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Progression // for John
August 2nd, 2020
It's ironic, given how much Martin has thought about this — for about two months now, he's been anticipating this date, the date of their one-year anniversary arriving in Darrow — that it only occurs to him at day's end, as he finishes cleaning up after dinner. He glances up, no particular reason, no object in mind — just idly noting John across the room — and his eyes brush over the calendar hung on the fridge, and the sudden awareness hits him like a bus.
"Oh," he blurts, frozen in the act of drying his hands, his eyes fixed on the calendar, on the date. He eventually moves again, slowly, sluggish and awkward, looking back to John. "It's... it's August 2nd. It's been a year."
He's not sure what else to say. They haven't actually talked about it. He suspects John had forgotten just as he had, because it hadn't felt momentous; just another quiet Sunday. But now it's here and he almost bloody missed it, he has no idea how to feel. The question of how to feel had been one he turned over and over in the months leading up to it, never actually answered, as though the answer would be any clearer the day of.
Or perhaps it's something else; perhaps he suspects he knows exactly how he feels, and he isn't sure how to feel about that.
"I, erm..." He finally sets the towel back and stands there a moment, his hands hanging at his sides. "I could do with a lie-down."
It isn't an unusual request for him. Sometimes, when he feels overwhelmed and needs to get his thoughts in order, he retreats to the bedroom, as though lying down makes it easier to process difficult things. It isn't just the position, of course — it's the safety and security implied by the bed, and it's having John beside him.
He starts toward the bedroom, expecting John to follow, not entirely sure what his own face is doing. He isn't distressed, really; there's no sign of anxiety or upset. It's more of a premonition, that this conversation, a conversation he's put off for a very long time now, is going to be... not bad, but, well. A lot.
It's ironic, given how much Martin has thought about this — for about two months now, he's been anticipating this date, the date of their one-year anniversary arriving in Darrow — that it only occurs to him at day's end, as he finishes cleaning up after dinner. He glances up, no particular reason, no object in mind — just idly noting John across the room — and his eyes brush over the calendar hung on the fridge, and the sudden awareness hits him like a bus.
"Oh," he blurts, frozen in the act of drying his hands, his eyes fixed on the calendar, on the date. He eventually moves again, slowly, sluggish and awkward, looking back to John. "It's... it's August 2nd. It's been a year."
He's not sure what else to say. They haven't actually talked about it. He suspects John had forgotten just as he had, because it hadn't felt momentous; just another quiet Sunday. But now it's here and he almost bloody missed it, he has no idea how to feel. The question of how to feel had been one he turned over and over in the months leading up to it, never actually answered, as though the answer would be any clearer the day of.
Or perhaps it's something else; perhaps he suspects he knows exactly how he feels, and he isn't sure how to feel about that.
"I, erm..." He finally sets the towel back and stands there a moment, his hands hanging at his sides. "I could do with a lie-down."
It isn't an unusual request for him. Sometimes, when he feels overwhelmed and needs to get his thoughts in order, he retreats to the bedroom, as though lying down makes it easier to process difficult things. It isn't just the position, of course — it's the safety and security implied by the bed, and it's having John beside him.
He starts toward the bedroom, expecting John to follow, not entirely sure what his own face is doing. He isn't distressed, really; there's no sign of anxiety or upset. It's more of a premonition, that this conversation, a conversation he's put off for a very long time now, is going to be... not bad, but, well. A lot.
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But there's no burying it now, and John exhales a slow, defeated sigh. "I know," he murmurs, his chin tucked snugly atop Martin's head. "I know."
He lets his eyes fall shut, turning all of his focus towards Martin: the warm solidity of him, the softness of the hair brushing against John's chin, the familiar curve of his spine beneath John's palm as he slowly strokes his back. Small comforts, that they're here, together, now. And when Martin's shuddering finally starts to ease, John draws back a little — enough to hunch lower on the bed and nudge his forehead against Martin's, to lift his hand and wipe some lingering tears off Martin's cheeks.
"I love you," he says, hoarse but firm. Then, grasping at anything that might pass for reassurance, he continues: "I've loved you since before we even came here, Martin. Even if we forget all of this—" he swallows thickly, his fingers curling in Martin's hair, "I'm not—I wouldn't just... let you go." Keep his distance, yes. Bide his time, respect Martin's wishes, he'd done all of that before and he would do it again, but Christ, only to a point. He refuses to believe that he would lose Martin to the bloody Lonely in any universe, under any circumstances. "No matter what happens, Martin, I'm yours." He draws back enough to meet Martin's eyes, his hand still cupping his cheek. "Understood?"
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But then John shifts his position a bit, letting his forehead come to rest against Martin's, a thumb brushing at his tears. He speaks, and Martin's eyes blink open, his vision wet and blurred but gradually clearing as he listens. And it... it is comforting, in a small way, just enough to grasp onto. Even as much as they've discussed the depth and longevity of their feelings for each other, they've been a little shy on the details of when things began or calcified, and Martin's not sure he's ever so directly confronted the idea that John already loved him. It is painful to think about — how much hurt he caused, how much time he wasted, all the opportunities he missed both here and home — but for the first time it is reassuring, too. He'd started to lose himself, pushed so far to the edges of his own loneliness, his own desperation to do something that he let it get between him and his feelings for John. But John loves him. And John won't let him go.
And maybe it's enough to know that promise exists no matter what; maybe it's enough to consider that even if they are separated, some form of them both still exists back home. Even if Martin does wake up to find John gone, it only means John will have returned to him there. Probably. He thinks that's how it works. Somewhere, even if he's left alone here, John will still have him, and they'll still be together.
It's an awful, thin sort of comfort, but it's more than he's been able to find before, and as John meets his eyes and promises I'm yours, Martin's despair starts to feel a little less overpowering. He sniffles softly and reaches up to cover John's hand with his own, his eyes falling shut as he leans into the touch and turns his head slightly to press a kiss to John's scarred palm.
"Yeah," he murmurs, lingering there with his eyes closed for a moment more before he lifts his head and looks back at John. "Okay."
He reaches out and runs his fingers once over John's hair, fondly stroking it into place where it's gotten mussed before he shuffles forward, closing the gap between them to kiss him. "I love you, too," he answers, still close enough that his lips brush against John's, before pulling back to meet his eyes once again. "I loved you then, and nothing was ever going to take that away, and I — E-even if I make it hard to reach me, I—"
This feels nonsensical, a promise for another version of him, a promise John may not even remember. But he continues doggedly: "I'll still be there." He draws a shuddering breath. "You can still find me."
It is tenuous, that hypothetical, but he believes it, too. He has to. Darrow didn't make them who they are, it only gave them the time and the space to find their way to each other. And as bad as things were back home — as bad as he let them get — it isn't impossible that they can do it again.
But he thinks he's had enough of hypotheticals. He breathes out a quiet huff, as if excising something, and manages a faint, watery smile.
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Small offerings, but enough.
John exhales softly as Martin combs his fingers through his hair, his eyes falling shut as Martin shifts forward to kiss him. He absorbs the reassurances, dutifully filing them away even though he doubts they'll return home with any memory of this. But if there's even a ghost of a chance he'll retain the faintest echo, then... he can try. It's the least he can do.
For a few moments, he just lies there in comfortable silence, his fingers delicately tracing over the curve of Martin's cheek to his jaw, then along to his chin, as if to memorize the shape of him. Then he leans in to kiss him, once and then again, gentle and pointed. "Okay," he breathes, as if it's all decided, his eyes still shut as he basks in Martin's familiar warmth.
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"I s'pose it's a bit like..." He pauses, catching himself, almost wanting to abandon the thought. It is tempting to move on and away from this, to retreat back into easy comforts along the path they've both lit. That has always come more naturally to him than confronting his fears directly. But things are different here; he's different. It's odd to recognize it, to see himself so clearly, to be aware of his own growth. It's become easier to turn away from despair when he needs to; but there are some moments, he thinks, where he'd be better served to acknowledge the thing that frightens him. To drag it down to earth with him, where it cannot loom like some overpowering thing. What he wants to say may be about dark subjects, but it isn't dark, not really.
"Like being afraid of... of dying," he finishes, clearing his throat and meeting John's eyes steadily. "I mean, it's... there, it's terrifying, but there's no stopping it and no predicting it." He swallows a bit thickly; this is still shaky footing, conversationally, but that only makes him want to pursue it further. Tim's death had hit him hard; his mother's, just the same. Both were predictable, in different ways. That didn't make them easier, but it does make him want to face this now, so that it might not come as such a brutal, bitter surprise.
"Everyone lives with that every day," he says. "This is... it's not that different, really. And... I, I think that could be okay. I mean, just that I..."
He stammers a bit, struggling not to lose the thread, and resolves with a firmer tone: "I don't know how much time we have together. But I... I intend to enjoy it." He softens some, averting his gaze rather shyly. "It's been a good year, even with everything that's... I mean, Christ, these have been the best months of my life, and I... I don't want to waste any of it being afraid."
Easier said than done, of course, but he thinks that goes without saying. It's the intent that matters, that he wanted to communicate. He hums again, nothing more to say for the moment, and scoots closer once again. "Th-that's all I wanted to say."
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"Not just like dying, really," he muses, one hand idly stroking Martin's back. "It's like dying when you know there's an afterlife. One where we're still together. Maybe not like this," he acknowledges, scrupulously fair, "but... still in the same building, at least. Still possible."
He falls silent for another spell, nuzzling against Martin's crown, before he softly adds, "Best months of my life, too." It almost feels as if it shouldn't be true — as if, when he awoke in the coma ward, he'd done so with the awareness that 'best' days or weeks or months were no longer a possibility or a concern. That he might make things better, or make things be, but that it would never be enough to make things good. Or that if he managed to make things good, it would be for other people, later. Not for himself. Not in any way he'd get to keep.
And perhaps he won't get to keep this, either, not in the long run. But he has it now. And Martin's right: it shouldn't go to waste.
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And he almost does, before stirring slightly and realizing it's far too early for that, and he'd rather the night end on a higher note than this.
"What time is it?" he blurts, shifting back until he can peer up at their bedside clock. "Christ, it's not even nine."
It is a work night, but even still. An anniversary — an odd one, but one that feels important nonetheless — ought to be celebrated somehow or other, marked by something more than just a serious chat. Martin props himself up on one elbow, looking down at John with a soft smile. "I could do with a drink," he says. "You?"
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But Martin, it seems, has other ideas. He shifts subtly, then draws back enough to peer at the bedside clock before exclaiming over the time and doggedly propping himself back up a bit. John rolls onto his back and turns his head to look up at him, a fond smile tugging at his lips.
"I think I could manage that," he says after giving it a moment of theatrical deliberation. "What with this being a special occasion and all." He levers himself upright with a soft grunt and sweeps a hand through his hair, as if to physically dislodge any remaining traces of melancholy. There's been enough of that. "Wine, or something stronger?"
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Not to mention it's easier to just put an entire bottle away between the two of them, without the fuss of preparing proper drinks.
Once John is upright, Martin guides them back out to the living room, suffused with the bright pink and orange of summer sunset. It makes him feel a bit more awake, a bit more prepared to enjoy himself, and he smiles as he makes a bee-line for the liquor cabinet, fetching a rather nice Merlot they've both been saving for some unspoken occasion.
"Glasses?" he asks, glancing back at John. "Or straight from the bottle?" They usually go about this properly, and glasses would complete the celebratory picture, but with the sharp turn the evening just took, Martin thinks the outright debauchery of sharing a bottle like a pair of teens feels rather more enticing than it ordinarily might.
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Aside from the usual, that is.
"Fewer things to wash up if we don't bother with glasses," he points out. He still isn't quite sure what direction the evening will take from here, but if Martin is even suggesting that they pull straight from the bottle like a pair of bloody beatniks, it's a safe bet that neither of them will be in the mood (or the condition) to wash wine glasses before bed.
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He drifts to the kitchen just long enough to locate the bottle opener, uncorks the wine rather deftly, and then joins John on the couch, settling in comfortably beside him.
"S'pose we should let it breathe, or something," he says with a wry grin and no intention of doing so. He has never been much for wine snobbery; he didn't even drink wine much until relatively recently, not because he didn't like it, but because if any alcohol is most likely to obliterate his inhibitions, it's red wine, and it's only relatively recently that that's become a desirable condition.
So before John can even reply, he just shrugs and takes the first sip. It is quite good, as far as he's concerned, breathing or no. "I'm sure it's fine," he says, offering John the bottle.
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And then he ventures a sip of his own, carefully lest he end up sloshing it right down his collar. He doesn't typically drink wine straight from the bottle, and it's a bit more ungainly than beer or cider would be. Ridiculous, as expected. But he doesn't spill, and he passes the bottle back before settling his arm around Martin's shoulders. "Very nice," he agrees.
Awkward as it might be, there are several distinct perks of pulling straight from the bottle. Aside from fewer dishes, they include having no idea of just how much he's putting away, relatively speaking. This wouldn't be the first time Martin and he finished off a bottle of wine between them, but it might be the first time they've done it so deliberately — and without a meal to slow them down. It isn't very long at all before John is feeling quite pleasantly buzzed, the hand that had been draped over Martin's shoulder having migrated to his hair, his fingers curling absently through the soft weft of it.
"Your hair," John announces, as if discovering it for the first time, "is so soft, Martin." He lists over to nuzzle into it with a soft, satisfied hrnf, the motion causing the wine bottle — loosely gripped in his other hand and resting on his thigh — to tip a little towards Martin in precarious offering.
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"M'glad you like it," he says shyly. It may be a bit silly to be shy now, after so many months together, but no matter how standard this becomes between them, he doesn't think he'll ever take it for granted. Doesn't want to.
"You're so bloody tender," he adds, fondly accusatory. "Even that first time. With the... y'know." He flaps his free hand in a vague gesture meant to describe the fog John's had to brush from his hair more than once, then notices the bottle and takes it, drawing a small, perhaps ludicrously polite sip. "That was the first night we got drunk together, too." He says this with an attempted air of nonchalance, as though it's only just occurred to him, as though he hasn't thought a great deal about that night ever since it happened. It isn't very convincing, and he doesn't much mind if John sees through it. "Remember that?"
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"Erm." He screws up his face in concentration. "Bits?" He knows they both got battered on sake, but most of the finer details elude him. There are pieces he can recall clearly enough: Martin grinning at him across the table (and how foreign that happiness had looked on his face); Martin's hand closing around his to help lever him to his feet; the more familiar hunch of Martin's shoulders as he'd walked away.
He mostly remembers how he'd felt, though. The awkwardness. How tenuous it all seemed, and how high the risk that he'd fuck it all up. How little he wanted it to end, regardless.
He could admit to any of those things and Martin would probably find it all charming, but he doesn't. Too maudlin, or near enough — and something about the deliberate nonchalance in Martin's tone suggests that isn't what he's going for. Instead, John says, "You were very adamant about spreadsheets. I remember that part."
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"I'll tell you what I remember," he says, taking the bottle back, his sip this time much more decisive. "Your frankly spectacular suggestion that we swap surnames."
He sits up a little straighter, pulling back to get a proper look at John, one eyebrow arched. "For putting our names on The Archive. You wanted the—and I swear this is the word you used—'spooky one,'" he says, attempting to make scare quotes with his hands while still holding the bottle, "and then, how did you put it—" Enjoying himself and the wine far too much to feel anything approaching embarrassment now, he launches into his rarely aired John impression, something heretofore reserved for his more embarrassing moments on tape. "'Martin Sims sounds... plausible.'"
He fixes John with a facetiously aggrieved stare, then takes another healthy swig from the bottle before offering it back.
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John gawps, straightening in mingled shock and indignation as Martin recounts this—this alleged suggestion. An aborted syllable escapes him at 'spooky,' a word he bloody hates, and when Martin shifts into an outright impersonation to, apparently, quote him directly, he stops breathing for a solid two seconds before spluttering out an exhalation.
The worst of it is that it's so entirely outlandish that he can't imagine Martin making it up. His cheeks flush in mortification, and he accepts the bottle on autopilot, clutching it to him as if it needs protection. "I—th—" John starts, casting his mind back in an attempt to make sense of it. The implications must have escaped him at the time, which, embarrassing as it may be now that said implications are staggeringly apparent, isn't that hard to believe. He sets the bottle on the coffee table so he can bury his face in his hands, and that's when he remembers — not what he'd been thinking, but what he'd generally been up to at the time and what had probably informed such a ludicrous suggestion in the first place.
"I... I—I meant like a crime," he says, his voice strained in hapless protest.
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Still, John's eventual protestation catches him off guard, and Martin deteriorates into helpless giggling before he can offer any kind of reassurance. He ends up pitching against John's shoulder, covering his own face in an effort to stifle himself. The whole thing is just so funny to him now, but he still would prefer to get a hold of himself and coax John out of his embarrassed curl.
"Sorry, m'sorry," he babbles. "I know you did. It was just so—" He flaps a hand, abandoning that thought as both obvious and unnecessary. Still shaking off his own amusement, he looks at John fondly and offers, "You were proper wasted," with a genial little nudge.
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John cracks apart his fingers just enough to peek out at Martin with one eye. "'S no excuse," he insists, partly because he can imagine how mortified Martin must have been, but mostly because he still feels too wretchedly embarrassed to let himself off the hook. He lists sideways against the back of the couch, burying his face against the cushions. "Don't look at me," he says dourly. "I'm not fit to be seen."
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He knows he can't very well drag John back up if he doesn't want to be pulled, and he knows what it's like to be so mortified, but he's too far down the garden path for a properly graceful approach. He hovers, momentarily stymied, before shuffling the remaining inches forward and planting the smallest kiss he can manage against John's fingers.
"I wanted to kiss you that night," he murmurs, wanting more than anything to draw them back to the original reason he'd thought of that night at all. "You were so... careful with me. I wanted so badly to kiss you and I was too scared."
There isn't much room for regret in his tone; more like wonder at how things have changed, at how the care John had taken with him carried so much weight, far more than he could have imagined. Maybe he hadn't realized the implications of his ridiculous drunken bit, but it doesn't matter. He already cared about Martin so much more than Martin could've guessed, and he could get lost in the weeds of what a fool he was, or he could just enjoy the retroactive realization. "C'mere," he says, soft and sweet as he nuzzles into John's hair. "Please?"
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But even that evaporates in response to Martin's startling admission. John drags his hands down just enough to uncover his eyes, the better to blink at Martin. Christ, even then? It's no secret anymore that they'd had feelings for one another before they even arrived here, or that they'd missed plenty of opportunities to sort things out on their circuitous path towards that bloody factory. But things had been so fraught those first few weeks that it's hard to imagine what could have happened, what he would have done if Martin had overcome that fear.
And then Martin nuzzles into his hair, and John lets his hands slide down the rest of the way with a soft, acquiescing sigh. Melted, probably: that's what he would've done. John winds his arms around Martin and tucks his face against his neck, a much more agreeable hiding spot than the couch cushions or the cradle of his own hands. He hums, low and contented, and then sheepishly admits, "Didn't want you to leave. I almost went after you."
He doesn't care to articulate why he didn't: that he lacked the nerve, that he thought it would come across as weird or paranoid or pushy, that one gentle rejection was more than enough and he couldn't bear the thought of another. It doesn't matter. It doesn't even really feel like a missed opportunity; he can't quite imagine pursuing Martin down the sidewalk and earning a kiss for his efforts, like some dubiously plotted romcom.
Just as well. Things have got maudlin enough. He breathes Martin in for a moment or two, soaking in the familiar warmth of him, then burrows in a bit closer so he can press a gentle kiss to his collarbone.
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He doesn't want to think about that, and John doesn't seem interested in pursuing it either as he burrows in against Martin's neck and kisses him just beside his collar. Martin lets out a soft hum, the sludge of older memories easily washed away by such gentleness. He tips his head to press a kiss of his own to John's hair.
"Mostly," he says, his tone growing just the tiniest bit rueful, "I just remember it was the first time you touched my hair." He smiles. He hadn't meant to take them on quite such a tangent, and he's keen to get back to what started the whole thing in the first place. "Never stopped thinking about it," he adds, now slightly coy as he nuzzles against John again, not quite willing to ask for him to continue outright, content to imply it.
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"I suppose it's lucky for you that I like touching it so much, then." John lifts one hand to sift his fingers through Martin's hair, his smile widening a few degrees. There's something a bit ridiculous about the coyness of Martin's implication — as if any amount of subtle arm-twisting should be necessary for this sort of thing — but he suspects that's rather the point. John's expression takes a turn for the sheepish as he adds, "I, er... thought about it, too. Had to restrain myself back when you had that awful cold."
He'd done so to banish the Lonely, of course, but that had been a necessity. Taking advantage, under those circumstances, would've felt... well, creepy. But in that miserable aftermath, with Martin turned away and curled in on himself, the temptation had been rather more acute than usual.
Now, though, he can do as he likes, and John continues his ministrations with as much focus as his current state of inebriation allows.
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He's letting out a soft murmur that's perilously near a purr when John speaks again, drawing him to another memory he hasn't thought of in a while, catching him rather off guard with it. Martin blinks his eyes open, struggling a bit to focus against the lovely sensation of John's hand.
"I..." he stammers softly. "I remember that, as well." His gaze flits briefly over John's face before settling off center, around the neutral territory of his shoulder. It's a bit of a sad memory for him, and he wasn't prepared to have it called up, and he isn't sure he wants to pitch them down that road now. But he also doesn't want the comment to pass without acknowledgment, so he wavers for a moment.
"I wish you hadn't restrained yourself," he admits softly, not a trace of reproach in it, and he quickly amends: "I mean I—I know why you didn't, and I don't know what I would've done if you had, really, but... I wanted..."
He lets it go with a huff. He doesn't want to just tell John outright that part of the reason he had been so miserable, had wept so pitifully when John had awakened him, was the desire for intimacy that did not feel accessible to either of them then. Perhaps it's enough that John can guess, but he doesn't want to be so caught up when the whole point of tonight has become enjoying, fiercely, what they have now. He leans a little nearer to John, pressing up under his hand as if to comfort them both.
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"Here," he murmurs, gathering Martin close to his chest before resettling his hand back in his hair. Now, at least, there's no particular need for restraint, and John tucks in his chin to press a brief kiss to Martin's crown before lifting his head again, giving his fingers more room to work. "You've got it now."
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The thought that occurs to him then, after a comfortable moment of silence has passed between them, is not an entirely new one. He has considered it before, numerous times in fact, as part of the roster of things he knows he likes and likes to imagine. He has never asked for it because he enjoys this well enough on its own, and making direct requests still doesn't come naturally. But he's getting better at it, and John likes knowing those things, knowing what all he has at his disposal, whether he'll use it or not. Easier to let it slip casually with half a bottle of wine in him, with no real expectations, with a light, relaxed smirk to accompany it.
"You know," he says, "you don't have to be so gentle." Latent, reflexive anxiety is quick to rush in, even dulled by the haze of alcohol and pleasurable sensation; his smile fades, his gaze flicks away, and he stammers a bit, clarifying, "I—I mean you could... pull on it a bit. I-if you wanted. I'd... like that." He draws a breath, grasping for more to say, some explanation that is slow to form on top of being questionably necessary; an instinct he still has difficulty quelling.
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Well, plenty of things wouldn't independently occur to him, but that doesn't mean he's necessarily averse. The wine has muted his caution, and Martin's reflexive elaboration lands near enough to back-pedaling, at least tonally, to sound an echoing thrum of faint, boozy indignation in John's chest. He doesn't want Martin to be sorry he asked, whatever the outcome.
At least the solution is obvious. "Oh?" John curls his fingers into a loose fist in the hair at the back of Martin's skull, not pulling outright, but getting a decent enough grip that he could with just a simple flex of his wrist. "Like this, you mean?"
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