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Return // for John
November 9th, 2020
Martin wakes, gently this time, though still without much reason. His eyes flutter open and he gazes at the ceiling for a while, letting his thoughts untangle themselves naturally. He remembers — he remembers all of it, being a child, his fear and confusion and frustration with the whole predicament. There are still traces of anxiety in him from how he'd felt falling asleep, not sure this would work, wearing big clothes because they promised, they all promised he'd wake up grown, not sure he wanted that. John so quiet beside him, and Martin wanting so badly to talk to him but not knowing what to say.
None of it feels distant — it is still very close, fresh in his mind, an odd set of memories to have so clearly built into his own history. It happened yesterday, but it also feels like it happened amidst a childhood that has no space for it. It's a bizarre sensation, but it doesn't really bother him. Mostly he feels light, as if relieved of a burden he didn't realize he was carrying. He's himself again, the memories intact and now gradually flooding with context. All of it taking on new meaning to him now: how good Eliot and Kat and Daisy were to them. How kind Saoirse and Luke and Greta had been. And John...
He lets his head tip gently to the side, a warm smile touching his lips as he sees John beside him, his usual self, still asleep and breathing softly. Martin makes no move toward him and has no desire to speak, to rouse him unnaturally. He feels almost suspended there, appreciating the sight of John as he hadn't been able to before, when John had returned to him after his stint as a cat. And he hadn't even known he was missing. That they both were.
John looks so beautiful and so content, and Martin is pretty sure he could just lie here and look at him for hours, never saying a word, not needing to.
Martin wakes, gently this time, though still without much reason. His eyes flutter open and he gazes at the ceiling for a while, letting his thoughts untangle themselves naturally. He remembers — he remembers all of it, being a child, his fear and confusion and frustration with the whole predicament. There are still traces of anxiety in him from how he'd felt falling asleep, not sure this would work, wearing big clothes because they promised, they all promised he'd wake up grown, not sure he wanted that. John so quiet beside him, and Martin wanting so badly to talk to him but not knowing what to say.
None of it feels distant — it is still very close, fresh in his mind, an odd set of memories to have so clearly built into his own history. It happened yesterday, but it also feels like it happened amidst a childhood that has no space for it. It's a bizarre sensation, but it doesn't really bother him. Mostly he feels light, as if relieved of a burden he didn't realize he was carrying. He's himself again, the memories intact and now gradually flooding with context. All of it taking on new meaning to him now: how good Eliot and Kat and Daisy were to them. How kind Saoirse and Luke and Greta had been. And John...
He lets his head tip gently to the side, a warm smile touching his lips as he sees John beside him, his usual self, still asleep and breathing softly. Martin makes no move toward him and has no desire to speak, to rouse him unnaturally. He feels almost suspended there, appreciating the sight of John as he hadn't been able to before, when John had returned to him after his stint as a cat. And he hadn't even known he was missing. That they both were.
John looks so beautiful and so content, and Martin is pretty sure he could just lie here and look at him for hours, never saying a word, not needing to.