The bathroom door shuts, and John remains stiffly sat for a beat or two before getting to his feet. He can't sit still; he feels as if he ought to be doing something.
But, of course, there is nothing for him to do. What, does he think Martin would welcome it if he had the temerity to knock on the door? Does he even have the right to presume to offer comfort to this Martin, who never heard a kind word from him before tonight?
His restless pacing carries him into the living room before he decides that standing was a mistake, and settles heavily onto the couch, depositing The Bishop on the cushion next to him and hunching forward to bury his head in his hands. He doesn't have a right to the lump in his throat or the weight in his chest. He's being dramatic, teetering on the edge of some truly inexcusable self-pity. Whatever this is, it'll sort itself soon enough. Things will return to a normal he recognizes. Martin, his Martin, will wake up one day soon and be just as he's supposed to be, and they'll look back at all this from a comfortable distance away, and it'll be fine.
All he has to do is just... be decent to him in the meantime. That's not a tall order. Fuck, it's literally the least he can do.
John fists a hand in his hair, and the recriminating sting feels right, a non-verbal get it the fuck together. He sniffs once, his other hand smudging away the few tears that managed to fall. Christ, this'll be hard enough for Martin without him having to worry about John's feelings, as if their distress is even remotely comparable. He's being ridiculous.
The faint sound of running water emits from the bathroom, and John pushes out a bracing breath before getting back to his feet and returning to his chair. By the time Martin emerges, he has his hands curled around his cup, and... well, there's really nothing he could do to achieve the kind of 'normal' this Martin would anticipate. Too changed for that, in more ways than one. He hopes he's erased the evidence that he'd been crying, if nothing else.
He risks a glance up at Martin, the corners of his mouth twitching back in an expression that's more acknowledgment than smile. It's some small relief to be believed. At least it means they can probably wait until daylight before introducing Martin to the city itself.
Physically, at least. John sucks on his teeth for a moment, relieved that the topic has shifted to more neutral territory, though he isn't sure the explanations he might offer on this front will be satisfying, either. "We just sort of... appeared here," he says, hitching his shoulders in a small, helpless shrug. "Not like we were kidnapped or something, more like a— like a portal fantasy, like stumbling into fucking Narnia. It's happened to others as well — hundreds of people, all told. As far as I understand it, it's another universe. Close enough to our own that you can almost mistake the two, but not quite identical."
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But, of course, there is nothing for him to do. What, does he think Martin would welcome it if he had the temerity to knock on the door? Does he even have the right to presume to offer comfort to this Martin, who never heard a kind word from him before tonight?
His restless pacing carries him into the living room before he decides that standing was a mistake, and settles heavily onto the couch, depositing The Bishop on the cushion next to him and hunching forward to bury his head in his hands. He doesn't have a right to the lump in his throat or the weight in his chest. He's being dramatic, teetering on the edge of some truly inexcusable self-pity. Whatever this is, it'll sort itself soon enough. Things will return to a normal he recognizes. Martin, his Martin, will wake up one day soon and be just as he's supposed to be, and they'll look back at all this from a comfortable distance away, and it'll be fine.
All he has to do is just... be decent to him in the meantime. That's not a tall order. Fuck, it's literally the least he can do.
John fists a hand in his hair, and the recriminating sting feels right, a non-verbal get it the fuck together. He sniffs once, his other hand smudging away the few tears that managed to fall. Christ, this'll be hard enough for Martin without him having to worry about John's feelings, as if their distress is even remotely comparable. He's being ridiculous.
The faint sound of running water emits from the bathroom, and John pushes out a bracing breath before getting back to his feet and returning to his chair. By the time Martin emerges, he has his hands curled around his cup, and... well, there's really nothing he could do to achieve the kind of 'normal' this Martin would anticipate. Too changed for that, in more ways than one. He hopes he's erased the evidence that he'd been crying, if nothing else.
He risks a glance up at Martin, the corners of his mouth twitching back in an expression that's more acknowledgment than smile. It's some small relief to be believed. At least it means they can probably wait until daylight before introducing Martin to the city itself.
Physically, at least. John sucks on his teeth for a moment, relieved that the topic has shifted to more neutral territory, though he isn't sure the explanations he might offer on this front will be satisfying, either. "We just sort of... appeared here," he says, hitching his shoulders in a small, helpless shrug. "Not like we were kidnapped or something, more like a— like a portal fantasy, like stumbling into fucking Narnia. It's happened to others as well — hundreds of people, all told. As far as I understand it, it's another universe. Close enough to our own that you can almost mistake the two, but not quite identical."