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.

Comments

[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.