Martin finally relaxes a bit when John seems to accept his apology, or to acknowledge it, at least. He still doesn't feel entirely right with himself, still horrified and appalled that the sentiment even made its way out of him in a heated moment, but... maybe if John can forgive him, he can also forgive himself. Eventually.
But of course John isn't only concerned about that. Martin continues to stare at his idle hand as he tries to work out where to start. The reassurances are easier to answer, and he squeezes John's hand in return.
"I—I know," he says softly, "but I think I... I think I need to?"
He draws and releases another heavy, labored breath, tinged with impatience. It feels like too much, on the one hand, too much to get into; but the longer he thinks about it, the harder it is to avoid considering what might be the most practical starting point.
'Practical' being the most coldly impersonal way to think of it.
"You, erm..." He stammers around what he wants to say for a while, not because he's not sure how, but because he's intensely aware that it might hurt. It's not something they've ever spoken about — not something he ever thought they would speak about, honestly, because what would be the point? To make one or both of them miserable? But while he has an assumption about the answer, and he's fairly certain he's right, he needs to ask now, to allow John to fill it in himself. Because he's not sure how he'll even begin to talk about his mother without addressing this shared context.
So he shuts his eyes briefly, draws a slightly more steadying breath, and says, "You heard the tape, didn't you? Where Elias..." Now he grapples uncertainly for how to put it, too many rather visceral options presenting themselves, when he thinks maybe the tamest will do: "Where he... told me about her."
no subject
But of course John isn't only concerned about that. Martin continues to stare at his idle hand as he tries to work out where to start. The reassurances are easier to answer, and he squeezes John's hand in return.
"I—I know," he says softly, "but I think I... I think I need to?"
He draws and releases another heavy, labored breath, tinged with impatience. It feels like too much, on the one hand, too much to get into; but the longer he thinks about it, the harder it is to avoid considering what might be the most practical starting point.
'Practical' being the most coldly impersonal way to think of it.
"You, erm..." He stammers around what he wants to say for a while, not because he's not sure how, but because he's intensely aware that it might hurt. It's not something they've ever spoken about — not something he ever thought they would speak about, honestly, because what would be the point? To make one or both of them miserable? But while he has an assumption about the answer, and he's fairly certain he's right, he needs to ask now, to allow John to fill it in himself. Because he's not sure how he'll even begin to talk about his mother without addressing this shared context.
So he shuts his eyes briefly, draws a slightly more steadying breath, and says, "You heard the tape, didn't you? Where Elias..." Now he grapples uncertainly for how to put it, too many rather visceral options presenting themselves, when he thinks maybe the tamest will do: "Where he... told me about her."