![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
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.
no subject
Christ. He was a child. They were both children. And Martin...
John opens his eyes, unsurprised to find Martin looking at him and not really surprised to see him as an adult, but still struggling to reconcile his recent memories and how fresh they feel with how distant they rightfully ought to be, a wedge of startling clarity driven into a period that had been softened and worn with time. But Martin is still here, a comforting constant, and John just gazes back at him as things slowly settle into a new but workable configuration.
As the silence stretches on, he realizes he has no idea how to break it. Isn't even sure he wants to, actually. What is there to say? So he reaches forward, instead, his fingers ghosting along Martin's jawline as if to confirm his solidity.
no subject
Only that's not quite right either, is it? Martin's fingertips trace lightly over John's cheekbone around the shell of his ear to the soft hair behind, brushing through the short mix of grey and black, then curls his fingers and brushes them back over his cheek. It's more than a reminder or a reclamation. It feels closer to an acknowledgment — of what passed between them, of what they've learned, and most of all of what hadn't changed at all.
He touches John like it's new, like he's never done it before. Because in some ways it feels like it is.
no subject
Later, probably, he will make room for some degree of embarrassment. In his preexisting memories of his own childhood, he rarely cast himself in a flattering light, and he's not yet sure these newer recollections tip the balance in a more favorable direction. But he's too relieved to be back — to the extent that it feels like a return — to indulge any impulses to bury himself beneath the covers. Not when Martin is touching him so gently.
He hasn't drawn his own hand back, and the pad of his thumb brushes against Martin's chin before he reaches forward again, his fingers delving into Martin's sleep-tousled hair. It would be wrong to say he missed this; at the time, there was nothing to miss. There'd only been a tentative, growing closeness that highlighted the chillier distance that had preceded it, the same strange cocktail of 'vulnerable' and 'unburdened' that he might feel on that first spring day warm enough to leave his coat at home. But he breathes easier as his palm settles against the curve of Martin's neck, his fingers curling gently around the nape like a homecoming.
no subject
Because he remembers too much of his lonely little childhood. The kids who made fun of him for any reason they could find, from his ill-fitting clothes to his size to his race to his shyness. How few friends he had. How the ones he made never stuck around for long. How he certainly never knew anyone like John, anyone who looked different, acted different, was different. No one who took his hand to guide him or offer him comfort, or would go barreling into a cornfield to find him. No one who made him feel like he mattered, even a little.
But John did. Even as children, John defensive and surly and terrified in his own right, they still found some thread of understanding. John still took care of him when it mattered. John was brave for him, and Martin remembers how he quivered and shook when shown the slightest kindness in return. Christ, is it weird to feel like you love someone even more after meeting them as a child?
But that's how he feels. It's the only way he knows to describe it. And words still feel unnecessary or too difficult to work out. More than anything he wants to preserve this moment, so he just continues tracing his hands over John's face as if in reverent memorization, scars and all, and he leans forward until he can rest their foreheads together.
And then the indulgence of it all finally catches up with him, but what he feels isn't embarrassment. It's just joy. His smile turns to a sillier sort of grin and a tiny, sheepish giggle slips out of him before he can contain it.
no subject
Granted, his grandmother hadn't been a cold woman. But his childhood had more notable bullies than notable friends, and the amount of affection he'd generally anticipated back then wasn't much — something that must have been obvious to Eliot, Kat, and Daisy, and probably Martin as well (certainly in retrospect, if not at the time). He'd warmed up over the course of the week, but anything on this scale would've been beyond him. Too much to give, too much to accept. Something to be suspicious of, not something to simply enjoy.
But now those memories have situated themselves in the broader context of their lives, tucked back behind all the work they did to get here: in their bed, in their flat, together and happy. So perhaps it's ridiculous, but he thinks they've bloody well earned a little indulgence.
He lets out a satisfied sigh when Martin rests against him, warm and close. His fingers sift back into Martin's hair, and his other hand moves through the limited space between them and finds one of Martin's, gently tangling their fingers together. It's then that Martin giggles, not quite embarrassed, but near enough to it that John decides it needs answering. They're so close already that all John has to do is tip his chin up to meet Martin's lips in a lingering kiss, reacquainting himself with just how soft Martin is.
no subject
Which is an absurdly romantic thought, even half-drunk on his own happiness, and he breaks the kiss to laugh again, soft and delighted. "G'morning," he says, brushing John's nose with his own.
no subject
And then Martin giggles, and offers a droll little greeting, and John puffs out a quiet laugh of his own. "Sleep well?" he volleys back, before wriggling down the bed a few inches so he can nuzzle up against Martin's chest.
no subject
He's still not sure what to say. He could shift the conversation to a more serious retrospective on what they just went through. He could try to articulate any of the feelings he's had rushing through him in these short wakeful minutes. It all still feels like too much, and he's too happy and far too light to want to turn them toward anything remotely serious.
So he buries his nose in John's hair, planting a series of little kisses on the top of his head. He's not usually in a position to do so, especially with John pressed against him like this; it's a nice feeling. "You?" he says casually.
no subject
His smile softens as Martin kisses the top of his head, and eventually puts the same question. "I don't know how I could possibly follow that stellar response of yours," he deadpans. "You took the only good answer." He tips his head back enough to gaze up at Martin, realizes with some slight consternation that he's no longer particularly well-placed to kiss him, and goes for the only convenient compromise: lightly nuzzling against Martin's chin.
no subject
"Hullo there," he says, before awkwardly scooting down to get more on an even level with John. Sweet as this configuration is, Martin wants to look into his eyes, wants to kiss him some more. Might want all sorts of things, if he lets his mind wander.
Re-situated, he smiles softly and presses in to kiss him once more, gentle and affectionate. "Hello," he says again, whispered between breaths.
no subject
"Hello, yourself," he murmurs, letting his hand wander, as if he needs to reacquaint himself with the well-traveled territory of Martin's back and sides and belly. He hasn't really forgotten, but it's an enjoyable journey, and his palm slides along Martin's waist as he leans in to return the kiss, slow and lingering.
no subject
"Mmh," he sighs, drawing back and blinking his eyes back open. His gaze wanders over the edges of John's face as if restoring his memory of it, and then he reaches up with one hand to brush his fingertips delicately over John's cheek. "I know it's not right to say I missed this, but..." He trails off, his lips curling into a smile once again.
no subject
He rather suspects Martin is of a similar mind there, as well, if his subtle shifting is anything to go by. John's smile widens as his hand drifts back up Martin's side, and one eyebrow arches as he asks, "Anything else you've missed?"
no subject
There are so many things he could say he'd have missed, if he'd known to miss them. The soft look in John's eyes, the mischievous curve of his smile, the deep rumble of his voice — all the rougher from sleep — and especially the gentle touch of his long fingers. They've already indulged themselves this far, and as he nestles close, breathing John in, Martin can't think of a single reason why they should stop.
no subject
"Did you have anything... specific in mind?" John asks, his hand skating back down Martin's side until it's low enough for him to insinuate his thumb beneath the hem of Martin's shirt and rub a gentle arc against his skin. "Any requests?"
no subject
"I can think of a few," he says, his voice going very soft and his eyes opening just enough to peer at John through a big warm smile. "Suppose it might make us a bit late to work, but seeing as we answer to me..."
His voice catches, partly from a slight hitching breath as John continues to brush his thumb along Martin's side, but that small moment is enough to break his concentration, just enough to wake him up to the detail they both managed to forget.
Daisy is in the other bloody room. They hadn't wanted to go to sleep alone, hadn't been able to just trust they'd wake up grown and knowing what to do. She wouldn't have left them for anything, so she is still out there, acute senses, early hours, and all.
"Oh, fuck," he blurts, looking immediately mortified.