loficharm: (the lonely)
Martin Blackwood ([personal profile] loficharm) wrote2021-03-08 12:34 pm
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.
statement_ends: (downcast - profile)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2021-03-11 03:41 am (UTC)(link)
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."
statement_ends: (profile - soff)

[personal profile] statement_ends 2021-03-12 03:17 am (UTC)(link)
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.
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[personal profile] statement_ends 2021-03-12 05:18 am (UTC)(link)
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.