.

     "Ah. Good, I guess?" It's a little breathless maybe, a little bit shrill, but that's alright. It might make her think he's more afraid than he is. "Jon's been mentioning you didn't die, but I didn't want to believe him." Or that he wouldn't kill her, now.

[sweaterstained]

heyerald​:

     SOMETIMES IT feels still all too fragile, as if he were always one step away from making the wrong choice, saying the wrong word, conveying the wrong thought. It took him a little while to grow comfortable with unexpected touch, but at least now he doesn’t tense up anymore - well, not as much as before anyway. The feeling is still there the first few seconds, but soon it melts away, to the point where he’s leaning against Martin. (Something he won’t say: he feels solid, present now, and it’s such a relief after seeing him always too close to dissolve into fog for such a long time. But that’s… not quite a comment to bring up currently.)

     He shakes his head. “I don’t mind the holes. It’s still quite warm, actually.” Also, he’s been so busy trying to tidy things up that he wouldn’t have had any way to get cold. He knows this is temporary, this place is all but safe - much less safer than the one they’re planning to get to - and even if he’s burning with urge he allows himself to stop for a moment and enjoy this. Even if it can’t last for long. They’ll have time to rest.

     He chuckles. “I promise my closet is in a better state than my pantry.”

     Iᴛ's ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇsᴛɪɴɢ, surely, even if not in the good way how deeply run these connections go. He knows the Lonely won't ever fade away again, no matter how loved he feels in the moment, with his dearest in his arms and no reason to doubt anything, but he also knows that the very second Jon is out of sight and hearing range, it will creep back into his bones more than it already does. And he knows he's freezing to touch, and that this, too, is just a constant now. And by nature of it itself he doesn't exactly worry about it too much, by nature it has become nearly... comforting.

     He won't mention it to Jon, though. He's worried enough. And would understand it no more than he can imagine what it is like to truly Know.

     "To be fair, it can hardly be in worse shape to begin with." Soft and with a smile in his voice, too. "I like taking care of these things, but it won't stop me from making fun of you." Gently though. Always gentle. "You can help me put it away, though."

[sweaterstained]

heyerald​:

     “NO.” Half a whisper, underlined by his faintly echoing footsteps as he leads the way up the stairs. He is surprised by the steadiness of his own voice, as if there were absolutely nothing concerning about this building, this stench, or the reason that brought them here at this ungodly hour. But of course, it’s because there must be a logic explanation for the meat-filled hole and whatever is waiting for them with its hungry maws open wide, tongue as soft as a velvet carpet for its unsuspecting meal to walk on at the top of the staircase. Horrifying, but logical. His own skepticism stadies his words and hand.

      “But-” he sighs out, “Sasha couldn’t find any information about the ‘friend’ miss Ness kept mentioning in her statement, and this address is the only proof we have of their existence. If they are real at all, of course. So-” He trails off and stops in front of the first door on the third floor. The rotten smell invades his nostrils uninvited, and the only sign that it’s having any effect on him is the trembling ray of the torchlight.

     “S… suppose we found it.”

     Hᴇ ᴛʀᴜʟʏ admires how unbothered Jon seems by this all. It might upset him a little, too, how easily everything is dismissed by him, but at least he doesn't have to deal with horribly shaking hands right now, trembling all over and working hard to keep his breath low, not jumping up and hitching as the stench fills the air. It's... disgusting to say the very least, and he can very much feel his stomach turning itself over, and only focusing on the steps each by itself and swallowing hard keeps him from actually retching.

     (Yeah, he is not made for these investigations, what of it.)

     "Do we, uh." His voice trembles, and no amount of trying to force to steady it will change that fact. "Do we need to break the lock?" He has a feeling that yes, and that also, this task will fall to him.

[sweaterstained]

a half-laughed apology. "sorry, it's, ah - it's getting too long." an understatement, really. Jon has had long hair for years now and all his attempts at keeping it under control have succeeded only partly, but the new state of the world seems to have changed this too. when Martin holds him or is just any closer to him, Jon feels it getting in the way, impossibly long, too long to be normal or... or human anymore. (it's not any surprising, is it. he greets that realization with little to no shock on his part.) he pulls a lock behind his ear, as if that were enough. "i can try to pull it up, but i doubt it'd be any useful."

@heyerald

     Hᴇ sʜᴀᴋᴇs his head before Jon is even halfway done with his sentence, that apology for something not needing an apology, and reaches up to bury both his hands in the mess of hair. It sure could use some love — at this length it probably gets all tangled up from even just looking at it, and if nothing else, so at least it does get all over, well, everything when they are doing something akin to laying down. (Not sleeping. It's never sleeping. More some rest for the brain than the body, really, and best not to think too much about that.) Of course, he assumes it's a lot more bothersome to Jon, having to deal with that himself, but personally, he doesn't mind much. Likes it, even.

     "It suits you." And he gets to run his hands all through it, so it's not at all anything he'd complain about.

[sweaterstained]

heyerald​:

     MUCH LIKE fears, domains blend into one another, disregarding any kind of borders and morphing into one another, barely leaving any grey areas in between. Which doesn’t mean there aren’t quieter zones at the edges, however; and he’s glad they currently find themselves in one of them and can stop for a moment or two. The pull never stops tugging at him, and even here between the Vast and the Slaughter the Panopticon towers over the ground, far off in the distance, nonetheless he still allows himself to relax in Martin’s hold for a little longer. Time doesn’t mean much anymore, after all.

     “I know,” he teases, smiling at the inside joke. Martin’s body is cold, much colder than it used to be, but the change in temperature doesn’t deter Jon from pressing himself closer against his chest. Despite everything, despite the guilt still eating him alive, despite all the thoughts that run through his mind, this is the one thing he wouldn’t change. 

     “Feel free to, but - ah-” Christ, he just can’t talk without breaking into laughter, can he. “But know you set off for an impossible mission.”

     "I ɢᴇᴛ the feeling you aren't taking me seriously." He tries to make himself sound serious, at the very least, make it sound genuinely disappointed or scalding, maybe, but he doesn't quite manage to hide the smile from his voice near the end there, and it spreads onto his face as well. To be quite fair, he doesn't exactly try very hard. He doesn't see why he should. Nobody here to see them, and even if there was, then it wouldn't matter either. They are allowed at the very least this much.

     Still. He ends up pressing another kiss to the tip of Jon's nose, then trails up from there over the bridge of it, his forehead, over the arch of his eyebrows, careful to not disturb anything as he does, a mass of fleeting short kisses. When he does retreat, it's with even wider a grin.

     "Well, someone has to attempt and contain you somehow. I have you trapped, at the very least."

[sweaterstained]

heyerald​:

     ONE WOULD expect Jon to be far less fine with breaking in or breaking the law in any other shape and form, but as he shines his torch around the room he doesn’t look reluctant nor nervous nor concerned. He is keeping quiet enough not to attract any unwanted attention and have the police on their back - he supposes Elias wouldn’t be happy to have to retrieve his Archivist and one of his assistants from a prison cell - but other than that he looks comfortable in this place. He heads for the door, apparently not listening to a single word Martin is saying, till he eventually repeats: “Of course.” (Christ, he really doesn’t want to be here with him. They better hurry up.)

     Shadows part before the light, revealing a dirty and dusty staircase. The smell of blood and rotten meat is slightly piercing here, but he has the feeling they’ll both have a hard time scrubbing it off themselves. “Third floor it is, then.”

     Tʜᴀᴛ ᴅɪsᴍɪssɪᴠᴇɴᴇss is infuriating at the very least, but hardly unexpected. Jon had made absolutely no secret out of the fact that he's neither wanted (both here in specific and in the Archive in general) nor appreciated, and it does set up that nagging fear over whether he knows. No: likely not. If there was even the slightest bit of a possibility Jonathan Sims was aware he had lied to get here, that he was, in fact, utterly unqualified to work at the Institute, then most certainly he would have acted on it to get rid of him.

     (At least it's nice to see that the attitude of people towards him never changed.)

     The stench gets nauseating, the more they approach, and he's most certain it will be near unbearable once they are actually close. It also begs the question of what one does with a place such as this — probably demolish and burn it down entirely? How any of the neighbors dealt with it was a mystery of itself, too — keeping out of someone else's business, one thing, but it seemed impossible they hadn't been hit by the smell.

     "Are you, uh, entirely sure we should get this close to it?"

[sweaterstained]

@heyerald | cont.

     "Yᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴀʙsᴏʟᴜᴛᴇʟʏ insufferable."

     Something that could count, maybe, as some kind of insult or attack, was it not for the tone of his voice (that familiar nuance, by now, of fond exhaustion, of 'whatever will I do with you') and the way he makes no attempt at all to back off, arms wrapped around Jon's frame in tenderness. And, of course, for the way his facial expression much betrays his words; so brimming with love that overflows from his heart and his features so freely and easily, entirely unfiltered and unhidden.

     Even if Jon tests him, occasionally, but it's no surprise at all and he wouldn't have him any other way. Maybe a little bit less guilt-ridden, maybe a bit more confident, but —

     "I suppose I'll have to do it again and again until I'm finally successful, then."

     Too bad, Jon, you're going to drown in kisses.

[sweaterstained]

@heyerald | cont.

     Hᴇ ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜᴇs the sigh before it escapes his lips, but it's a close thing. Talking to Jon is... difficult when he's in a good mood, and maybe one can forgive his nervousness upon the fact that they are investigating an active murder case without any sort of defense, or training, or you know, any type of the security that would usually be of use with doing these things. Certainly not what he expected when he took a job in a 'scientific' institute, so maybe he is a little bit on edge.

     Adjusting his glasses, he takes a deep breath before setting back up. "It's, uh, it should be on the third floor, left side. Probably the last door, but I suppose it's going to be obvious, as we shouldn't be here now — " Voice trailing off before he catches himself. "And of course by the giant meat pit in the backroom." Not as much as a 'pit' when it's described to be covering an entire wall and apparently stretching beyond what should be physically possible, but, well.

[sweaterstained]

heyerald​:

@sweaterstained || continued from HERE.

     HE ALMOST (almost) forgot about the sweater. Martin must have mentioned that he was going to give it away because it was old and too worn-out to be of any use anymore, but either Jon forgot or chose to ignore that bit of knowledge and put it on the moment he felt a chill down his spine. As big as he predicted, even warmer than he thought, and - well. Might feel a bit weird to say, but there’s something of Martin still clinging to the fabric, and it’s far from being an unpleasant feeling. Worth having to constantly shake his arms to free his hands from the sleeves that keep falling over them.

     He hears the front door close and yells something, but his words are drowned by the noise of cans and boxes being pulled out of the cupboard and set down on the counter. (Maybe Martin was right and maybe he hasn’t checked the expiration date of most of this food in… well, a while. He won’t bring that up anytime soon, however.) He hears sounds coming from behind him, but he doesn’t expect the sudden embrace and tenses for a brief moment on the spot before relaxing against the other’s body. It still feels… unexpected, but right. Definitely right.

     “Sorry, I, ah - didn’t think about it. It’s the first thing I found lying around.” A moment of hesitation, then he places his hands over Martin’s, and it’s so warm, unbelivably so.

     Hᴇ ᴍᴏsᴛ certainly doesn't mind, and there's this brief moment of being insecure about it — not bringing it up, but more whether he sounded as if he minded, whether his voice came off sharper than was intended. Usually, he's perfectly in control of the way he sounds (almost always, even; when you have to use your voice and exterior to defend yourself for so long, you learn, and his mother certainly taught him well, even if unwillingly so), but it melts away when Jon reaches out to him.

     Tucks him in a little bit closer to himself, too, arms all wrapped around and surely doing a better job at holding him than the threadbare sweater does.

     "You sure you don't want one with less holes? You can just take any, you know. As long as you leave me anything at all." A small laugh, not quite nervous, but tethering on being so. This is still new. Not in any type bad; not even a little bit, but it's still cautiousness that sits beneath. Less to break something but more as to not put any more pressure on Jon, intended or not. "Might be a little warmer, too."