#Jon just yeets himself wherever
Note
For the prompts: “move out of the way before I make you”
Well!!! I’ve done this now. Thank you for the prompt! I hope it’s okay, I’m still having a bit of a difficult time writing but I’m gonna yeet this out here anyway!
CW sensory overload, panic attack, alcohol mention
Jon knew he shouldn’t have come out this evening.
Loud, it’s all so very loud and overwhelming and would people please stop touching me. It’s not their fault—it’s crowded at the pub this time of night, everyone packed in like sardines, but of course he couldn’t handle it. Of course he’s got to be the odd man out again, got to make a scene, make everything about himself—
Have to get out.
“Jon?”
From nearby, someone is calling to him. Familiar, soft—who? Wh—
“Hey, you alright?”
Another bump to his shoulder and he staggers forward just a bit, just enough to knock into someone else, the sensation of it shooting up his arm and causing his hair to stand on end. Distantly, he hears the man shouting, feels the drip of something cold and wet down his shirt—blood? Is it blood? Please tell me it’s not—
“Now look what you’ve done, you arse!” cries the man, rough and angry and towering, so tall and he can’t look, can’t meet his eyes, can’t apologize. Useless.
Get out get out get out
At last, it’s too much—he knows he cannot handle a moment more in this place, with everything so loud it hurts, with the overwhelming smell of booze and sweat and rancid breath, with everything so dark there is no way of telling who is touching him, or when, or where.
“M’sorry, I—” he mumbles as the room begins to spin, stomach lurching as he tries to skirt past the man and towards wherever he thinks the door might be.
“Sorry?” the man shouts, gesturing down at what Jon now sees in a flash of colored light from the dance floor is a large stain, trickling down what appears to be a very expensive shirt.
Upon which he had spilled his drink.
Oh god.
“That’s just not going to cut it, mate.”
“M’sorry, please—I-I-I didn’t—”
An unwelcome grip on his arm.
“HEY!”
That same voice, from before, the soft one. But now it’s turned angry—and Jon can only hope that he himself is not the object of it. Exit, where is the exit? By the way his vision is beginning to fade, he knows he must be running out of air, though the sound of his own breath is drowned in the cacophony of a Friday evening crowd. It’s only a matter of time, he’s got to get out—
The hand on his arm is quite suddenly yanked away, the stranger who dared lay it upon him letting out a faint cry of pain. Staggering back, Jon finds just a small pocket of air, of space between them—and Martin fills his vision, of all people. Arm twisted in the strength of his hold, the man’s knees begin to buckle.
“Move out of the way before I make you,” Martin hisses from behind clenched teeth before shoving the man away from him, eyes still blazing.
Jon’s stomach clenches at the sight of the stranger recovering his balance, fury and alcohol painting his face a beet red hue—before he drops his gaze from the intensity of Martin’s glare, appearing almost…contrite.
How…did…
“Oh,” Jon breathes as his vision at last starts to grey out, pitching forward to brace shaking arms against his knees.
“Hey hey—careful, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Jon.”
Hands on him again, gentler this time, guiding him forward through the endless sea of bodies and lights and smoke and pounding pounding pounding—
And then he’s outside, a cool breeze brushing the hair down around his sweat-soaked neck and making him shiver.
“Here, sit—sit down, there’s a bench right here. Head between your knees.”
Martin.
You’re safe.
You’re safe, it’s just Martin.
It’s just Martin.
“Good, Jon, nice and slow,” he encourages, keeping a gentle hand between his shoulder blades, so warm against the chill of the wind that it serves as a point of contact ground him in the present.
Cold wind.
Cold stone bench.
Hair on my neck.
Hand on my back.
Feet on the pavement.
Breathe.
Breathe.
“You’re alright. You’re doing so well,” comes his voice again, ever so soft—nothing like the anger he had heard directed at the stranger who dared touch him.
God, you’re pathetic.
Pathetic.
Pathetic.
“M’sorry.”
It seems to be the only thing he is capable of saying today.
“Whatever for?” Martin asks, rubbing the hand up and down his back a bit, soothing the shivering crawling up his spine.
“Ridiculous,” he chokes around a bitter laugh. “Just—ah. I don’t—I don’t know. Sorry.”
Pathetic.
“Not ridiculous, and you don’t need to be sorry. You’re alright, I promise.”
Pathetic.
“You should go back in,” Jon breathes, doing his best to sit up straight and hide the betrayal of his trembling body. “Tim and Sasha will be looking for you.”
“Eh, I’ll just text them,” he replies nonchalantly, already pulling out his phone from his pocket. “I was ready to leave anyway. Will you be alright if I go grab our coats? I’ll walk you home.”
“You don’t—”
“Will you be alright for a moment?” Martin cuts him off gently, offering him a kind and comforting smile.
He doesn’t deserve this, this kindness; certainly not from Martin. But god, is he exhausted—and admittedly, would rather not be alone.
Damn it all.
“Y-yes, I—thank you. Martin.”
Even with the stammering, Martin’s smile widens as he stands, brushing off his jeans and stepping back towards the door.
“Right. I’ll be back then,” he assures—and vanishes back into the crowd.
“Right,” Jon echoes.
Because he would. Someone to walk him home.
He could get used to this.
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