loficharm | Beheld // for John

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jonathan sims

Beheld // for John

1st October, 2020

The ride home is quiet but edged with a lovely tension that has both of them sat quite close, angled toward each other as they alternate between exchanging shy smiles and ducking their glances elsewhere. Martin reaches out to curl his hand into John's, running his thumb gently over his knuckles, blushing faintly as if this sort of easy tenderness is in anyway novel. But it isn't novelty; it's eagerness. He wants far more than these little, chaste touches; he can't stop thinking about what he wants, how much and how badly. It's all he can do to contain himself.

The moment they're outside the car and moving quickly toward the building, that containment starts to crumble away. Martin lets slip a sheepish little giggle, equal parts amused at himself and excited almost to the point of nervousness, accompanied by a sort of fluttering in his stomach. Ridiculous. Like they're on a first date; like that was only their first kiss.

It had been a bloody good kiss, is the thing, and it carried intentional weight, meant to overwrite and re-imagine what was actually, technically, their 'first.' That weight was not simply imagined, nor did it vanish; they're both still carrying it and being carried by it, propelled along with a mutual, unspoken urgency. He only lets go of John's hand to fumble for his keys, hastening to let them inside, and the moment he does, the moment they're out of the brisk autumn air, he can't even make it to their flat. He pivots on his heel and presses close, pulling John in by the strap of his bag to kiss him again. The tape recorder still sits clipped on, perhaps even still running (Martin hasn't even thought to check since John switched it on in the maze), but they can deal with that shortly. Right now, it's bloody dashing, and Martin means to enjoy himself.

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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.

Martin relaxes into John's touch as he starts in on a proper exploration, his eyes falling shut and a soft smile playing about his lips. He loves John's hands; holding them, playing with his fingers, or feeling them on him, in his hair or on his skin, as gentle or as firm as the situation requires. But this, the sort of precise, delicate wandering of his fingers... it's not a new sensation, but there is new context for it, and there's nothing for Martin to do but focus on it, enjoy it. He's not really used to that. But it's nice. It's wonderful.

He chuckles lightly at both the little kiss and John's offer, but there's no part of him that considers it a joke. Observing and describing things are sort of John's specialty, and having that focus turned on him, being so profoundly seen and... and appreciated, adored, is desperately tantalizing, and he will never take it for granted.

"I think I would," he says, faintly coy.

John's smile widens into a grin at Martin's agreement, and he leans back with a thoughtful hum. "Well..." he starts, studying Martin's back as he considers where to begin, letting his fingers trail idly over the gentle curves of him. Perhaps he'll start with the broad strokes, and then fill in the details. That seems as good an approach as any.

"They're all over, to start with," he says, and his tone could almost pass for academic if it weren't for the warmth that infuses it. "No particular areas of concentration. However, just here..." his arm stills, and his fingers trace the outline of a particularly evocative smattering of freckles tucked between Martin's spine and his right shoulder, "there's a little group of them that looks rather like a sailboat. It's almost uncanny."

His forefinger outlines the triangle that comprises the sail, and then he gently taps the topmost freckle. Usually, this is a courtesy that Martin shows him, a concession to the more nebulous nature of John's boundaries and preferences. But this feels like uncharted territory for both of them, and he wants to be careful. "May I?" he inquires softly.

Martin dips his head as if to hide his sheepish smile, though he has neither the need nor the inclination. John's description is almost amusing in its literal affect, but there is too much warmth and genuine admiration in his voice for Martin to think of laughing. The touch of his fingers is light and exceedingly gentle, especially as he traces the shape he describes.

And then comes the tap of his finger, a sensation familiar and immediately clear in its intent, though he has never been on this side of it before. Martin blinks and breathes through a sudden, startling swell of emotion in his chest, feeling for a precarious moment as though he might burst into tears. John has always been gentle with him, and yet this is — it's so much, still that elusive different he can't quite pin down.

"Yes," he answers softly, unable to completely hide the subtle thickening of his voice.

The change in Martin's tone is subtle, but it's enough to make John hesitate for a beat, weighing the odds of this being too much against the unappealing prospect of undercutting Martin's stated agreement. He isn't entirely sure what would make it too much, is the thing. This feels, at heart, like a simple (albeit belated) role reversal: John is offering something that Martin has already given him on more than one occasion. Granted, John is acutely aware that offering something needn't indicate that you want that thing for yourself, but he also can't imagine why Martin wouldn't want — or deserve — to be similarly spoiled for affection.

And he did say 'yes.' Asked and answered.

Still, John proceeds with an abundance of care. He leans down to press a gentle, reverent kiss against Martin's skin, but resists the impulse to linger, or the urge to just wrap his arms around him and pull him close. Instead, he straightens, waiting to make sure Martin seems all right before tapping his finger against the other two points of the sail. He hadn't been entirely serious when he'd spoken of neglect, but he does like the idea of kissing as many of Martin's freckles as their collective preferences allow, and going by constellation seems like a good way to keep track of the ones he's covered.

Martin's breath catches very slightly when John's lips touch his skin, the kiss brief and gentle but imbued with so much tenderness and care that it's nearly overwhelming. He doesn't linger, not even to nuzzle against him as he ordinarily might, just pulls back and taps his fingers again near the first. He seems determined to be as cautious as Martin is with him, and there's a moment where Martin doesn't understand why, just a breath before everything finally slots into place. Sudden, but simple and obvious, as if he was simply operating on a time delay.

He remembers acutely the first time he let someone see him in any state of undress. It was stupid, a bit desperate; the very first date with someone he'd met online. He'd wanted to sleep with Martin and he'd made that very apparent from go, and Martin had taken that as a lucky, unexpected break. It hadn't been bad, exactly, but it had been overwhelming; Devon, his name was, had been eager and pushy, had delighted in touching him and making him jump. Charmed by how easy he was, at least that first time; eager to find ways to turn him on while sparing little thought to whether or how Martin might want that himself. It had led Martin to discover he doesn't particularly enjoy being so exposed, but he was too shy and too embarrassed to do anything but struggle to push past that. Because it had seemed like a flaw in his own design; throughout his spotty dating history, being undressed in front of a boyfriend has always led to one of two outcomes: sex, or a poorly disguised awkwardness around the shape and size of him, something Martin recognized and attempted to mitigate by not revealing himself all that much.

But John has no such goals or hangups. He reached out to stop Martin from getting dressed because he wanted to examine him, to touch and kiss him where he's never before had access, simply because he... because he wants to, because he likes to, because he loves Martin and he enjoys the feel of him for its own sake. And even with all that, as innocuous and gentle as his intentions are, he is still treating this with the utmost caution, something no one else has ever done, because in the unforgiving shorthand of the majority of the dating world, getting undressed is consent enough.

Martin shudders again and closes his eyes, though he cannot stop the tears from slipping out, and he reaches up to cover his face, although there is certainly no hiding this now.

"I-I'm sorry, it's—it's okay. I'm okay," he babbles, hiccuping softly. Christ, he doesn't want to bring things to a halt like this, but at the same time, he knows it might not be fair to ask John to just ignore such a profound reaction and carry on. And... and he trusts John to see him like this and not to recoil. He trusts he hasn't ruined anything, even if he has to sort of remind himself of that, to exercise the trust like an unused muscle; he knows it will be all right. "I, I want—I don't want you to stop, I just n-need a minute."

Edited 2020-12-24 02:30 (UTC)

"Oh," John breathes in quiet dismay as Martin buries his own face in his hands. There was enough forewarning that it isn't a shock, but it's still not what John was going for. He frowns as Martin stumbles through some ostensible reassurances, not because he doesn't believe them, but because the clarity they provide is still a bit heartbreaking.

He'd broken down like this. It was their very first day together, the first time Martin had touched him with no other intent but to make him feel good — not just good, but safe. To give him something that wouldn't twist into something else he hadn't asked for. The parallels hadn't really occurred to him until just now, but he's starting to make out the shape of them: that if he were someone else, someone less cautious and more presumptuous, then this, too, might be the sort of thing Martin couldn't ask for without assuming more risk than he'd like. That whatever Martin wanted this to be, or mean, might just as easily be subsumed by whatever his partner had already decided.

It's awful, but it gives John a clearer road map than he might've had, otherwise. He knows that what he's doing isn't a problem, and he knows that needing time isn't the same as needing space. So he leans forward, more careful than uncertain, and drapes his arms around Martin's middle. His chest presses against Martin's back as he curls around him, as if to cover him like a blanket. "It's okay," he murmurs, brushing a kiss against Martin's temple. "I've got you."

It's such a tremendous relief when John doesn't pull away, when he instead presses closer, arms drawing around to envelop him gently, that a little half-sob, half-laugh bursts out of Martin, and although he doesn't want to disrupt their positioning entirely, he twists about enough to meet John halfway. He curls in alongside him, tucking his head up under John's chin quite like The Bishop did with him on their first meeting. So secured, he lets himself cry a little easier, needing to let it out, wanting to have done with it; John holds him through it, and it's over quicker the less he tries to resist it. Soon enough it subsides to a few quiet whimpers, and he lets his hands slip down from his face, one settling on John's arms where they wrap around his waist, the other curling into the soft knit of his jumper.

"Thank you," he whispers, and draws a shuddering breath, letting it out again in a little huff. "I-I'm all right now, I think." Still a little tender, but no longer overcome, anyway. He wonders briefly if he should say more, should try to explain himself, but he isn't sure it's necessary, isn't even sure where he'd begin. He doesn't want this to become a conversation about bad memories; they've already evaded that once today, and that's a path he wants to stay on. He has no desire to delve into how his past relationships may have hurt him when he has John now, holding him and taking care of him. That's what matters; that's where he wants his focus to remain.

"You can keep going," he says after a moment, a little tentative but not uncertain. "Wh-whatever you like." He shifts a little, not quite returning to his original position, but offering the suggestion of it. Soft, flushing brightly even with his head still turned down: "I'm yours."

Martin turns to meet the embrace, tucking himself against John's chest as he has many times before, and John hums, soft and sympathetic. This might not be what he intended, but he knows how to cope with it — and he's getting better at not descending into a spiral of guilt over setting it off. He shifts a little to get more comfortable, then resettles himself, his thumb brushing gently against Martin's skin as he waits for him to recover himself.

He doesn't press for an explanation; Martin tends to offer them, unprompted, once he's settled down. But it does surprise him a little when all Martin ends up giving him is thanks and reassurance. Maybe that's a good sign: perhaps it means John didn't do anything that ought to be avoided going forward. It might not do anything for his curiosity, of course... but if Martin doesn't want to lead them down some miserable tangent, John isn't going to bloody drag him. His curiosity isn't worth that.

"You're sure?" he still asks, leaning back a little so he can see him properly. Martin's cheeks are still streaked with tears, and John lifts a hand so he can blot them dry with the cuff of his jumper. "I would hate to leave the boat unfinished," he adds, risking a wry little smile.

Martin lets out a watery laugh and then hums, soft and sheepish, lifting his head so John can better dry his tears.

"I'm sure," he murmurs, and sniffs once. He opens his mouth to say more, but he isn't sure what, or how; he feels he ought to explain himself, but he can't imagine doing it without running the risk of breaking down all over again. Perhaps later, perhaps once he feels steadier, and steadiness lies past the comfort and affection he still craves. In the end he just lists toward John and kisses him, brief and gentle and slightly salty; then he pulls back and takes John's hands, moves them gingerly to his shoulder, his belly, before turning himself about and getting awkwardly back into position.

"Touch me," he whispers, blushing a little at the twinned intimacy and innocence of the request, the intense vulnerability of it. "Please."

John's hesitation was more rooted in politeness than uncertainty, but even if it had been the latter, Martin would've dispelled it easily. There's no misinterpreting the deliberate way Martin places John's hands on him, or the simplicity of his whispered request. It makes his chest ache a little, the love and the trust it implies, and he swallows thickly before he starts to let his hands wander.

It's different to how he'd touched him before, the exceedingly gentle tracery of his fingertips replaced by the more decisive press of his entire hand. His earlier focus on Martin's freckles is set aside in favor of a broader scope, his eyes and hands taking in the soft curves of him. He strokes one palm down the shallow valley of Martin's spine, then around his ribs until it mirrors his other hand, both resting on Martin's belly. Part of him is tempted to just pull himself close, to drape himself back around Martin and nuzzle into his neck, but that can wait. Instead, he curls his fingers, letting them brush fondly over Martin's skin.

This is the first time he's touched Martin's belly directly. He hasn't given it his extended, single-minded focus since the first time, and the briefer touches he's indulged in since then have always been above Martin's clothes, not underneath. Now, his long fingers fit themselves against Martin's familiar curves with nothing to mute the warmth or mask the softness of them, and he hums in quiet pleasure, leaning in just enough to press a kiss to Martin's hair, a little behind his ear.

It was an impulse, but not a thoughtless one, and Martin doesn't regret it, doesn't flinch from John's hands as they settle around his middle. Faced as he is with such intense clarity, of his own desires, of how much care John always takes with him, there is no room left for doubt or self-consciousness, no bad memories or learned unease to get in the way of what he wants, which is just to be held, to be touched. John likes the way he looks and feels, wants to touch him, and there are no ulterior motives. He doesn't feel like he's being pawed at or pushed, he doesn't feel prying fingers at the edge of his threshold. He just feels safe. He just feels loved.

His eyes slip shut and he breathes out a contented hum, tipping his head back to nuzzle against John after that delicate little kiss. He lays his hands over John's, intending neither to stop or to guide him, just enjoying the extra contact and the acknowledgment of it. He didn't quite mean to draw John's attention away from his freckles, but it doesn't much matter, either; wherever John's attention takes him, Martin feels no trepidation. He will be safe every step.

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Beheld // for John

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