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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 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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He shouldn't be surprised. John's inhibitions are just as lowered as his, and Martin is well familiar by now with his propensity toward mischief and playful torments. Absurd to think John could be offered a new trick without immediately trying it out. But Christ, it's been so long since anyone — since this wasn't just an idle fancy, and he'd forgotten how potent it was, how quickly and easily it could send him from a pleasant tipsy haze to such stark alertness and the beginnings of arousal.
When he tries to speak, he can only whimper at first; he swallows thickly and tries again: "Y-yeah," he says, reedy and soft. "Quite like that."
There is a slight tinge of hopeful expectation in his tone, a curiosity about not if but when John will tighten his grip. But he doesn't ask, doesn't want to; he is already helpless, and half the thrill is in waiting.
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He's quite curious to find out, but he doesn't make any sudden moves. Not yet. He may be an avid collector of ways to effectively render Martin incapable of coherent thought, but that doesn't mean he approaches all this with an eye towards efficiency. Granted, now that he thinks about it, that might be an intriguing avenue of approach at least once... but better to have more tools at his disposal before he attempts anything along those lines. For now, he's well aware of how much value there is in anticipation alone. No harm in exploring that.
So he gazes down at Martin for a moment, his focus shifting from his lidded eyes to the soft arch of his throat, already bared despite the lack of any real pressure on the back of his head. And then he bends down with a thoughtful hum, breathing a deliberately nonchalant, "Wasn't sure I'd go for it?" against Martin's neck. He kisses him once, and then again, leisurely, letting his lips drag against Martin's skin as he traces his way up towards his jaw. It isn't until he reaches the soft spot just below the hinge of it that he experimentally tightens his grip, his fingers curling close and firm against Martin's scalp.
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And then John answers his patience, closes his fist, the sudden taut pressure drawing a little yelp from Martin even as a warm, euphoric grin spreads across his face. John's fingers are curled so close to his scalp that it mitigates the pain perfectly, just enough to feel electric, exciting, without hurting too much. He laughs softly, a little drunk, mostly delighted, a quietly murmured, "Oh god, yes," escaping on an exhale. The flush that colors his cheeks has nothing to do with embarrassment — there is certainly no space for that now. He tips his chin up just a little further. John could pull a bit harder, he thinks, and it would still be all right, but he is quite content to let this play out according to John's whims. He offers no resistance; he has nothing to offer at all, apart from himself.
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He isn't sure he wants to apply any more pressure on Martin's hair than he is already, but he also knows that Martin's awaiting some form of escalation, and he doesn't want to disappoint. Fortunately, their current configuration offers plenty of options — and there's more than one way to interpret the way Martin tips up his chin in implicit offering.
John grins, boozily mischievous, and gives Martin's neck a light nip. A little goes a long way in this regard, as he's already learned, and he keeps things gentle until it occurs to him to wonder just how far a lot would go. There are no conscious calculations; he simply chases an impulse, one that naturally combines things that he knows Martin likes without sliding into any uncomfortable extremes. He doesn't bite down, he just closes his teeth around a portion of Martin's skin and sucks in, harder than usual, his cheeks hollowing. He can only maintain the pressure for a few seconds before he has to ease up, largely because he's fighting back a smirk and he doesn't want to produce any accidental raspberries.
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John is enjoying himself too; Martin can feel the grin against his neck, can sort of sense the building air of mischief about him. John's always been so playful, and just thinking about it, how far they've come together, how happy they make one another, how easy it is for them both to slip into this sort of thing, has Martin nearly overwhelmed. His hands slide up to John's shoulders, a reflexive motion to draw himself closer, perhaps pull John into a hug, though he doesn't make it that far.
John doesn't quite bite down, but Martin can feel the press of teeth as John sucks at his neck with far greater force than he usually does, and every impulse or halfway coherent thought Martin may have had is abruptly blasted out of existence. His eyes fly open in outright shock and he arches forward involuntarily, as if he's been physically pulled. His fingers curl tightly into John's shirt and his lips part, letting out a desperate, keening sort of noise, the midpoint between a shrill moan and a sudden gasp for breath. It only lasts a moment but a moment is far more than enough, the sensation so unexpected and overwhelming that adrenaline burns under his skin, his extremities hot and buzzing as he squirms in John's grip. John is — he's — is he really—?
John lets up just at the right moment, and Martin pulls back just enough to see him barely containing his own amusement.
"John—!" he blurts, too flushed and too happy to sound properly affronted, meeting him with an incredulous smile.
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"I—" is as far as he gets before a laugh bursts out of him, and he lists forward helplessly, his head butting gently against Martin's in fond acknowledgment. He's certainly not about to apologize, nor does he have the requisite self-possession for any smug rejoinders. All he can do is giggle like the drunken fool he very much is, his arms draped loosely around him.
It takes him a few moments to recover himself, his giggles fading until they leave enough room for him to press a brief, self-satisfied kiss against Martin's lips. "All right, then?" he asks with as much gravity as he can muster, a hiccup of amusement escaping him before he can clamp down on it. He's pretty sure 'all right' hardly begins to cover it. He leans back enough to grin at Martin, one hand lifting to finger-comb his hair back into order (though how long that order might last is still rather up in the air).
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