One slightly unfortunate result of doing things so impulsively is that it doesn't leave Martin much time to recover himself before discomfort starts to become an issue. It isn't long before he straightens with a groan, and John takes in the rumpled, rather debauched looking state of him: hair tousled, collar open and still a bit askew. His own smile is equal parts sheepish and smug, but he softens as he meets Martin's gaze, and hums quietly against his lips when Martin leans in to kiss him.
"Love you, too," he replies, before stepping back to let Martin toddle off to the bathroom. He makes his own way into the bedroom, where he changes out of his public-facing outfit and into soft pajama bottoms and one of his lighter jumpers, something far more befitting the lounging he suspects is going to make up the rest of their day. Then he settles himself on the bed to wait, leaning back against the headboard and already feeling rather cozy.
It's a faint surprise when Martin wanders in wearing just a towel, though John realizes a beat later that it was his only option: he hadn't grabbed anything before heading into the WC. John could have brought him something, and the missed opportunity gnaws at him until he sees Martin's smile, which is a little shy, but not uncomfortable.
And there's no clearly-defined reason why it should be. It isn't something they've discussed. Martin has changed in John's presence before, though it's always been quick and a little bit furtive — not unlike the way John had changed before Martin had expressed a desire to look at him. And John has never mirrored that desire, largely for the simple reason that he's never felt it. Aesthetics are less important to him, and whatever idle curiosity he might have felt about what Martin looks like had always seemed like a small thing to set against the possibility of Martin's discomfort. Once Martin turns to rummage through their drawers, John lets his gaze slide over to the wall, politely averted.
Not so averted that he doesn't note Martin's hesitation in front of the mirror, though, and his gaze flicks back over in spite of himself. He sees Martin's reflected grin, broad and so entirely unselfconscious that John feels an immediate lurch of guilt for having observed it at all. Christ, can't he just let the poor man have a moment in peace? He bullies his gaze to the relatively safer territory of Martin's back, confident (or at least hopeful) that there will be little to see there.
Except he's wrong: the freckles that he's seen poking out of Martin's collar are, as it turns out, only the straggling edge of a broad dusting that covers Martin's back and shoulders. John straightens with a blink, a charmed smile tugging at his lips and all thoughts of politely deferring to Martin's presumed modesty fleeing his head. He loves Martin's freckles, but he'd had no idea there were so many of them. They're everywhere. It's darling.
"Martin," he says, his tone soft and wondering and carrying the faint suggestion that Martin has been holding out on him, "you've got freckles."
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"Love you, too," he replies, before stepping back to let Martin toddle off to the bathroom. He makes his own way into the bedroom, where he changes out of his public-facing outfit and into soft pajama bottoms and one of his lighter jumpers, something far more befitting the lounging he suspects is going to make up the rest of their day. Then he settles himself on the bed to wait, leaning back against the headboard and already feeling rather cozy.
It's a faint surprise when Martin wanders in wearing just a towel, though John realizes a beat later that it was his only option: he hadn't grabbed anything before heading into the WC. John could have brought him something, and the missed opportunity gnaws at him until he sees Martin's smile, which is a little shy, but not uncomfortable.
And there's no clearly-defined reason why it should be. It isn't something they've discussed. Martin has changed in John's presence before, though it's always been quick and a little bit furtive — not unlike the way John had changed before Martin had expressed a desire to look at him. And John has never mirrored that desire, largely for the simple reason that he's never felt it. Aesthetics are less important to him, and whatever idle curiosity he might have felt about what Martin looks like had always seemed like a small thing to set against the possibility of Martin's discomfort. Once Martin turns to rummage through their drawers, John lets his gaze slide over to the wall, politely averted.
Not so averted that he doesn't note Martin's hesitation in front of the mirror, though, and his gaze flicks back over in spite of himself. He sees Martin's reflected grin, broad and so entirely unselfconscious that John feels an immediate lurch of guilt for having observed it at all. Christ, can't he just let the poor man have a moment in peace? He bullies his gaze to the relatively safer territory of Martin's back, confident (or at least hopeful) that there will be little to see there.
Except he's wrong: the freckles that he's seen poking out of Martin's collar are, as it turns out, only the straggling edge of a broad dusting that covers Martin's back and shoulders. John straightens with a blink, a charmed smile tugging at his lips and all thoughts of politely deferring to Martin's presumed modesty fleeing his head. He loves Martin's freckles, but he'd had no idea there were so many of them. They're everywhere. It's darling.
"Martin," he says, his tone soft and wondering and carrying the faint suggestion that Martin has been holding out on him, "you've got freckles."