Martin drifts over, his fingers brushing against John's arm, and then the comforting warmth of him pressing up against John's side. It feels like second nature, now, to lean back into him, to turn his head and nuzzle into Martin's hair in brief, silent acknowledgment before the question is even asked.
John lifts his head, his fingers tracing over his newest scar for the first time. It's smaller than he thought it would be — smaller than it felt — and tidy, almost, in its symmetry. A near-perfect oval, no larger than the bottom of a pint glass. Still, it isn't pretty: the skin is a sullen pink, puckered and gnarled from a healing that was about speed and utility and not aesthetics, a healing that had to occur around the give and stretch of painfully drawn breaths as John lay gasping in Martin's arms.
But it healed.
"Not anymore," he replies, letting his hand drop. "A little tender, maybe, and—" He draws in a deep, experimental chest breath, wincing at the way it sort of... tugs, at the end. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind him that it's there. "—weird," he continues, "but there's no pain."
He hesitates there for a moment, feeling as if something is missing — as if it would be almost perverse to just throw on a fresh shirt and carry on. That would require stepping away from Martin, firstly, which isn't something he's terribly keen to do just yet. And then he feels like a bit of an idiot, because it's obvious, really: Martin's acknowledgment of John's scars has never been limited to polite inquiry. Granted, they've never dealt with one quite so fresh before, but now, with it on such blatant display and with Martin right next to him, it seems silly to not just... allow for that. For the sort of acknowledgment Martin seems to prefer, that is.
"Here." John reaches for Martin's hand, squeezing it lightly and then guiding it up to his chest, where the scar sits just a little off-center over his sternum. He doesn't force the contact, only drawing Martin's hand up enough to make his intentions plain, so that Martin could complete the journey easily, if he wanted to. "It's all right," he says quietly.
no subject
John lifts his head, his fingers tracing over his newest scar for the first time. It's smaller than he thought it would be — smaller than it felt — and tidy, almost, in its symmetry. A near-perfect oval, no larger than the bottom of a pint glass. Still, it isn't pretty: the skin is a sullen pink, puckered and gnarled from a healing that was about speed and utility and not aesthetics, a healing that had to occur around the give and stretch of painfully drawn breaths as John lay gasping in Martin's arms.
But it healed.
"Not anymore," he replies, letting his hand drop. "A little tender, maybe, and—" He draws in a deep, experimental chest breath, wincing at the way it sort of... tugs, at the end. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind him that it's there. "—weird," he continues, "but there's no pain."
He hesitates there for a moment, feeling as if something is missing — as if it would be almost perverse to just throw on a fresh shirt and carry on. That would require stepping away from Martin, firstly, which isn't something he's terribly keen to do just yet. And then he feels like a bit of an idiot, because it's obvious, really: Martin's acknowledgment of John's scars has never been limited to polite inquiry. Granted, they've never dealt with one quite so fresh before, but now, with it on such blatant display and with Martin right next to him, it seems silly to not just... allow for that. For the sort of acknowledgment Martin seems to prefer, that is.
"Here." John reaches for Martin's hand, squeezing it lightly and then guiding it up to his chest, where the scar sits just a little off-center over his sternum. He doesn't force the contact, only drawing Martin's hand up enough to make his intentions plain, so that Martin could complete the journey easily, if he wanted to. "It's all right," he says quietly.