[ The smile in Martin's voice is still making something incredible and delicate and complicated happen in his chest. Jon holds his gaze, for a second, and knows it's all over his face: something like dawn breaking, slow and cautious and bright.
He feels it in another way, too. The knowledge is there, soul-deep and certain, as natural as breathing. This feels— right. This feels... he Knows this has happened.
It's almost-but-not-quite like a word on the tip of his tongue, like knowledge just beyond his reach. And it's building.
The photo is familiar. ] Yes. I... Martin...
[ The cow. The green, rural roads. Breathing properly for the first time in— in far too long, and the warmth of Martin's hand in his— the warmth of Martin's hand even in that endless cold fog—
He Knows about the fog. He can see Martin's eyes, the moment the spark came back into them. Recognition. Love. It twists something so beautiful and painful in his chest, too sweet and sharp to hold.
He Knows about tearing Peter's mind to pieces, snarling with it, hungry with it. The way it felt to break him.
He Knows about the Panopticon. The desperation. The mocking lilt of Not-Sasha, calling for him. Melanie with bandages over her eyes. He— ]
Martin, I... I can see it. All of it. [ Jon can parse very little of what's actually around him, right now, and the drag of strain-hunger-exhaustion makes him stagger. His hand lands on Martin's shoulder, and he latches on, clings there. He... he can See it all. Is this what drowning feels like? It's so much, all at once. ] I remember.
HERE PLEASE FINALLY TAKE THIS
He feels it in another way, too. The knowledge is there, soul-deep and certain, as natural as breathing. This feels— right. This feels... he Knows this has happened.
It's almost-but-not-quite like a word on the tip of his tongue, like knowledge just beyond his reach. And it's building.
The photo is familiar. ] Yes. I... Martin...
[ The cow. The green, rural roads. Breathing properly for the first time in— in far too long, and the warmth of Martin's hand in his— the warmth of Martin's hand even in that endless cold fog—
He Knows about the fog. He can see Martin's eyes, the moment the spark came back into them. Recognition. Love. It twists something so beautiful and painful in his chest, too sweet and sharp to hold.
He Knows about tearing Peter's mind to pieces, snarling with it, hungry with it. The way it felt to break him.
He Knows about the Panopticon. The desperation. The mocking lilt of Not-Sasha, calling for him. Melanie with bandages over her eyes. He— ]
Martin, I... I can see it. All of it. [ Jon can parse very little of what's actually around him, right now, and the drag of strain-hunger-exhaustion makes him stagger. His hand lands on Martin's shoulder, and he latches on, clings there. He... he can See it all. Is this what drowning feels like? It's so much, all at once. ] I remember.