Martin stays close, watching from his periphery as John traces over the scar and gives the question due consideration; watching and hiding a grimace over the way it looks, the way the skin stretches when John moves. It is horrifying — burn scars have always been horrifying to Martin, and although he's certainly grown used to the one that grips John's right hand, this one feels... different. Perhaps because it smelled the skin burn; he was there when it happened, and it happened to save him.
He shakes those thoughts loose as best he can. John's already said enough to put any guilt on that subject to bed. And Martin doesn't want to treat this as different, as somehow worse than all the rest, simply because he was there for it. He's had the benefit of time, perspective, and practice to grow used to John's other scars, to reframe them as beautiful or striking, to love them as a part of him. This one is fresher, and it feels more personal, but it is no different in the grand scheme. John is still standing, still breathing, and this, too, is now a part of the tapestry of him.
In some way perhaps picking up on all this, on Martin's desire to acclimate, John takes his hand and draws it gently up, inviting him to touch. Martin balks slightly, his fingers twitching, but the reassurance settles in and he softens at once, his expression somber but calm as he lets his hand rest gingerly against the waxy, puckered skin.
"Jesus," he whispers, more sympathy than horror, but he doesn't pull away. Instead he shifts his position so he can face John more directly, his fingers cautiously tracing around the edges. He takes his time, learning the texture, the size and the shape. Gently revising his expectations of what John feels like.
Just on the edge of this new scar is another one Martin knows intimately well, though he has never touched it. His eyes slide toward it inevitably, to that small jagged mark centered over John's heart. His eyes linger there for a beat before looking up and drawing a breath like he wants to speak.
He isn't sure what to say. His eyes fall back to the scar instead, and after a moment's hesitation he starts to lean in thoughtlessly, moving as if on instinct. He catches himself before he makes contact, hovering a few scant inches from his unconsidered objective, from pressing a kiss to John's chest.
"Can I—" he murmurs, not sure he can ask it aloud, reasonably certain John can see his intent.
no subject
He shakes those thoughts loose as best he can. John's already said enough to put any guilt on that subject to bed. And Martin doesn't want to treat this as different, as somehow worse than all the rest, simply because he was there for it. He's had the benefit of time, perspective, and practice to grow used to John's other scars, to reframe them as beautiful or striking, to love them as a part of him. This one is fresher, and it feels more personal, but it is no different in the grand scheme. John is still standing, still breathing, and this, too, is now a part of the tapestry of him.
In some way perhaps picking up on all this, on Martin's desire to acclimate, John takes his hand and draws it gently up, inviting him to touch. Martin balks slightly, his fingers twitching, but the reassurance settles in and he softens at once, his expression somber but calm as he lets his hand rest gingerly against the waxy, puckered skin.
"Jesus," he whispers, more sympathy than horror, but he doesn't pull away. Instead he shifts his position so he can face John more directly, his fingers cautiously tracing around the edges. He takes his time, learning the texture, the size and the shape. Gently revising his expectations of what John feels like.
Just on the edge of this new scar is another one Martin knows intimately well, though he has never touched it. His eyes slide toward it inevitably, to that small jagged mark centered over John's heart. His eyes linger there for a beat before looking up and drawing a breath like he wants to speak.
He isn't sure what to say. His eyes fall back to the scar instead, and after a moment's hesitation he starts to lean in thoughtlessly, moving as if on instinct. He catches himself before he makes contact, hovering a few scant inches from his unconsidered objective, from pressing a kiss to John's chest.
"Can I—" he murmurs, not sure he can ask it aloud, reasonably certain John can see his intent.