loficharm | Progression // for John

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jonathan sims

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.

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John's laugh is infectious — Martin can't keep from giggling himself, even as flustered and aroused as he is. With the hand no longer in his hair, he can pitch forward into John's arms in time to meet the kiss, still grinning against his lips.

"You're unbelievable," he accuses with nothing but affection in his tone. "All right—that was—Jesus Christ, John."

As John reaches back into his hair, gentle this time, Martin's eyes flutter shut once again, and he relaxes even further. He's not sure what else John has in mind, if anything at all — he's not even sure what more he wants, already quite happily worked up and easy to please. They may need to relocate if this escalates further, but he doesn't want to think about that just yet. He just tilts his head a bit, giving himself back over, exposing his neck once more. It's still a bit tender where John bit down, but that's no reason John shouldn't be encouraged elsewhere. Between Martin's own drunkenness and desire, he only has room to want more.

John hums, the tone distinctly smug. Surprising Martin to the point of a fond scolding has become a badge of honor, as far as John's concerned, and he logs the move away alongside some of his other more potent options: best used in moderation, but not to be forgotten.

He reconsiders moderation when Martin offers his neck again, the mark John left already stark against his pale skin. But there's nothing wrong with making him wait a bit, so when John leans back in, he contents himself with brushing a series of gentle kisses down Martin's throat. He gives particular attention to the few freckles scattered between Martin's neck and the collar of his shirt, then turns his head to survey the territory and consider his next move.

The mark he left has only grown more visible. Christ, it almost looks like a bruise. John lets his head rest against Martin's shoulder as he peers up at it, eyes narrowed, his wine-addled brain laboriously cross-referencing it against the other marks he's left on Martin before: paler, pinker things that would fade within the hour.

This one doesn't look like it's going anywhere. Not in that time frame, anyway.

"... Huh," he says at length, lifting his head, then lifting his hand to brush his finger over the spot. He isn't a child; he knows exactly what he's looking at. But he hadn't realized it would be that bloody easy to inflict. "I appear," he says slowly, with as much boozy dignity as he can muster, "to have given you... a hickey."

Martin sighs softly as John gives him a bit of gentler treatment, his grin loose and drunk and joyous over every little kiss. So bloody tender, promising such perfectly blended mischief and adoration, slipping so easily from loving torment to this sort of delicate handling. Martin has never been so spoiled in his entire life, a thought which could easily make him anxious and embarrassed, but the wine and the arousal and the overwhelming happiness dispel that tidily.

He doesn't quite realize that John has actually stopped, rather than just taking a moment to build anticipation, until he speaks, his tone more conversational than anything else. Martin blinks and looks at him, hazy and confused, wondering if there's some sort of gradually emerging problem, when John reaches his halting conclusion.

Martin blinks again, this time more rapidly, and stares at John for a solid three seconds before he bursts out laughing, unable to stop himself.

"Y-yes!" he blurts, rather hysterical. "Was that not your intention?!"

It's impossible to not feel a prickle of embarrassment over being the last person to realize what he was actually doing, and John's cheeks flush. "Not... as such," he replies, maintaining a wavering hold on his dignified tone, if nothing else. He's never given anyone a hickey before — something which probably, at this point, goes without saying. Nor had he wanted to; his associations with this particular phenomena are largely adolescent, more in keeping with the behavior of teenagers than grown men, to his thinking (and that's to say nothing of his associations with lasting marks, which are unavoidably worse).

Martin seems undisturbed, at least, but John still pouts as he gently rubs the pad of his thumb over the mark, as if hoping to erase it. "It's really just going to stay there, isn't it," he says, more a pronouncement than a question. "You—you're sure you don't mind?"

Martin softens over John's clear embarrassment, not wanting to laugh at him so much as at the situation, a distinction not always clear. But he keeps on grinning as John prods at the mark he left, his twinned curiosity and mortification hopelessly adorable.

"I'm sure I don't," Martin says gently, and cups his hand around the back of John's head, leaning in to plant a warm kiss on his brow and resting his forehead there the next moment. "It felt good, John, really good. And I... if I'm honest, I..." He feels himself blushing, his cheeks warming as he pulls back to look at John through his own sheepishness. "I quite like having a little, erm... reminder." He can't maintain eye contact, his gaze tipping down as his tone and mannerisms grow increasingly shy. "Of you, and... how much you do for me."

John relaxes as Martin's reassurances sink in, humming in quiet acknowledgment while leaning into the gentle press of Martin's forehead against his own. He'd gathered that it felt good; he just hadn't known if that was enough to counterbalance carrying a visible mark around for however long (and if it behaves anything like a bruise does, it might linger for weeks before fading properly).

But Martin assures him that it is. More than that, really: that he likes the idea of having a—a reminder, as he puts it. John blinks slowly, taking in Martin's flushed cheeks and averted gaze. Leave it to Martin to come up with an absurdly touching spin to put on the whole situation, and John leans forward without any conscious thought to kiss him, the hand that had been on Martin's neck sliding up to cup his cheek. He lingers against Martin's lips, his own curling into a faint smile over his earlier anxieties — it's fine, Martin said so, and if the mark takes a few days to fade, then...

... Wait.

John stills midway through coercing Martin's mouth open, then pulls back, blinking. "It's Sunday," he blurts, the implications crashing into his mind like monumental dominoes: they're meant to be going into the office tomorrow; the hickey is in a spot that none of Martin's shirt collars would hide; Kat and Eliot will see it; oh god, they'll never hear the end of it, oh god.

The moment John's hand cups his cheek, Martin turns back to meet him, accepting the kiss readily and matching the smile that presses back against him. His lips part, a delighted hum escaping him, and he's about to shift his position a little when John stops suddenly, pulling back and informing him, for some reason, of the day.

"Wh—" Martin blinks back at him for a moment, flushed and a bit put out over the odd interruption, when the relevance very suddenly connects and his eyes open wide. "Oh, shit," he says, his voice coming out in a hoarse squeak.

All of Martin's prior reassurances crumble away, no match at all for the prospect of Kat and Eliot seeing, knowing what they've been getting up to. John's already had one disastrous exchange with Eliot on the subject; the last thing he wants is a bloody reprise (and while the aforementioned disastrousness might make a reprise far less likely, at least in John's case, that doesn't do Martin any good).

John buries his face in his hands, giving Martin a horrified look from between his fingers. "I'm so sorry," he says helplessly.

"N-no no no, it's okay," Martin babbles, reaching out for John's hands without any clear object besides his own drunken desire to reassure (undercutting that with his own frantic tone of voice). "I'll just, erm, well—"

Christ, what? Wear a scarf indoors all day, as if that isn't the most bloody obvious thing in the world? Find some non-absurd way to allow himself to be seen only in profile? Give Eliot and Kat the day for no reason, while they're all in the middle of a large revision project? He's too drunk for this.

"You didn't realize," he says, also helplessly, mortified but more concerned about making sure John doesn't feel awful about something he did enjoy receiving.

John lets Martin draw his hands away from his own face, and he grasps back at him instinctively, curling their fingers together. "You could..." John starts, casting about for options with far less mental finesse than usual, before landing on: "you could call in sick."

It's absurd. He knows it's absurd, and probably more childish than just going into the office, taking their lumps, and getting on with things. He also knows it isn't a permanent solution; worrying their coworkers with a lengthy enough convalescence to completely hide the mark would just create new problems.

But one day would buy them time to sober up and think of something better. "And then," he hazards, "we'd have time t-... to get concealer, or something. Could cover it up, right?"

Martin lights up, briefly, at what seems like a solidly good idea, until he realizes it presents many problems of its own, chief among them being this is ridiculous. He's fairly certain of that; it's just they're both too bloody drunk to sort it out sensibly.

"I—I could," he says, sounding a bit dubious. "Would that be stupid? I'm pretty sure that would be stupid. W—we're adults, we can..."

What? What do adults do when they give each other... hickeys? Why doesn't he know?

He pitches forward with a huff, his head landing on John's shoulder. "But I like it," he whines, as though the biggest issue of all is how unfair it all is.

When Martin slumps against him, John automatically curls his arms around him, one hand settling in his hair without a thought. He still feels responsible for all this, though there's something faintly bolstering about Martin's insistence that they're adults. That's true, isn't it? There might be something to that.

"M-maybe... maybe it wouldn't even be a—a thing," he hazards after a few moments. He doesn't sound entirely confident — it's hard to imagine both Kat and Eliot just politely withholding all commentary, though he can at least imagine Daisy limiting herself to a pointed (but blessedly silent) facial expression — but it's not impossible, right? "We just... walk in like everything's normal, and..." what, make it normal through sheer force of will?

Martin huffs softly, moderately comforted by John's arms around him and the hand in his hair. And John's attempts at reason are a little helpful, at least. He's fairly certain they are both being a bit ridiculous, even though it's hard not to feel like this is absolutely the end of the world.

"Maybe," he ventures, and shifts a bit in John's arms. This has all been quite the proverbial cold shower, but he still hasn't come down entirely, and it's left him feeling a bit overheated and a bit awkward. "Maybe if we—we could go in separately." He's not even sure why that makes sense, except some vague idea about not looking too couple-y and proud of themselves. "And I'll just... stay in my office." He's pretty sure he can come up with plenty of reasons for that, at least.

There is some initial appeal in the idea of arriving separately, but it also feels a bit cowardly, at least for John's part. Setting aside the suspicion that would arise if they showed up separately for the first time in months, it would mean leaving Martin to fend off any obnoxious commentary all on his own.

"'M not—I don't want to abandon you," John objects, leaning back so he can frown at him. "Wouldn't be fair." He almost suggests that he could just walk on Martin's bruised side and perhaps block it from view, but that feels a little absurd, not to mention unlikely to actually work.

Regardless, the idea of holing up in their respective offices seems... sound. For Martin, especially. "I could bring you tea," he allows, smiling a little in spite of himself.

Martin almost objects — it wouldn't be abandonment, not really — but he gives up when it seems like too much trouble over a silly suggestion. It's not like they'd draw less attention coming in separately; probably even more.

Then John makes the rather sweet offer of bringing him tea, and he's so lovely about it that Martin almost forgets the rest of his anxiety; all worth it for this.

"You could," he agrees with a warm, tentative smile. "That'd be nice."

It's not so unreasonable to imagine he could manage the whole day in his office. The perhaps larger issue is that this bruise will linger for much longer than just one day, and it's bound to be discovered eventually. He supposes they really ought to just make peace with the mortification now and prepare to get through it.

He sighs and leans back against John. "If either of them say anything I'll... I'll give them such a look." The evidence may be on him, but it's John who made it, and in some ways he feels even more protective of John's privacy than his own on this point. "They'll be the embarrassed ones when I'm through with them."

He knows he's nearly speaking complete nonsense, but he doesn't care. He lets out a decisive little grunt and burrows in against John's shoulder. As his panic over this situation starts to die down, he only becomes more focused on how he still sort of... wants things, but he's not certain John's in any mood to get back to it.

"And next time," he ventures, a bit sheepish, "you can... do it some place where no one can see."

"I'm sure you will," John says, his smile widening as he imagines several potential looks Martin might employ. He'll probably need to: the mortification might be evenly split between them, but John suspects he's already made himself unapproachable enough, in this regard, that the bulk of the ribbing will be directed at Martin, not him. He doesn't like the idea of such a disparity (at least not on principle), but, well... if worst comes, maybe a suitably severe intervention on his part will put a stop to it.

"And if that's not enough, perhaps I'll just... have a few words with them." John might endeavor not to be a joyless prick anymore, but that doesn't mean he's forgotten how to pass as one. He could probably drain all the fun out of teasing them if he really wanted to. Might take some thinking. He can mentally workshop it in the morning, when he's less bloody drunk.

At the moment, he's more interested in trying to salvage the evening. There's no denying that his ill-timed observation put a damper on things, and it would be easy to just call it a wash. But he doesn't want them both to just... shuffle off to bed in defeat, like a pair of convicts with nothing to do but await their sentencing. And the feeling is only strengthened by Martin's sheepish reference to a 'next time.' Maybe he just doesn't want to push, now that the mood has been so thoroughly compromised, but it all feels a little too reminiscent of the sort of tip-toeing John thought they were through with.

So he hums softly, as if considering Martin's proposition, his fingers gently carding through his hair. "Maybe," he ventures, his tone as guileless as he can make it while still pitched low enough to almost be a purr, "we could both get into bed, and you could... show me what you had in mind."

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Progression // for John

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