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Entry tags:
Avoidance // for John
October 11th, 2020
[CW: grief, specifically regarding the loss of a mother; memories/discussion of emotional abuse; maladaptive coping mechanisms]
The date creeps up on him, as a lot of important dates do, but it doesn't matter. Last year he'd had a new cat to distract him, as well as a commitment to his own misery and guilt that made it all feel intentional and chosen. This year, he doesn't realize until he's washing up after lunch, spies the calendar on the fridge, wonders why the date seems familiar, and realizes. Almost exactly how he'd realized it was their Darrow anniversary just a few months ago, which could've made him laugh bitterly if he'd had even enough energy to do that. If he'd wanted to draw attention to it.
He'd forgotten. He'd actually forgotten, and might well have gone through this nice, sunny autumnal Sunday with his partner and never once remembered.
But he remembers now, and it's all he can think about, even though it doesn't matter, as he sits on the couch and reads — tries to read — with John buried in his own book beside him. He doesn't think of bringing it up, because what would be the point? At least it's such a dull ache that there's not much to show for it. No tears or heavy sighs or moping about the flat. Just a cat on his lap and John beside him and a book which, while its words are no longer holding him, at least serves well as something to look at.
The thing is, he's fine, and there's nothing to talk about, because it doesn't matter. It's been a long time since it mattered. There's no need to fixate on it; it's good he remembered, and he can spend some time thinking about it as he ought, but it need not extend past that, because it doesn't matter. It's fine, and he's fine, and it's all fine.
[CW: grief, specifically regarding the loss of a mother; memories/discussion of emotional abuse; maladaptive coping mechanisms]
The date creeps up on him, as a lot of important dates do, but it doesn't matter. Last year he'd had a new cat to distract him, as well as a commitment to his own misery and guilt that made it all feel intentional and chosen. This year, he doesn't realize until he's washing up after lunch, spies the calendar on the fridge, wonders why the date seems familiar, and realizes. Almost exactly how he'd realized it was their Darrow anniversary just a few months ago, which could've made him laugh bitterly if he'd had even enough energy to do that. If he'd wanted to draw attention to it.
He'd forgotten. He'd actually forgotten, and might well have gone through this nice, sunny autumnal Sunday with his partner and never once remembered.
But he remembers now, and it's all he can think about, even though it doesn't matter, as he sits on the couch and reads — tries to read — with John buried in his own book beside him. He doesn't think of bringing it up, because what would be the point? At least it's such a dull ache that there's not much to show for it. No tears or heavy sighs or moping about the flat. Just a cat on his lap and John beside him and a book which, while its words are no longer holding him, at least serves well as something to look at.
The thing is, he's fine, and there's nothing to talk about, because it doesn't matter. It's been a long time since it mattered. There's no need to fixate on it; it's good he remembered, and he can spend some time thinking about it as he ought, but it need not extend past that, because it doesn't matter. It's fine, and he's fine, and it's all fine.
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But eventually, he realizes that Martin isn't being quiet so much as silent. He doesn't think he's heard a page turn in several minutes, and when he mentally counts out two more, just to be sure of himself, that only confirms it. Martin isn't reading. He's just... staring at the page.
Nothing's happened, though, or not anything John can think of. They had a perfectly pleasant lunch less than an hour ago. Well, he supposes it could be something innocuous. His mind could just be wandering; that's allowed. But when John sneaks a sidelong glance at him, the fixed, distant look on Martin's face isn't particularly reassuring.
John doesn't set his book down, but he does turn his head a little, reining back his concern until it might pass for polite inquiry. "All right?" he asks gently.
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"What?" he says absently without looking at John, shifting slightly and refocusing on his book, having no idea where he left off. "Yeah, fine."
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He just isn't used to being shut out by Martin, who doesn't even look at him as he blandly insists that he's fine. John's stomach lurches uneasily. They're better than this, normally; they talk about things even when it's difficult. Christ knows Martin has dragged John into more than one conversation he would have much rather skipped, helpful and necessary as they might've been in the long run.
Maybe it's his turn, then. Not to pry, but just... nudge, a bit.
"You're sure?" he asks carefully. "You seem a bit... distracted."
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"I'm fine," he says again, softer, hoping that'll be enough to convince John to just... let it be, just this once.
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"Martin..." he tries, gentler, reaching hesitantly for his arm.
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So much for putting that to bed. Christ, now what? He feels come over with an awful prickling sensation, like a limb's been asleep but too heightened and too overwhelming to be something so mundane. Like there's fire under his skin and a touch will burn one or both of them. He still can't look at John, and he hates that John is looking at him with that — that gentle concern, that intuition of his that only crops up sometimes, and he just wants to go away somewhere where no one will look at him at all.
"Please just let it alone," he says curtly, and turns away to walk toward the front door, reaching for his coat, as evenly as he can amid that desperation to just bolt. "I'm going out, I—I just need to be alone for a bit. Take a walk. Clear my head. I'll be back soon. You won't miss me."
The words slip out easily, almost casually, but they burn like bile on the way up, and he slows just a moment, halfway to pulling his coat down from the hook.
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"I wasn't," he starts to object, before Martin announces that he's going for a walk — that he needs to be alone and that John won't miss him — and all at once, the memory of the plant mister seems horribly apropos. John had picked a fight like this, and it wasn't because he just needed some fresh air. And if he'd actually left the flat in that state...
John's eyes widen, and he takes a few loping steps towards the door. "Hang on, just..." Christ, he can't just let Martin leave, not until he knows what—
And then he does.
He isn't trying, but it doesn't matter; he wants too much, and if Martin won't oblige him, the Eye will. John's hand, extended in a half-reach, drops back to his side, and his shoulders slump.
"Oh," he breathes. "Oh, Martin, I-I'm so—"
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Immediately Martin freezes, and he doesn't let John finish before snapping, "What?" The coat drops to the floor as he turns around, finally meeting John's eyes. "You're so what, John?"
The awful thing is he already knows. He knows exactly what's happened, and for a gut-lurching moment he just wants to hear John say it, but at the sight of his stricken expression he can't maintain even that angry distance and he grits out, "I just told you not to do that."
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He snags there for a moment, caught between the well-worn guilt of it all, a voice not unlike Melanie's telling him that there's no excuse, and the fresh anxiety that prompted him to wonder so fucking hard in the first place. He huffs out a damp, humorless approximation of a laugh, his hands curling into fists. "I thought you were going to walk into a fucking fog bank, Martin, what was I supposed to...?"
Not that, is the obvious answer, but it's not a particularly enlightening one. And beneath all the guilt and anxiety, he's still not really sure what the hell is going on. They've never really talked about Martin's mother, or her passing. The times when it might have been appropriate had coincided neatly with times that they were barely speaking to one another, and he knows enough — more than he wants to, considering the source — to know why Martin might not want to discuss it. But there are ways to end a conversation that don't involve fleeing the fucking county, and Martin's generally better at that sort of thing than John is, anyway. He thinks he has a right to his concern, if nothing else.
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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.
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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."
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"D-don't apologize," he pleads, his voice strained and pathetic. "Y-you've nothing to apologize for, that's not—I never should've—th-that was a horrible thing to say, John, I'm so sorry."
The second apology just feels like he's trying to clean the wound with saltwater. What does it matter? He already said it, the damage done. Christ, John doesn't deserve any of this, and yet he's still pleading with him to stay. John doesn't deserve this, and Martin doesn't deserve John, but he's not going to leave now. He can no longer even imagine wanting to.
"I—" he whispers and takes another strangled breath, letting it out in an effort to steady himself. "I, I'll stay. If you want me here. Of course I'll stay."
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"I do," he insists. "I-I shouldn't have pried, and I should've—I should've been there for you when you needed me, I wish I'd—" he cuts himself off, realizing a little too late that this isn't conducive to keeping his own composure. He scrubs his hands over his face, pushes an exhalation between his palms, then lets his hand drop and steps aside, giving Martin room to come back out of the entryway.
"Of course I want you here," he says softly. "Always."
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But he doesn't want John to shout at him, not really. He wants forgiveness. He wants a reprieve from his own misery and guilt. He wants it to be okay, to be told he's okay, and John... John seems to want to give him that. Even if he hasn't earned it. Doesn't deserve it.
His tears are already starting to subside, leaving him almost numb as he watches John from his periphery. John's hand drops and he shuffles aside as if to give Martin the wide berth he's made it so clear he needs.
And now that it's so clearly offered, Martin suddenly doesn't want it anymore, doesn't know how he can possibly make it back across the room without anything holding him up. Can't stand the thought of keeping John at a distance when all John wants to do is reach out.
"Oh, John—" he says in a small, broken voice, taking a stumbling step forward and throwing his arms around him. He wants to apologize more, again and again until it feels like enough, but he isn't sure it ever will. For now he just holds on tight, even as a part of him half-expects John to push him away.
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Instead, Martin pitches towards him at once, and John sucks in a startled breath before Martin's arms curl tight, squeezing a small, wounded noise out of him. He doesn't indulge his shock for more than a moment, though, his arms closing around Martin in turn, clinging to him as hard as he dares.
"I'm sorry," he says again, after taking a slow, shuddering breath. He squeezes his eyes shut against the renewed threat of tears, uncertain what he's even apologizing for anymore — the whole bloody situation, really — and presses his lips to Martin's crown. "I'm so sorry, Martin."
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In the end he's the one to pull back, eventually and not entirely, letting his head come to rest against John's chest a little while longer. His own words still ring loudly in his ears, still feeling more important and damning than anything else, but... this did start for a reason. And John hasn't pushed, apart from by accident. And Martin no longer wants to be alone with it, or to bury it where it'll just eat him from the inside out. He wants to talk; he just has no idea how.
The funny thing, the horrible thing, is he can't even remember himself what he said to John two approximate years ago. Mostly he remembers John lying in bed, ashen and still. He's retained very little of his own nattering.
"I almost forgot it was today," he says finally, his voice still very small and tired. "I almost..."
He goes quiet for a few moments, then says, "C-can we sit back down?"
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Perhaps it's for the best that, when Martin speaks again, John is still a bit too strung out to summon up any strong (and potentially upsetting) reactions. He isn't sure if nearly forgetting is a personal indictment or a bullet not quite dodged (or, perhaps most likely, an uncomfortable combination of both). But Martin's question is easily answered.
"Yeah," John breathes, lifting a hand to brush his fingers through Martin's hair, just once. "Of course." He briefly considers the prospect of tea before dismissing it; he isn't sure Martin has the wherewithal to make it himself, or if there would be any real benefit to sitting and waiting for John to do it if not. Instead, he guides Martin back to the couch, one hand resting gently on his back.
Once they've both sat, John wants little more than to just pull Martin back into his arms again. But he isn't sure that would be conducive to... to whatever comes next, and after an uncertain beat of hesitation, he instead offers his hand, palm up.
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It's a long time before he says anything at all.
"I suppose I try not to think about it most days," he says. "And it... it caught me off guard, and that made me feel..." He draws a heavy breath, shifting uncomfortably. "Well. It doesn't matter. I shouldn't have taken it out on you, I—I shouldn't have said those things. I am sorry, John. It..." He chews his lip for a while, wishing this still didn't feel so bloody insufficient. "Obviously it wasn't your fault. I know if you could've heard me, you... you'd have listened. I know that."
It's good to lay it out so clearly, but it still doesn't feel like enough, and he looks down, staring numbly at his free hand where it sits useless in his lap.
"I—" He stops, wavering, trying to find the right words, coming up empty. He grunts, frustrated. "I don't know how to talk about this."
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And it is, clearly: Martin falters on the finer points of how he'd felt in favor of another, more explicit apology, and John gives his hand a gentle squeeze. "It's okay," he says. "I mean, it's not—" he flaps his free hand dismissively, aware that it wasn't okay just as he's aware that this isn't about him. Martin didn't all but flee their flat out of a sudden resentment for John's fucking coma, and his apologies, while appreciated, feel a little beside the point. "I know you didn't meant to—to take it out on me."
He watches sidelong while Martin struggles, lips twitching in a faint, sympathetic wince. "Do you want to?" he asks carefully. "It's okay if you don't." Christ knows he hadn't the last time they were both sat here, and John doesn't want him to dredge up old miseries out of some sense of obligation. "You don't... owe me."
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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."
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But his relief, such as it is, is short lived. After another considerable pause, and a few conscious breaths, Martin brings up that tape, and John stills like a bloody rabbit in headlights. He doesn't know what's worse: the simple reminder of it all — those early days back after the hospital, trying to get his head around just how wrong everything had gone, turning to the tapes because at least they were there and available to him, trying not to think about how much easier it suddenly was to find exactly what he was looking for — or that simple, damning, 'didn't you?' That Martin has just... assumed, all this time, that of course John had listened to that tape, had heard Elias lay out the most painful, personal truths about Martin that he could dredge up for no other purpose but to punish him. Of course John had heard it all, far too late, and done nothing.
Actually, the worst of it isn't the reminder or the assumption. The worst is that Martin is right.
John sighs quietly, his gaze fixed on the coffee table. "Yes," he says, biting back any urge to elaborate or pad it with justifications. He knows there aren't any, just as surely as Martin knows what he is.
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"John..." he says softly, and ends up shifting his position a bit, shuffling awkwardly so he can sit a bit closer. He doesn't want to crowd him, but he doesn't let go of his hand, and doesn't want them to just be sat there not looking at each other. "It's not like... Look, even if Elias hadn't said, I knew you were going to hear it. That was sort of a given. That's how it all worked, and I went in knowing that. I mean, I—I'd expected, I'd hoped, that you were coming back, you know... alive. That you'd hear it right then and we'd have to talk about it, and..."
He's not sure how helpful that is, if it's helpful at all. Just because they worked for the evil grandmaster of eavesdropping doesn't necessarily mean he's just all right with it; John certainly would never think to presume that. He'd had time to accept its inevitability, something John is in no position to take for granted.
He shrugs and lets his gaze slide away for a moment. "And it's not like... it's not like when you came back I made myself... accessible." He lets that hang in the air for a moment before forcing himself to look at John again. "I didn't mean it like—i-it's fine. I'm glad, all right? I'm glad you heard it, because it... it means I don't have to..."
He shudders and looks away again, sharper this time, irritated with himself for getting caught back up in his stupid, sorry emotions too soon. "I'd just as soon not have to spell all that out," he mutters.
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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.
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Martin shuts his eyes when John reaches out to him, the slow but inexorable resurgence of all these feelings he'd been trying so hard to avoid now threatening to drown him again, to crush him into a little ball of anguish that might crack and crumble at the slightest touch. But John catches him first, the gentle request laced with an undercurrent of need Martin is in no position to refuse. So instead of pulling away he pitches forward, collapsing against John with a heavy shudder and a quiet sob, tension draining from his shoulders as he finally lets himself just... feel it, all of it. He wraps an arm around John's middle, curling up and burrowing into the welcome safety of his bony shoulder. It's a long time before he can speak.
"A-after that," he says, "she started getting worse, and I had to, to put her in a home. And I thought, well, good. She won't have to look at me anymore. She'll get proper help from people who, who won't make any mistakes and won't... who aren't me. And I tried to tell myself that was... good. That it was okay."
He sucks in another breath, his body shaking with the effort, and struggles not to think about what a pitiful picture he makes, how easy it is for him to garner the sympathy he's not sure he deserves.
"But the thing is I—" His voice trembles and he chokes back another sob. "I left her there. I just wanted to have done with it, w-with her, and I—I didn't like it there, it was, it was sort of all we could afford and... those kinds of places are never good, you know? The halls smelled of, of chemicals and damp and sick, and... I didn't want to go there, to face her, so I just... didn't. I only went twice, when I admitted her, and, and when they called me to tell me—to tell me I should come. To say goodbye."
All too naturally he hasn't told anyone this story; he's sure he never even told John's unconscious body this story. In the coma ward he'd probably demurred and talked about how it was sad but he was getting on all right, that sort of non-committal garbage. Nothing worth remembering anyway. Even with John insensible and unable to judge him, he couldn't bear to lay this all out. Easier to pretend it away, keep it locked up. But now, with John's arms around him as if to keep him from drifting away, he suddenly feels like he can't stop.
"Sh-she was sort of lucid, I think," he says. "I mean, she was still having good days and bad days right up to the end, s-so... She knew I was there. She saw me when I came in, and I think for a second she thought I was him. Dad. Which is—"
He laughs, sort of, a desperate, hollow sound closer to a cough. "Y-you know the funny thing is I don't even remember my dad, what he looked like, anything. He was never really around even before he left, and it's not like she kept pictures. I don't even have his name, she never took his and she wanted me to have a good English name, s-so it's like—for me, it's like he never even existed. But she blamed me for all of it, everything he did, all these things I don't even know about, because I—just because I—"
He can't finish that thought, because it isn't that simple and he knows it. He was never enough, never good enough, and she resented him for reasons more than inheriting his father's features. That's just what sealed it, what made it reflexive and easy. Martin lets that line of thinking expire with a soft, frustrated tsk.
"Anyway," he says, his voice lowering a little as he starts to feel calmer, or maybe just numb. "I'm not even sure that's what she thought. She just looked surprised, and then... once she realized who I was, she... she wouldn't look at me. She didn't say a word, I don't even know if she could or she just... wouldn't, but I, I tried, I tried to talk to her, to hold her hand, and she wouldn't let me, and I just—"
The tide rises back up again and he ends up hunching over, not quite pulling away from John but feeling like he needs to compress himself, to disappear. He buries his face in his hands, his voice sounding at once muffled and too loud, echoing around his ears.
"I left," he whispers finally, bitterly. "I couldn't, I... Sh-she didn't want me there, so I just left. I left her there alone. Th-there was a nurse, the one who I think took care of her most often, and I know she saw me go. Maybe she ended up sitting with her, I don't know, but... I saw her later, the nurse, she was the only other person at the funeral, and... I mean, she was really kind. She didn't say anything about it, or, or ask any questions, and I—I suppose she's probably seen a lot worse, but... I don't know."
He keeps curled over, his hands still clutched tightly around his face, fingers digging into his hair. "And once she was gone, I... mostly I just felt relieved."
The moment he's admitted that it feels like something's shifted inside, and the shaking stops, and he just sits there, quiet and still and numb once more. "I was glad she was gone," he whispers, desolate, unable to avoid it. "And I—I don't know what kind of person that makes me."
Which is sort of a cowardly thing to say, in the end, because he's fairly certain he knows exactly what kind of person it makes him, but he's finally run out of words, and he just sits there, crumpled in John's arms, exhausted, nothing left to do but wait for him to speak.
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The story he tells is, predictably, excruciating, and John has to bite back the urge to interrupt on more than one occasion. He doesn't want to make the telling harder, he knows how important it is to not halt whatever momentum Martin's able to build, but Jesus Christ, it's awful. Not just how bad it was — the terrible mundanity of a broken home and an unfit caregiver, and the way the fracture echoed through the years — but how much responsibility Martin shouldered without question. How he carried on as if all that misery was some sort of birthright, to the point where any hint of alleviation came twisted up with guilt. How he confessed his own relief as if that was somehow, retroactively, what killed her.
John is quiet for a few moments after Martin runs down, less because he's speechless and more because he wants to be careful, to not just blurt out the logjam of indignant asides that have built up since Martin began. He sorts through them, instead, picking out the most salient details, and decides to start with the freshest.
"You're not a bad person, Martin," he says, soft but firm. "Your mother... I am sure things were difficult for her," he acknowledges with frosty civility, allowing her that bare minimum of consideration and no more. "But she had no right to take it out on you the way she did. Christ, Martin, not ten minutes ago you were apologizing profusely for taking your frustrations out on me; you can't tell me you deserved that sort of treatment when you were a-a child."
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Knowing it is one thing, accepting it another, much more distant.
But still he lacks the energy to argue, and the comfort of John's arms around him, the absolution he offers — forgiveness that isn't his to extend, as if that would ever stop him — Christ, Martin wants to keep all that, he wants to accept it, to believe he might deserve it. He wants that so badly he can barely breathe, every inhale slow and labored, every exhale a tired, shaky sigh. "Yeah," he mumbles finally. "S'pose."
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"You did the best that you could," he says at length. "Far more than anyone should've expected of you. Of course you'd be relieved when it was over. What was there to miss, when all she ever did was resent you for things you couldn't help?"
There's more he might say: some half-formed ideas about the frequent disparity between the familial ideal and what reality provides, and how little sense it makes to apply the former to the latter — playing the part of a dutiful son against a mother who could never be bothered with the script. But it feels like too much for a Sunday afternoon that has already crumbled into something more fraught than it had any right to be. Instead, he gives Martin a light squeeze, then presses another kiss to his hair.
"I'm sorry that she never really saw you," he softly concludes. "It was her loss."
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And then he speaks again, softer and more conclusive, and Martin finally looks up, finally seeks his eyes, lips parted more from the ongoing effort of breathing regularly than anything else. He can already feel the sting of welling tears, and he doesn't have the requisite energy to hide or forestall them. He starts to answer, realizes he doesn't know how, thinks he might just ruin it if he tries. What does he say to something like that?
At first the only concession to his own building emotion is a tiny murmur as he shifts around to pull himself close, to hug John properly. But it isn't enough; even if he can't find the words, can't pull himself together enough to give voice to the truth lodged in his chest — that John is the only one who ever saw him, the first person to really see him, and it's why Martin fell in love with him and it's still a part of why Martin loves him now — he has to express it somehow.
So he pulls back just enough to meet John's eyes again, to lean close enough to kiss him and to wait, telegraphing his intent as long as he can bear to hold off, only closing the distance when John doesn't stop him.
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It's a different sort of relief when Martin leans in to hug him, and John hums quietly, tightening his own embrace into something firm and snug, his fingers curling into Martin's jumper. This is better — it feels more like a return to something that could be normal, eventually, an easing of the oppressive misery that had pressed both of them into the cushions.
And when Martin leans back again, this time for a different reason, there is still nothing for John to do but meet him, lips parting readily under Martin's gentle pressure. Christ, he loves him; he loves him so much he might burst with it, so much that nothing matters but proving it as many times as he has to, to make sure it sinks in. He hums again, low and deliberate, and lifts a hand so he can slide his fingers into Martin's hair.
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"I love you," he whispers, with such reverence as if he's never said it before. He lets his eyes slip shut, a few tears escaping, but only a few. He leans in to kiss him again, but only briefly this time, exhaustion finally starting to overtake him. This time he doesn't draw back so much as sink down, curling up and letting his head come back to rest on John's shoulder. "I love you so much," he says, his voice still terribly soft but his tone absolute.
There's more he wants to say, or at least he feels as though there should be — more apologies, maybe, or more direct acknowledgment of the things John has said, something. But it all feels very far away at the moment, or he does, like he's drifting out to sea. But not in the sense of being lost. It isn't a lonely feeling. There's a warm, comforting lull to it. He's safe here. Cared for.
He thinks several times about saying more, saying anything, without quite managing; he doesn't even realize that he's starting to fall asleep.
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There's nothing uncomfortable about the silence that follows, both of them wrapped snugly in one another's arms. John is perfectly content to just hold him, to feel his breathing shift from something more deliberately controlled to something deep and even and thoughtless. But then his eyelids start to droop, and he realizes that Martin, too, is probably on the verge of dozing off, and while the thought of relocating to the bed seems like far too much effort, he also knows from ample experience that they won't be comfortable for long if they try to do this upright.
"Here," he murmurs, rubbing Martin's back in a bid to rouse him just enough for a little rearrangement. "Let's do this right." He helps ease them both into lying down, his head propped against a spare cushion (they've done this often enough that it seemed a sound investment, being easier on his neck than just leaning against the armrest), Martin tucked comfortably against his side. "There we are," he says softly, puffing out a small, settled sigh and absently running his palm along Martin's arm.
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In a way that whole conversation feels like it was a bad dream now; it gnaws at him a little, the way a nightmare would, and he knows when he wakes a lot of those little hurts will still be there, along with his grief and his guilt. But John's got him, and John will have him when he wakes up. He never had this before; he always had to deal with it alone, which too easily turned into not dealing with it at all. So even if it takes more time than he wants, even if it goes on hurting, even if he can't quite visualize what being okay looks like... he won't be alone. Not anymore.
That thought carries him gently toward sleep.