How it's Wasted- The Magnus Archives

~two~

Only now did Jon realise how long it had really been since he had gotten a good look at Martin.

He looked very different.

Usually is wasn't easy to see the shape of Martin's body because his clothing of choice was chunky knit wear, long sleeved shirts, jumpers and hoodies.
However, in the height of summer, when even the Archives with its dark, cool, dusty air became sweltering and sweaty, Martin would wear short sleeved T-shirts (often branded with some band that Jon would never recognise), and Jon would find his eyes lingering on his strong, plump, freckled arms, on the curve and rolls of his back, or on how his ample stomach pooled in his lap when he sat down. And Jon would have to fight the blush that crept up the back of his neck. He was all sharp elbows and shins, gristle and bone, his joints jutting out like rocks in a choppy sea. A worrying amount of visible ribs. But Martin... Martin was soft edges, he was pillowy, dimpled- but also incredibly sturdy, structured. Strong.

Or at least, he used to be.

Jon's greatest admiration of Martin was always this inexplicable glow he seemed to have; despite his anxious air and constant stuttering, he radiated with smiles and nervous laughter and his eyes were always sparking.

And so what if his couldn't run very far without getting out of breath, so what if he ate a lot of take-out and took up room in the narrow corridors?
So that Jon would have to squeeze by him if they passed each other in opposite directions...
and Jon would feel goosebumps ripple over his skin and his heart pump painfully fast and butterflies swoop in his navel as he felt Martin's breath on his neck as the taller man apologised profusely...
they would brush against each other and mumble "excuse me"'s and "watch yourself there"'s in that very British way that they did... so what if Jon wished nothing more than to be wrapped in those big strong arms and hugged close to Martin's soft body...

So what if Martin could pick up that extremely heavy box (the one that Jon had buckled and stumbled under,) as if it was the easiest thing in the world...
so what if Jon had to quickly look away to hide his furiously reddening cheeks when Martin so effortlessly shifted cumbersome things around for him in the archives that if he himself attempted to move would result in him folding like a cheap lawn chair, and never seemed to need a word of thanks. But when Jon did offer a sharp "I'm grateful of your help," or "could you move that one next, please?", it didn't go without Jon's notice that Martin with glow with joy and eagerness to help him.

All of that was gone.

The man that stood him now was but a shadow of the bouyant, nervously chuckling, chubby, 6"2 king that Jon had [fallen in love with] not seen properly in months.

Martin's clothes hung off him. They no longer hid a well-fed bulk, but instead they covered a new and distinct lack of one.

Martin had lost weight, and a lot of it.

But he didn't look healthy.

Before, Jon would have by no means thought of Martin as 'obese'- in fact he wouldn't even use the word 'fat', because so much of the tall man's mass was muscle. Not in the way that he worked out every day; Martin wasn't exactly fit, but his natural build was heavy-set and strong, with broad shoulders and a thick neck, big hands and feet, every inch of his skin freckled.

Looking at him now neither remained.

His face was pale and drawn, and he had the pinched, slightly stretched-out look of someone who was just struggling to recover from a nasty bout of cold. His freckled cheeks lacked the warmth and blush Jon was so used to seeing there, and there were deep bags beneath his eyes, which were dull and bloodshot. He hadn't shaved in a while, and gingery stubble crept down his neck, not altogether hiding the slightly loose skin where a cheerful double chin had once been. The lost weight around his face made him look older, more mature. Sadder.

His hair was longer, too- longer than Jon had ever seen it. Martin had tied back some of his sandy curls to get them out of his face, but not in the same way he used to do: before Jon's coma, Martin had had an (adorable) habit of tying back the top half of his bushy hair into a bun- but in a way that looked like he had spent time actually brushing and attempting to tame the strawberry blonde locks, so that it looked relatively neat and well kept. (Not an easy feat with Martin's stubborn head of curls.) Now, his hair reached his shoulders, and it had clearly been swept back into a hair tie carelessly. Strands and lone ringlets fell around Martin's sallow cheeks. It would have been attractive if it were not for his melancholy and clear lack of self care.

But here was something else about his hair that took Jon by surprise: Streaks- no, whole chunks of the gingery bird's nest- were bright white, shockingly, startling silver. Jon couldn't understand it. Was this a fashion choice made by Martin? Had be purposely only dyed sections of his hair like that? And why white, so that it looked like he had seen multiple ghosts and the shock had killed the hair follicles?

Even worse than his hair, though, was the fog.