The only reason John hasn't withdrawn his hand is because he can't imagine doing that to Martin, denying him any small comfort, however little John might deserve the same, but it surprises him when Martin not only maintains his grip, but shifts closer, his leg nudging gently against John's. That simple gesture is more reassuring than Martin's initial elaboration: John isn't sure he can so readily accept the idea that it was a given that he'd listen. If proving Martin right in that regard is shameful, proving Elias correct is far worse.
Nor is there much comfort to be gleaned from hypotheticals that never panned out. Christ, if he'd come back alive, he might not have even needed the tape; Martin and he could've just... talked. Granted, then that would've doubtless wound up on a tape, but it still would've been preferable to what actually occurred.
He knows that some of this is just stubbornness: he doesn't want to be reassured that it was okay when it felt — still feels — like an appalling invasion of Martin's privacy. But the only thing stronger than his own self-recrimination is his aversion to making Martin feel worse, and when Martin admits to not having been accessible, John finally looks back at him, pulling in a little hiccup of air, an aborted objection. And then Martin meets his gaze and insists that he's glad John heard it, because it spares him the necessity of laying all that misery out for him now, and... Christ. To that, at least, John has no answer.
"Martin..." John winces as Martin shivers, their two points of contact suddenly feeling like far too little. He lets go Martin's hand so he can slide his palm along Martin's shoulders, stopping just short of actually drawing him in. "Come here?" he requests, just... wanting him closer, wanting the reassurance for both of them. It doesn't matter how much he deserves it; Martin does, without question.
no subject
Nor is there much comfort to be gleaned from hypotheticals that never panned out. Christ, if he'd come back alive, he might not have even needed the tape; Martin and he could've just... talked. Granted, then that would've doubtless wound up on a tape, but it still would've been preferable to what actually occurred.
He knows that some of this is just stubbornness: he doesn't want to be reassured that it was okay when it felt — still feels — like an appalling invasion of Martin's privacy. But the only thing stronger than his own self-recrimination is his aversion to making Martin feel worse, and when Martin admits to not having been accessible, John finally looks back at him, pulling in a little hiccup of air, an aborted objection. And then Martin meets his gaze and insists that he's glad John heard it, because it spares him the necessity of laying all that misery out for him now, and... Christ. To that, at least, John has no answer.
"Martin..." John winces as Martin shivers, their two points of contact suddenly feeling like far too little. He lets go Martin's hand so he can slide his palm along Martin's shoulders, stopping just short of actually drawing him in. "Come here?" he requests, just... wanting him closer, wanting the reassurance for both of them. It doesn't matter how much he deserves it; Martin does, without question.