Martin looks back, finally, tentatively seeking John's eyes, when he starts to speak. His evident sheepishness is strangely bolstering; at least Martin's not the only one struggling to express himself here. But it's what he says that is far more arresting: not only his faintly blushing admission that Martin just feels nice, but that it's not worth it if it brings these memories back. This was exactly what Martin didn't want, only his frustration is a bit stymied by the alluring but probably unhelpful desire to just pull John into his arms.
"I—n-no," he stammers eventually, both his hands going to grip at John's now. "No, that's not—Christ, John, the last thing I want is for all that to direct us now." The idea of it might make him angry, if he let it — that John can't touch him however he likes, whenever he likes, just because he let someone feel him up in a nightclub when he was lonely and drunk and the way they talked about his body made his skin crawl. "I just wanted you to know why I—b-but I don't want that to be it."
He softens a bit, struggling to rein himself in enough to say what he bloody well means, and lifts one of his hands to John's cheek. "John, you... you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and you make me feel safe, and I want that. I don't want what... what some absolute twat made me feel years ago to be the last time anyone ever..."
He heaves out another sigh and lets his hand drop, instead pitching forward to rest his head on John's shoulder. This is exhausting, but it's too bloody important not to finish. "I just... never told anyone about that, and I, I felt like you should know. But I..."
He hesitates, needing to say this right, letting his thumb wander evenly, comfortingly over the ridges of John's knuckles. "I liked it. It startled me, but I... I liked it. It felt nice to me, too."
After all that, this feels like the hardest thing of all to admit, which seems backwards somehow. But he stays hidden, curled up close with his forehead still braced against John's shoulder, his heart hammering as his cheeks and ears heat up.
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"I—n-no," he stammers eventually, both his hands going to grip at John's now. "No, that's not—Christ, John, the last thing I want is for all that to direct us now." The idea of it might make him angry, if he let it — that John can't touch him however he likes, whenever he likes, just because he let someone feel him up in a nightclub when he was lonely and drunk and the way they talked about his body made his skin crawl. "I just wanted you to know why I—b-but I don't want that to be it."
He softens a bit, struggling to rein himself in enough to say what he bloody well means, and lifts one of his hands to John's cheek. "John, you... you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, and you make me feel safe, and I want that. I don't want what... what some absolute twat made me feel years ago to be the last time anyone ever..."
He heaves out another sigh and lets his hand drop, instead pitching forward to rest his head on John's shoulder. This is exhausting, but it's too bloody important not to finish. "I just... never told anyone about that, and I, I felt like you should know. But I..."
He hesitates, needing to say this right, letting his thumb wander evenly, comfortingly over the ridges of John's knuckles. "I liked it. It startled me, but I... I liked it. It felt nice to me, too."
After all that, this feels like the hardest thing of all to admit, which seems backwards somehow. But he stays hidden, curled up close with his forehead still braced against John's shoulder, his heart hammering as his cheeks and ears heat up.