The idea that there is nothing to talk about is transparently untrue, though John is in no real position to argue the point. He knows nothing about the situation that wasn't dragged out of Martin unwillingly, in one way or another, and it's not like this is about them. John has no right to demand that Martin confide in him about this particular issue that they've avoided so studiously up until now, and Christ, Martin's allowed to grieve in private, if that's what he wants.
But then Martin continues with a jittery, resentful sort of energy, and John looks away, wincing at the initial jab, the suggestion that he couldn't have known anything about the situation when he had, he had because Elias had, and when he came back from hospital to an Institute he barely recognized and coworkers who would barely speak to him, his only recourse had been the tapes.
And then Martin says, 'You?' and the knife twists. John's gaze snaps back over to him, the initial flare of indignation giving way to a freezing shock as he realizes what's really being said: that Martin had tried, while John was lying senseless in the fucking coma ward. That when Martin was willing, when he'd wanted to talk about it, John wasn't really there.
John's throat closes like a fist. Martin looks horrified, apologizes, but it doesn't ease the ache because it's all true, isn't it? There's a reason he's always carried this on his own, and it's obvious, now, that it was never out of preference. Which makes John's pilfered fragments of intelligence all the more perverse, and for several straining moments, he can't bring himself to move or speak, even as he sees Martin begin to weep in earnest. What fucking right does he have to comfort him now, after all those missed opportunities to do this properly? Who is he to push back against such well-established uselessness?
One of his fists tightens in his hair, as if in subconscious self-recrimination, and he pulls in a shuddering breath. Is he really going to stand here and watch Martin sob in the entryway, on the bloody anniversary of his mother's death, because his feelings are a bit hurt? Jesus Christ. John swallows thickly and lets his hands drop, blinking back his own tears before they can further complicate the situation.
"N-no, Martin, I'm sorry." He shuffles forward, cautiously reaching for Martin's arm again. "Just... stay," he says, cracked and quiet. "Please."
no subject
But then Martin continues with a jittery, resentful sort of energy, and John looks away, wincing at the initial jab, the suggestion that he couldn't have known anything about the situation when he had, he had because Elias had, and when he came back from hospital to an Institute he barely recognized and coworkers who would barely speak to him, his only recourse had been the tapes.
And then Martin says, 'You?' and the knife twists. John's gaze snaps back over to him, the initial flare of indignation giving way to a freezing shock as he realizes what's really being said: that Martin had tried, while John was lying senseless in the fucking coma ward. That when Martin was willing, when he'd wanted to talk about it, John wasn't really there.
John's throat closes like a fist. Martin looks horrified, apologizes, but it doesn't ease the ache because it's all true, isn't it? There's a reason he's always carried this on his own, and it's obvious, now, that it was never out of preference. Which makes John's pilfered fragments of intelligence all the more perverse, and for several straining moments, he can't bring himself to move or speak, even as he sees Martin begin to weep in earnest. What fucking right does he have to comfort him now, after all those missed opportunities to do this properly? Who is he to push back against such well-established uselessness?
One of his fists tightens in his hair, as if in subconscious self-recrimination, and he pulls in a shuddering breath. Is he really going to stand here and watch Martin sob in the entryway, on the bloody anniversary of his mother's death, because his feelings are a bit hurt? Jesus Christ. John swallows thickly and lets his hands drop, blinking back his own tears before they can further complicate the situation.
"N-no, Martin, I'm sorry." He shuffles forward, cautiously reaching for Martin's arm again. "Just... stay," he says, cracked and quiet. "Please."