It occurs to him, after he's asked it, that the question is a bit vague. If Martin had asked for clarification, John isn't even entirely sure what he'd say. He's thinking mostly of Martin's continued state of undress; the myriad ways in which Martin has intentionally made himself vulnerable have never included this one, and he has gone to great lengths to ask for things that John would categorize as more fraught, subjectively speaking. Not that subjective measures are of any great use to either of them. The point is, if this was something Martin had ever actively wanted, John figures it would have come up before now.
And 'this' isn't terribly well defined, either. John's own wants are quite simple, but the implications unfurl in directions he can't always follow: an issue that has proved problematic often enough that even now, after all the work they've done and the care they've taken, he still second-guesses the wisdom of indulging his own impulses. He wants to touch Martin because Martin is soft and warm and exceedingly pleasant to touch; he wants to examine this newly uncovered territory because he's never seen it before; he wants to trace the constellations of Martin's freckles because he thinks they're beautiful. He also feels as if he's just been handed a musical instrument he's never seen before, and he doesn't want his well-intentioned exploration to strike any sour notes.
But then Martin sets his shirt aside and settles himself more comfortably, and it's that more than the verbal confirmation that releases the tension knotted in John's stomach. He hums in quiet pleasure, running his fingers back up to the nape of Martin's neck with a bit more confidence.
"They really are charming," he murmurs, playing connect-the-dots on Martin's left shoulder blade and tracing out a slightly wonky S, "though I suppose there's no easy way for you to appreciate them in the mirror." He leans forward, nuzzling fondly into the portion of Martin's hair that's still mussed from being clutched in his fist, and then planting a gentle kiss there. "Would you like me to describe them to you?" he asks, only half-facetious.
no subject
And 'this' isn't terribly well defined, either. John's own wants are quite simple, but the implications unfurl in directions he can't always follow: an issue that has proved problematic often enough that even now, after all the work they've done and the care they've taken, he still second-guesses the wisdom of indulging his own impulses. He wants to touch Martin because Martin is soft and warm and exceedingly pleasant to touch; he wants to examine this newly uncovered territory because he's never seen it before; he wants to trace the constellations of Martin's freckles because he thinks they're beautiful. He also feels as if he's just been handed a musical instrument he's never seen before, and he doesn't want his well-intentioned exploration to strike any sour notes.
But then Martin sets his shirt aside and settles himself more comfortably, and it's that more than the verbal confirmation that releases the tension knotted in John's stomach. He hums in quiet pleasure, running his fingers back up to the nape of Martin's neck with a bit more confidence.
"They really are charming," he murmurs, playing connect-the-dots on Martin's left shoulder blade and tracing out a slightly wonky S, "though I suppose there's no easy way for you to appreciate them in the mirror." He leans forward, nuzzling fondly into the portion of Martin's hair that's still mussed from being clutched in his fist, and then planting a gentle kiss there. "Would you like me to describe them to you?" he asks, only half-facetious.