There's an urge to curl inward at first, to hide himself further at the mention of Oliver Banks, the man who woke John up when Martin could not. They haven't talked about it much, partly because Martin has avoided it. It hurts, is the thing, and it doesn't matter that death is Oliver Banks' whole thing, even though maybe it should make all the difference; it hurts to know that John woke up for him, for an effort measured in minutes and not months. It is further petulant but he's in no position now to switch that off.
All of that disappears in a matter of moments, though, when John articulates why, and when he continues, Christ— Martin goes still beneath him, his own hands drawing slowly down from his face as he tries sluggishly to process this. The word 'anchor' rings familiar beyond its surface definition, and it's only a moment before he remembers why. He pulls back, not away, but enough to lift his head, to stare at John, openly shocked.
That he loves John and treats him as he deserves to be treated is not worthy of any particular accolades, he thinks; that he pulled the knife from his chest is not a revelation, and feels less like something noteworthy and more like the obvious bare minimum. But the rest... he'd assumed John had risen because his work wasn't finished, or that the choice between life and death had been a bloody obvious one. He'd assumed John's rib had been the tether as intended, and that his efforts had only amplified the connection. In both cases, John has neatly shattered his assumptions and filled it in with a truth he can't possibly deny no matter how badly he wants to, because John's said it, and it must therefore be true.
And it shouldn't surprise him, is the most astounding piece of it. Not when John broke through his own carefully erected wall of cold, distant unfriendliness to make sure Martin had a safe place to stay. Not when he waited, made himself available in spite of every cruel dismissal, stepped in to catch him and put the pieces back together the moment Martin finally remembered how to ask for help. Not when he literally hurled himself between Martin and an angry, violent ghost and not when he came all the way across town and deep into the woods to confront the man who'd killed him, without even the slightest bit of a plan, as if it was a biological fucking imperative.
None of it should surprise him.
And in the wake of all that, it is difficult — it is impossible — to cling to the notion that John shouldn't have had to step in front of a nearly literal bullet to save him, as though his hand had in any way been unwillingly forced. It is impossible to keep framing himself as a liability, someone who causes John more trouble than he's worth, when abiding miserable torments and launching headlong into danger has always been John's regrettable bloody love language.
He goes on staring for a moment longer, but no words occur to him, and instead he answers with the only thing that feels available to him: he inches forward to once again close the gap between them, stands up on his toes and kisses John, utterly heedless of what a wreck he is or of how much his hands are still trembling; he kisses him long and slow and deep, parting his lips to draw breath against him rather than break away.
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All of that disappears in a matter of moments, though, when John articulates why, and when he continues, Christ— Martin goes still beneath him, his own hands drawing slowly down from his face as he tries sluggishly to process this. The word 'anchor' rings familiar beyond its surface definition, and it's only a moment before he remembers why. He pulls back, not away, but enough to lift his head, to stare at John, openly shocked.
That he loves John and treats him as he deserves to be treated is not worthy of any particular accolades, he thinks; that he pulled the knife from his chest is not a revelation, and feels less like something noteworthy and more like the obvious bare minimum. But the rest... he'd assumed John had risen because his work wasn't finished, or that the choice between life and death had been a bloody obvious one. He'd assumed John's rib had been the tether as intended, and that his efforts had only amplified the connection. In both cases, John has neatly shattered his assumptions and filled it in with a truth he can't possibly deny no matter how badly he wants to, because John's said it, and it must therefore be true.
And it shouldn't surprise him, is the most astounding piece of it. Not when John broke through his own carefully erected wall of cold, distant unfriendliness to make sure Martin had a safe place to stay. Not when he waited, made himself available in spite of every cruel dismissal, stepped in to catch him and put the pieces back together the moment Martin finally remembered how to ask for help. Not when he literally hurled himself between Martin and an angry, violent ghost and not when he came all the way across town and deep into the woods to confront the man who'd killed him, without even the slightest bit of a plan, as if it was a biological fucking imperative.
None of it should surprise him.
And in the wake of all that, it is difficult — it is impossible — to cling to the notion that John shouldn't have had to step in front of a nearly literal bullet to save him, as though his hand had in any way been unwillingly forced. It is impossible to keep framing himself as a liability, someone who causes John more trouble than he's worth, when abiding miserable torments and launching headlong into danger has always been John's regrettable bloody love language.
He goes on staring for a moment longer, but no words occur to him, and instead he answers with the only thing that feels available to him: he inches forward to once again close the gap between them, stands up on his toes and kisses John, utterly heedless of what a wreck he is or of how much his hands are still trembling; he kisses him long and slow and deep, parting his lips to draw breath against him rather than break away.