Beheld // for John

[loficharm]

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.

Comments

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

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.