Avoidance // for John

[loficharm]

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.

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[loficharm]

Fatigue crawls in to fill the space left behind by released sorrow and tension, and as John starts to answer, Martin has no recourse but to listen, no energy to argue or protest or even react beyond slight changes in his breathing. Things were difficult, he wants to say, but finds no conviction for it. Deeper, thornier rejoinders occur to him, a cascade of evidence in favor of his own badness, unfair assessments and unkind counterpoints that feel hollow and unconvincing even to him. Because he knows, part of him knows, that John is right. That it wasn't his fault; that he was only a child, and he ought not hold himself to standards he doesn't enforce for anyone else. That none of it was fair, and that he did the best he could in a terrible situation.

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."

[statement_ends]

It's not much of an acknowledgment, but it's not an argument, either, so John takes it as a good sign. He keeps up his gentle ministrations, one hand rubbing slow circles against Martin's back, and considers how best to continue. What is most worth saying, especially when Martin sounds so entirely worn out.

"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."

[loficharm]

Martin grunts noncommittally at all that, but the constant, gentle pressure of John's hand against his back is more soothing than words could ever be right now. He feels wrung out and overexposed, having said all he needed to and not regretting it, exactly, but having no idea how to pick himself back up from here. How he'll ever manage to proceed through the rest of the day with the slightest normalcy. John provides little stepping stones along the way, offering a hand out of the dark like he so often does, hugging him close and kissing his hair.

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.

[statement_ends]

Martin uncurls himself, pulling back enough to seek John's gaze. John meets it calmly — or means to, though it's hard to maintain his composure when he sees that Martin's eyes are filling with tears. But he doesn't look away; he refuses to look away when there is nothing here to shy from. If Martin wanted to remain tucked against John's shoulder, he could have done. If he wants to be seen, the least John can do is oblige him.

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.

[loficharm]

John welcomes him with so much tenderness and grace that it's almost overwhelming, that Martin almost gets lost wondering how he could possibly deserve this, how he could ever have gotten so lucky. He whimpers as John's fingers curl gently into his hair; his chest aches and he feels as though he might start trembling again from the sheer weight of his own gratitude. But he allows himself to relax instead, to melt into John's arms, and when he draws back for breath it is only by mere inches, watery eyes seeking John's once again.

"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.

[statement_ends]

John's breath hitches when Martin speaks, not because the sentiment is new, but because of how he says it, the reverent weight he gives each word. "O-oh," he says, a bit foolishly, before Martin kisses him again, and then sinks into his arms. It's second nature to hold him close, to turn his face into the soft weft of Martin's hair and press his lips against his crown. "I love you, too," he says, shutting his eyes for a few moments and just letting himself breathe.

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.

[loficharm]

"Mmnh," he mumbles, stirring like a child from sleep as John gingerly eases them down into a better position. Martin doesn't quite open his eyes, nor does he let go, keeping a close hold around John's middle, but he goes along obediently, settling into a more horizontal position tucked up alongside him. It's a little crowded on their couch, but they're used to it by now, and there's no possibility of discomfort with John holding him like this. He adjusts his own grip and position until he's reasonably sure he won't cause John any undue aches, and then he breathes out slowly, allowing himself to slip comfortably back toward unconsciousness.

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.