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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 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.