The Weekend Arrangement

The Surety of Our Convictions

Fingers of soft, grey morning light creep in through the blinds and Jon wakes nestled in the crook of Martin's arm, face pressed into his shoulder. The waking still comes as a surprise, bright and smelling like Martin's clean skin. It's the only place Jon ever wants to wake up, and he savours it for a long, quiet moment.

Martin usually conquers huge portions of the mattress; his long limbs stretched out but he never pushes Jon away for space- only draws him closer, as if needing Jon's proximity even in sleep.

He is still asleep this morning, his breathing measured and deep and Jon eases out from under Martin's arm, sitting up enough to take in the view of him supine, blankets pushed off his chest. He loves every chance he gets to drink in the sight of Martin like this; serene and untroubled and for a brief time utterly and entirely his.

Martin must have been exhausted last night- drained from a week dealing with his mother's troubles- also just dealing with his mother . Jon knows so little about her, only that it's hard for Martin. He keeps it all so concealed, all that pain and stress wrapped up tight within himself. It's astonishing how easily he was able to set aside his own feelings, his own hurts; for the benefit of others- for the benefit of Jon .

At least on the weekends Jon gets to see him like this- peaceful, his sleep deep and sweet. Jon gets to see him confident and happy, an ease and contentment that opens up his handsome face.

There's a speckling of freckles across Martin's nose and cheeks that would make him look so young if it weren't for his strong jaw. His mouth is irresistibly kissable, the pink moue parted slightly in sleep. His hair is a tousled nest of golden brown curls that always look lit by sunlight, even in the dusty gloom of the Archives. It's a messy jumble most days, soft and trying to be artful, but often just looking a bit harried. Jon brushes a wayward curl back from Martin's face; tucking it behind his ear and drawing a fingertip around the shell.

He outlines the angle of Martin's jaw, and wonders- not for the first time- what he might look like with a beard. Jon likes to think about what a beard on Martin would feel like pressed against his face, or brushing against the back of his neck as they settle into sleep; when he's alone and Martin isn't near, he thinks about what one would feel like on his thighs. His finger strays down the side of Martin's neck and Jon watches as goosebumps rise in its wake. Down, down he traces, wending a meandering path through Martin's downy chest hair, circling a nipple when he happens upon it. It stiffens with the contact, and Martin's mouth drops open in a low moan.

Waking, but not awake yet. Martin shivers under Jon's exploring fingers and Jon continues his roaming. He lightly rakes his fingers across Martin's stomach, watching as Martin's breath catches and his eyes flutter open. Martin gazes at him from beneath his long lashes, eyes sleep heavy but already darkened with want and something deeper.

"Oh, hi." Martin's voice is syrupy when he speaks, a soft murmur that never fails to curl heat in Jon's belly.

"Hi."

"Feeling better this morning?"

"I feel fantastic. I sleep so much better with you here."

It was true, even after a week of grinding sleeplessness, it never takes more than a night or two of the deep, restorative rest he gets with Martin here to make him feel human again. Martin starts to roll over, reaching for Jon, and is stopped with a gentle hand to his chest.

"No, no- let me look. I like looking at you Martin." Jon keeps his voice low, the morning is overcast and the room painted in soft greyscale tones that seem to demand quiet murmurs.

Now that Martin is awake, Jon can bring a hand to his face. He traces from his forehead down his profile, letting his eyes and fingers catalogue every feature. When Jon's fingertips pass over his lips, Martin catches them for a kiss before letting him continue his unhurried exploration. Jon's fingers trail over his throat and he notices the quickening in Martin's pulse. Jon sits up fully now, crouched beside Martin where he has both hands available. He smooths over Martin's collarbones, dragging his hands over his broad shoulders and down the sides of his arms lightly and Martin shivers at the caresses. Jon's hands move to Martin's hip bones, not prominent like his own, but smooth. Martin is soft where he is sharp, muscular where he is frail and they fit together like puzzle pieces. Jon finds it unspeakably beautiful, and a devastating sort of happiness threatens him every time he thinks too deeply about it. He keeps caressing over Martin's skin softly, each pass eliciting a new cascade of shudders.