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Martin woke up to a gentle hand on his shoulder and a twisting pain in his gut.
The hand on his shoulder shook him gently, and reluctantly, Martin joined the waking world.
“Hhhgggghhhhh,” Martin groaned, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
“I know, love.” Jon said, rubbing his arm gently. “But I think you’ll want to get up. I already warmed up the shower water and set out some clothes for you,” they placed a soft kiss to Martin’s cheek.
“Hhhhnnnggg?” Martin made a questioning sound, burying his face in his pillow.
“I know Martin, I’m sorry. But we have to change the sheets soon or else they’ll stain.” They continued rubbing circles onto his bicep, dropping a few kisses along Martin’s face and neck, and started gently tugging him upwards.
Martin—with Jon’s hands guiding him up—moved into a sitting position, groaning at the sharp, twisting pain in his gut. As he sat up, he flung his legs over the edge of the bed, and tossed the blanket off his lap—
Oh. Oh.
So that’s why he should get up.
On the center of his boxers was a medium-sized red stain. Martin froze, breaths becoming shallow.
“Deep breaths, Martin,” Jon continued to rub their hands along Martin’s shoulders, back, and biceps. Ever since the Lonely, Martin liked physical contact—a reminder that he was still here, still present—when he was upset, and Jon made sure to hold him reassuringly as much as possible.
Martin took a deep, stuttering breath, and pushed himself off the bed, onto legs that were only slightly shaking. He turned around, noticing an even larger stain on the sheets, and bit his lip to keep it from wobbling.
Jon reached out and grabbed Martin’s hand, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. “Go take a shower,” they said softly. “I’ll take care of this and get you some things.” They rubbed their thumb along Martin’s knuckles. Martin nodded numbly, and started walking towards the bathroom. When he got there, he made quick work of stripping off his clothes, tossing them into the laundry bin before stepping into the blessedly warm shower. He washed up as fast as he could, keeping his eyes closed for most of it. When he was done, he dried off quickly, throwing on the clothes Jon had left out for him—a loose pair of joggers and the baggiest jumper he owned. He smiled a bit, appreciative of the fact that Jon knew his dysphoria clothing preferences.
He didn’t even bother brushing his teeth, but he swallowed his meds down quickly before heading back to the bedroom.
Jon, true to their word, had taken care of the bed, changing the sheets and gathering all the blankets in the cottage so that Martin could make himself a blanket nest.
“Oh—you’re back early,” Jon said, standing in the doorway behind him. Martin just nodded. He didn’t like to talk too much when he was feeling dysphoric, hating the pitch his voice came out at. “Well, I got you a heating pad and some chocolates—I could make tea?” Martin shook his head.
His lips quirked up a bit as Jon made their way towards his side of the bed, setting the chocolates down on Martin’s nightstand and plugging in the heating pad. Jon always claimed they weren’t good at this sort of thing, never knowing the right thing to say or do to comfort people. Martin didn’t believe them for a second.
Martin climbed over to his end of the bed, placing the heating pad just below his stomach and laying on his side, curling in on himself. He gestured behind him, and Jon crawled into the bed next to him, pulling the blankets over them both and nuzzling Martin’s back. They laid their hand on Martin’s side, making sure to give his chest a wide berth, squeezing gently and pressing soft kisses between his shoulder blades.
“Do you want to talk?” Jon asked, their voice muffled by Martin’s back. The vibrations of Jon’s voice tingled, and Martin smiled, just a bit. He paused for a moment before answering.
“I feel . . . Gross.” He said, holding his pillow close to his chest. “I know it’s not—it’s not a bad thing, it’s natural, but I always feel gross, physically and mentally. I feel like I haven’t showered in ages, even though I just took one, my hair hasn’t even dried yet, and I’m always worried—“ he stopped himself.
“What?” Jon gently prodded. They started rubbing soothing circles onto Martin’s stomach, occasionally massaging just below his belly, where the heating pad rested.
“It’s stupid,” Martin mumbled, pressing his face into his pillow, the material muffling his voice.
“Anything that upsets you isn’t stupid, Martin.” They gently admonished. After the Lonely, they also tried to validate Martin’s emotions as much as possible, now that Martin could feel his emotions again. It was a work in progress.
“Okay, but it actually is stupid this time,” he lowered his voice, mumbling into his pillow. “‘M worried. That you won’t—that you’ll just decide one day that you don’t love me anymore. Because I’m trans.”
“Martin.” Their tone was sharp, yet oddly gentle. “I’m—well, I’m not sure if trans is the correct term for me, but I’m not cis.”
“I know that, Jon. I told you, it’s—it’s stupid,” he paused. When he spoke again, his voice came out quieter than before. “I just—get worried, y’know?”
Jon pressed themself even closer to Martin, wrapping their arm around Martin’s middle and leaning their head up against him, ear resting between his shoulder blades so they could hear his heartbeat through his back.
“Martin, love,” they said into the heavy silence of the room. “There’s not a single force on this earth that could stop me from loving you. Not even death itself could make me leave you, Martin. I’m not leaving until you tell me to.” Martin sniffled, and Jon held him tighter.
“I love you,” Martin said, voice thick with unshed tears.
“I love you too, Martin,” they leaned up and placed a gentle kiss to the back of Martin’s neck. “Would you like to watch something? There’s reruns of the Great British Bake Off playing on the telly until evening,”
“In a bit,” Martin mumbled. “Let’s jus’ stay here a while.” He placed his hand on top of Jon’s, squeezing gently.
“Of course, love,” they replied.
They laid there for a while, snuggled up comfortably in a nest of blankets, before they both eventually drifted back to sleep, dreams nothing more than abstract feelings of comfort, warmth, and love.