Martin's stomach twists as John tries to offer some explanation, cuts himself off immediately, because he knows and Martin knows there isn't one. Martin has always forgiven him, always been as understanding as he knows how, sometimes even encouraged this when it served a purpose. But now?
When John confesses the apparent root of his concern, Martin doesn't know how to react at first, can only look away with a brittle, unkind snort. He wants to lash out at that, too, to say something like I'm allowed to just be depressed sometimes, only he isn't sure, is he? Maybe if he'd left the Lonely would've found him, curled around him and swallowed him up again. He can't exactly fault John for worrying when it's literally happened before. But that doesn't make him want to stay. It just makes him feel all the more trapped.
There really is nowhere for him to go, is there?
"John," he says, exasperated, tired, and shuts his eyes for a moment. "I know, I know you didn't mean to, just... I don't want to talk about it. There's nothing to talk about."
Liar, says a nasty voice in his head, and he pulls one hand into a fist, staring hard at the wall away from John, angrily blinking back the growing threat of tears.
"I mean it's not like you could've known, could you," he adds, wanting it to sound kinder than it does, unable to stop his voice from twisting into some awful shadow of itself, all bitter and manic. He looks at John again, words tumbling out now faster than he can stop them. "Not like anyone really knew. I mean, who would I have talked to? Peter? Basira? You? I mean, I did try at the time, but apparently you didn't actually hang onto any of tha—"
No no no no no-no-no. Martin stops short, sucking in a breath so hard it makes him dizzy for a moment, his eyes going wide, a hand clutching up over his heart as if he has any right to such horror, any right to feel bad over what he's just said.
"I—" he blurts, and looks away again, at the floor between them this time, because he can't look at John, not now. His ears burn and his breath quickens as it all settles over him like a huge heavy weight, crushing around his shoulders, making his head spin. Too late to take it back now, too late for any of it. "O-oh god, John, I—I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have said that, I—"
No matter how hard he tries to stop them the tears start coming then, and he presses his hand up over his mouth, trying to keep himself from sobbing, trying to keep it all inside, because he doesn't deserve that, he doesn't deserve the sympathy that might engender.
no subject
When John confesses the apparent root of his concern, Martin doesn't know how to react at first, can only look away with a brittle, unkind snort. He wants to lash out at that, too, to say something like I'm allowed to just be depressed sometimes, only he isn't sure, is he? Maybe if he'd left the Lonely would've found him, curled around him and swallowed him up again. He can't exactly fault John for worrying when it's literally happened before. But that doesn't make him want to stay. It just makes him feel all the more trapped.
There really is nowhere for him to go, is there?
"John," he says, exasperated, tired, and shuts his eyes for a moment. "I know, I know you didn't mean to, just... I don't want to talk about it. There's nothing to talk about."
Liar, says a nasty voice in his head, and he pulls one hand into a fist, staring hard at the wall away from John, angrily blinking back the growing threat of tears.
"I mean it's not like you could've known, could you," he adds, wanting it to sound kinder than it does, unable to stop his voice from twisting into some awful shadow of itself, all bitter and manic. He looks at John again, words tumbling out now faster than he can stop them. "Not like anyone really knew. I mean, who would I have talked to? Peter? Basira? You? I mean, I did try at the time, but apparently you didn't actually hang onto any of tha—"
No no no no no-no-no. Martin stops short, sucking in a breath so hard it makes him dizzy for a moment, his eyes going wide, a hand clutching up over his heart as if he has any right to such horror, any right to feel bad over what he's just said.
"I—" he blurts, and looks away again, at the floor between them this time, because he can't look at John, not now. His ears burn and his breath quickens as it all settles over him like a huge heavy weight, crushing around his shoulders, making his head spin. Too late to take it back now, too late for any of it. "O-oh god, John, I—I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have said that, I—"
No matter how hard he tries to stop them the tears start coming then, and he presses his hand up over his mouth, trying to keep himself from sobbing, trying to keep it all inside, because he doesn't deserve that, he doesn't deserve the sympathy that might engender.