Fics like my house of stone (your ivy grows)

“What?” the other man asks, wiping the smear of flour of his cheek. He examines his hand, frowns, looks back up. “Did I miss a patch?” “No,” Jon says, despite there being flour all over Martin’s apron, a bit on the tip of his nose, and a healthy smattering in his hair. Something about Martin in the kitchen covered in flour makes his heart squeeze. Just like this, he thinks, the same way a desperate, brokenly in love man would. Let us stay just like this. His eyes catch back on his hair, looking at the flecks in the roots, the spark of orange that has started to nestle among the black and shock of white (a blessing from the Lonely, because unfortunately, most things that love Martin are not the most kind to him). He wants to run his hands through his hair. He wants to ask about the color. Is it natural? Is it new? Is it Martin’s original color? He wants to know, wants the knowledge inside his head and next to his heart, filling up his chest, and for that reason he cannot ask in good conscience. He cannot ask and still know for certain that the answers are given voluntarily. - or: Jon learns a softer kind of knowing, finds his heart, goes grocery shopping, and ends the world.

Fics like my house of stone (your ivy grows)

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