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Entry tags:
morning / for john
dated: idk whenever
Martin certainly didn't used to wake up with such ease, rising naturally before any alarm he might set. Indicative first that he feels more relaxed here, that he actually enjoys his job, and now, unbelievably, joyously, that he has someone to wake up with. John is not an early or an easy riser, but Martin likes that just fine, as it allows him precious moments in the light of dawn to return quietly to consciousness, remember where he is and why he's so happy, to blink through the haze of whatever dreams he's already forgetting and see John beside him, resting, breathing slowly.
Martin likes to just look at him, but he knows that has a limited life span; John can always feel it when he's being watched, sooner or later. So more and more he finds other ways to rouse him, as gently as possible: a little kiss to the brow, a warm hand cradling the back of his neck or brushing through his hair. This morning, pulled by an inward surge of affection, he foregoes these gentler methods and just shuffles forward, wrapping an arm around the narrow hunch of John's shoulders and pulling himself close, positioned such that he can reverse their frequent arrangement, tucking his chin on top of John's head. He smiles and shuts his eyes as he feels John stir beneath him.
"G'morning," he says softly.
Martin certainly didn't used to wake up with such ease, rising naturally before any alarm he might set. Indicative first that he feels more relaxed here, that he actually enjoys his job, and now, unbelievably, joyously, that he has someone to wake up with. John is not an early or an easy riser, but Martin likes that just fine, as it allows him precious moments in the light of dawn to return quietly to consciousness, remember where he is and why he's so happy, to blink through the haze of whatever dreams he's already forgetting and see John beside him, resting, breathing slowly.
Martin likes to just look at him, but he knows that has a limited life span; John can always feel it when he's being watched, sooner or later. So more and more he finds other ways to rouse him, as gently as possible: a little kiss to the brow, a warm hand cradling the back of his neck or brushing through his hair. This morning, pulled by an inward surge of affection, he foregoes these gentler methods and just shuffles forward, wrapping an arm around the narrow hunch of John's shoulders and pulling himself close, positioned such that he can reverse their frequent arrangement, tucking his chin on top of John's head. He smiles and shuts his eyes as he feels John stir beneath him.
"G'morning," he says softly.
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He's briefly, drowsily startled by the arm around his shoulders, his brain fumbling with the idea that perhaps he is (or was) about to roll off the bed, and that this might be a rescue attempt. But then he registers that he is not being moved: Martin is just pulling himself closer. Must be morning, then. Doesn't mean he has to accept it with any immediacy, though, and when Martin tucks his chin atop John's head, John nuzzles close to his chest, warm and safe from any ambient dawn light that might try to drag him into full consciousness.
He can't ignore Martin's voice, though, and he acknowledges the greeting with a sleepy grunt, one hand questing forward until his knuckles brush against something warm and soft — Martin's belly, he thinks — before settling back down with a sigh of satisfaction.
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"Hi," he answers, his voice as soft and warm as the rest of him. He hugs John a little closer, as if to protect him from the prospect of waking. His hand drifts into John's hair, fingers curling to scritch gently at the back of his head. He knows he's making it even easier than it would be already for John to just drift back off, and he feels lightly conflicted about it. On the one hand, he wants to allow John all the comfort he desires, to facilitate it and hold him through it; on the other, he tends to be an early riser, and he'd rather start the gradual climb toward breakfast now.
So he mitigates his soothing touches and shielding embrace with more gently uttered words: "Sleep okay?"
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The hand in his hair might be considered counterproductive on that score, but Martin is still talking, and that balances it out. Despite several victories against the Lonely, it still feels important to not ignore him, or seem to, and John can't not respond to a direct query. Granted, he isn't quite ready for coherence, but he answers Martin's question with a raspy purr of a sound, as much in response to his touch as his voice, and gently flexes the hand resting against Martin's stomach. It's too muzzy and directionless a gesture to be properly reciprocal, but the intention is there.
After a few moments, he musters up a murmured, "You?"
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He stays put for a few moments longer, then pulls away, his face scrunching up momentarily as he stretches out before he ends up flopped on his back, one arm still draped near enough that he can go on playing lazily with John's hair. With the other he reaches over to take John's hand and draw it back to rest on his stomach in a wordless and mildly cheeky request.
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So settled, he lets his hand drift back over Martin's stomach, smoothing his palm over Martin's shirt, letting his fingers circle idly. "Tha's good," he says around a yawn. The sort of dreams that stick, for them, tend to not be the sort one wants to remember. John can't recall his either, for that matter, and so much the better.
He gives Martin's belly a drowsy little pat. "You're good," he opines, muffled against Martin's side.
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And then, with that muffled assessment accompanied by a little pat, Martin feels himself blush, and a soft, absurd, "Oh?" escapes him. He chuckles — giggles, really — and peers down at what little he can see of John's head. "Glad to have your approval," he says warmly.
He shifts once again, now scooting down so they're more on eye level, the better to brush his fingers along John's cheek. "You're pretty good yourself."
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His smile widens as Martin traces his fingers over his cheek, and he mutters a playfully dubious, "If you say so." Then he blinks his eyes back open, gazing at Martin with unguarded fondness for a few moments before leaning forward to press a soft kiss against his lips.
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"I do," he says as they draw apart, his eyes flitting attentively over John's face. John's waking up now, which was the goal, but of course now the idea of actually getting up seems less important. Perhaps just a bit longer, lying here together, safe and warm and relaxed.
His eyes drift inevitably back down to John's lips and he leans in to kiss him again, soft and slow.
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"Could have a lie-in," he muses, his hand resuming its idle exploration, sliding over the curve of Martin's waist. He doesn't make the suggestion with any significant hope of being indulged — he knows Martin is an early riser by inclination as much as habit — but part of what makes the idea so enticing is its rarity. "It'd be fun," he tries anyway, gently nudging Martin's nose with his own.
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But Christ, John so rarely asks for things, and he's so adorable now, nuzzling at him like that, trying to sell the idea as being fun... John makes so many concessions for Martin, and Martin can return that favor now, easily.
"All right," he says, fondly indulgent, and presses another kiss to John's brow before nestling closer against him. "Just this once."
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It's all deliciously cozy, and with his arm draped around Martin's side, it doesn't take any real effort to curl his fingers in a gentle scritching motion along Martin's back. It's part thanks and, if he's being scrupulously honest, part drowsy, hopeful suggestion.
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"Like that?" he says, seeking direction as well as approval as he returns the gesture along the ridge of one of John's shoulder blades, usual culprits in his experience.
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