loficharm | Inevitable, Really

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jonathan sims

Inevitable, Really

January 19th, 2022

"John, honestly." Martin shivers, digging his hands deeper into the pockets of the rather nice coat that is apparently his. He's standing on a stony portion of beach, where the day's mild chill has become much colder, and John is crouching down in the sand, seeking fossils. This has gotten rather out of hand, he thinks. They'd been having a perfectly fine time at Darrow's museum, last stop on the general tour, until the conversation had gotten away from them and had turned to a revelation of John's childhood hobby. Now they're out here, his own delight at learning this detail having driven John on this mission that is rapidly growing ridiculous. He'd been charmed by the idea of John digging around for fossils, but now one or both of them is running the risk of catching cold, and it'll be his fault. "It's okay if you don't find anything. It's probably not the right... time of year?" He grimaces at how stupid that sounds. "Well, I suppose fossils don't really have seasons, do they."

Not exactly helping his case. He hunches his shoulders and looks out at the horizon, the grey water stretching out to an apparently unreachable distance. Sort of haunting, actually.

"You'll catch your death out here," he scolds, turning his attention back to John.

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"No," John says with exaggerated resignation, sucking a breath in through his teeth, "it's a matter of pride, now. My honor is on the line."

Despite the cold, he's actually not having a bad time. He's enjoyed giving Martin an abridged tour of the sights (he hadn't even mentioned Kagura's existence, for obvious reasons), and there's a nostalgic pleasure in crouching on a beach and poking about for something interesting. He's even enjoying the scolding, if he's being honest with himself. It's familiar. There's no bite in it, but it's not too timid, either. If Martin is comfortable enough to start (resume?) fussing over him, then he must be doing something right.

Swallowing the obvious retort to any suggestion that a chill breeze might be enough to kill him, he instead peers up at Martin and adds a lofty, "I'm sure I'll survive." He then returns his attention to the strip of rocks he's crouched over, turning a few over and flicking them aside until he spies one with a familiar, repeating pattern. John picks it up for a closer examination, and... well, it's not much. The fossilized shell is mostly buried in the rock, only a sliver of it exposed where the stone has split. But it's plainly something — and it's cold enough on the beach that, his own invulnerability notwithstanding, he has no real desire to make Martin keep standing out in it.

So he straightens, brandishing the rock in triumph. "There, see?" he says, crossing over to Martin and holding up the fossil for his examination. "It's a shell. A bit of one, anyway. You can see the ridges." He angles the rock as he speaks, tapping the telltale little ripple with his forefinger.

Martin lets out a sigh, too good-natured to be properly exasperated, and meets John's stubbornness and lofty reassurance with a little smile. Seeing him like this, realizing how not only kind but funny and fun he is, still has far too much novelty for any minor concerns to override it. And his patience is worth it; it's only a few moments later that John straightens up, holding out a find for him to examine, excitedly showing off the details. Martin's smile grows all the fonder. Christ, he's adorable. Has he any idea how adorable he is? Was he like this all along?

He redirects his attention quickly to the rock, to the ridges indicated. It is quite fascinating, actually, and rather impressive, as far as he's concerned. "I'd never have spotted that," he says, peering at the subtle little indentations. "Good eye."

He reaches out to take it for a closer look, his fingers brush along John's as he does so, and he startles slightly. "John, your hands are freezing," he protests, taking the rock in one hand and John's in the other. It's instinctive, even if the instinct is unearned; his motive is practical, a desire to warm John's icy fingers, but now he's just standing here, holding John's hand, and no amount of pragmatism can make him feel normal about it. He ought to let it go immediately, step back and apologize, but that feels appallingly childish, especially after he took it with such sudden and specific intent.

He stares at their hands for a moment, blinking stupidly, not quite able to bring himself to look up. Now that it's happened, he can't tear his focus away from the feeling of John's hand, not just how cold it is, or how long his fingers are, but how alarmingly smooth the skin of his palm is. Sort of waxy. He thought he'd spied some sort of burn there, been too afraid to ask, and he'd managed to forget. It feels... different, but not unpleasant. And somehow it makes him want even less to let go.

"Er..." he starts, and an embarrassed blush starts to spread over the back of his neck and his already cold-reddened ears. And still he holds on. "I su-suppose we ought to head back."

"Well," John starts, prelude to some modest commentary about how it's far from the best specimen he's ever found, or how much relative practice he's had at learning what to look for. Whatever he might've said, it's only half-assembled before Martin cuts him off with an exclamation about the state of his hands, and a familiar, warming grip.

For a full second, John forgets that such a move should even be notable. Much like the earlier scolding, both the complaint and the response are pleasantly familiar, and John huffs out a sheepish laugh and curls his fingers around Martin's palm without thought or hesitation. But then he registers the oddness of Martin's expression as he stares at their joined hands, and realizes with a sudden lurch that this isn't normal at all, it's— it's bloody unprecedented. John goes very still, his expression slackening into astonishment, as if he'd felt a nudge against his shins while doing the dishes and looked down to see a thylacine instead of the presumed cat. There is probably a sensible way to handle the situation, one that will seem obvious in retrospect. But for the moment, all he can do is keep still and quiet, not wanting to startle or offend.

Martin's grip doesn't loosen. There is no stammered apology, just the deliberately casual suggestion that they head back. But this isn't— they don't do this. It feels absurd to suggest that they haven't earned it, as if every small pleasure has to be bought with ample time and misery, a fixed exchange rate. But he doesn't know what this means, what Martin wants or expects, or if it was just a thoughtless impulse and he's doubling down on it now out of embarrassment, or because he doesn't want John to feel awkward.

And he can't bear not knowing, and he can't read the answer in Martin's expression, and before he even realizes he's doing it, he Asks the helpless question: "Are you okay?"

"Yes," Martin answers immediately, his blush only deepening, and he raises his eyes to meet John's as if drawn by something. "I just... didn't want you to be cold, and I wasn't really thinking."

He is distantly surprised at himself for just... answering like that, so straightforward, but it's a bit of a relief, too, to just be honest without having to force it. Even more surprising is that he apparently isn't finished: "I probably do this all the time, normally, don't I? I can't imagine why I wouldn't." He blinks rapidly, now fearing that he's starting to say too much and yet unable to stop himself: "I, I don't think I would have if I didn't feel so safe with you, though. I-"

And abruptly he runs out of steam and he just stands there wordlessly stammering. "Erm," he blurts, immediately looking away and forcing himself to pull his hand free, hating how difficult he finds it. "Sorry."

Oh god, oh no. Martin meets his eyes and answers, unhesitating and plainly honest, and John can't even do him the decency of averting his own gaze. Nor can he take any real comfort in the answer, given the mode of delivery — Christ, there's no patting himself on the back over Martin feeling safe with him now. The horrible irony of it all is that making Martin feel safe was all he'd really wanted, all he could have hoped to provide. And he's gone and shattered it.

Probably shouldn't have presumed it was possible in the first place, all things considered. Probably should've been honest sooner. Should've just told Martin what the Ceaseless Watcher made of him, instead of pretending the only notable differences were surplus scar tissue and an improved personality. Too late now.

Martin mercifully winds things up before he says too much, and John staggers back a step, jerking his hand away as if he's bloody infectious. "Fuck!" he hisses, grabbing a fistful of his own hair in self-recrimination and turning away, his face screwed up with the belated effort of fending off his own worst impulses. Too fucking late, again. Damn it. He jerks back around to face Martin and blurts, "I-I— I'm so sorry, Martin, I didn't m— I shouldn't have done that. A-are you all right?"

Martin jolts and flinches back when John pulls away from him, much more aggressively than he could have anticipated. He'd thought this might become very awkward, or that maybe John would recognize what's happening — how desperately Martin's fallen for him over the course of one bloody day and a lot of confusing circumstances — and that it might make a mess of things somehow. But he wasn't expecting such a violent response, and for an awful moment he thinks he's just ruined everything, that the John he knows is showing himself in the face of such a brazen overstepping of boundaries.

But that doesn't seem to fit what's happening. John seems... angry, perhaps, but only at himself. That doesn't make sense, and yet he's apologizing a moment later, his usual composure completely obliterated in the face of... guilt?

Martin feels more confused than ever as he blurts back, "Wh- I'm fine, I just got through tell you I was fine, I don't— What are you talking about? You didn't do anything, it was my fault."

Martin's open bewilderment confuses him, but only for a moment, before he remembers just how subtle all of this shit used to be, insidious and unguessable. To say nothing of how ignorant Martin is about it all — how ignorant John has kept him. So of course he wouldn't recognize a compulsion when it happens to him; of course he wouldn't even dream of anticipating such a thing. Christ, if John had kept his own composure, Martin wouldn't have even known it had happened.

But he can't possibly regret blowing his own cover when he had no fucking business hiding this in the first place. He owes Martin the truth. He always has.

"No, it— you didn't..." John trails off with a heavy sigh, scrubbing his hands over his face. He needs to do this right — as right as he can, at this point — and that probably means calming himself down a little. This will be unsettling enough without him acting bloody unhinged on top of it all. He takes one slow breath, and then another, before lowering his hands and forcing himself to meet Martin's eyes.

"You don't think it was odd, just now," he says, testing each word as if venturing onto very thin ice, "how easy it was to answer my question? You didn't say more than you intended, or more than you thought you would?"

John seems to pull himself together before his very eyes, and Martin feels his own shoulders relax by degrees. He still doesn't understand what's happening, what happened, but John isn't going to leave him in the dark about it, at least, isn't just going to brush him off. He feels a pang of shame for even fearing he would.

The explanation doesn't quite come, though; instead, John puts questions to him, and they pull Martin up short, not because they don't make sense, but because they do. He frowns slowly and draws himself up a little straighter, suddenly guarded. It was odd, odder still now that John highlights it, oddest of all that he knows to do that. His hesitation ought to be all the answer John requires.

"What are you saying?" he says, wary and unwilling to make any guesses himself.

There's a horrible sort of satisfaction in witnessing the dawning suspicion on Martin's face, in the set of his spine, and John lets out a breath, his own shoulders slumping. There it is: everything he'd tried to avoid, though he had no right to the avoidance. Things finally skewing a little closer to true.

"I'm saying..." he swallows and drops his gaze, not so much out of cowardice but because he has to think, to remember the tidy summations he's given other people but never had to deliver to Martin. "I'm saying that th-the Institute, and the work we were doing there, it's... changed me. Changed both of us, really, but me most... dramatically." He presses his lips together, tempted to hedge but unable to justify it to himself, and a breath bursts out of him in a bitter huff of humorless laughter. "I suppose the short version is that I'm not human anymore." His eyes are still downcast, but it's cowardice this time. "And I can do things li-like ask people questions in such a way that they just can't help answering me."

Martin blinks rapidly as he tries to take this in, all of it so utterly unexpected that he feels like he has to check himself to make sure he's not missing some crucial context for a... a joke, or something he should have already known.

But no, it isn't actually that far a stretch, is it? That entire time Prentiss had held him captive in his own flat, the one thought that had kept him going was how resoundingly he was going to prove to Jonathan Sims that it wasn't all bullshit, that there are monsters in the world and things aren't all as they seem; he came face to face with it and there would be no denying it now. He'd held so hard to that as a sick sort of comfort, only to have it dissipate so suddenly on waking in a strange future, where that and so much else was all... known. Dealt with. Gone.

But it stood to reason there was more — a lot more. The scars that cover John's body, the immense changes in him, the way he's become so blithely capable of accepting that they've been swept up into an entirely new dimension and that Martin has just lost a whole swath of his memory, like it's just an unfortunate fact of living here. It feels obvious now, that all the gaps John has tried to fill have been here, while his words on their life in London have been quite absent. Martin really should have asked, and yet maybe it was fear that stopped him. Some deep certainty that he wouldn't like what he found.

It's still a lot to absorb now, here on this chilly beach, John's hard-won fossil still clutched between his fingers.

"Oh," is all he can say at first, struggling to find something else that isn't just more questions. "S-" He shifts his weight, not liking the distance that's formed between them but having no right to fix it. "So you just... with me?"

He hadn't even felt it. Would never have known if John hadn't just... laid it out like that. And all he'd asked was if Martin was okay. A compassionate question, one he hadn't meant to answer quite so thoroughly, but Christ, it's not like he regrets any of what he said.

But that doesn't seem to be the point. John hadn't meant to do it. He slipped, and now he's refusing to pretend he didn't.

Martin hates the look in John's downcast eyes, the defeated language of his body, but he doesn't know how to reassure him, still doesn't know if he even has the right. And he still has questions.

"How?" might be a difficult one to start with, but it's all he can think to say.

John drags his gaze back up at Martin's first question, furtive and miserable. "It was an accident," he says, an excuse that has always been feeble and has only weakened further with time. It was bad enough when he barely knew what he was doing, his new abilities insinuating themselves alongside his instincts in a way that he found difficult to distinguish. Now, he knows better, and every subsequent slip-up feels less and less defensible. He has always been careful with Martin, and especially so with this one. What the fuck was he thinking?

Martin's next question has such broad implications that John isn't entirely sure what is even meant by it, and he stammers for a few moments before he pins it, a little uncertainly, to the question of what he's just done. "It, uh— I-I just, I wanted to know. If I want it badly enough, that's, that's all it takes, really. It just... happens."

He looks back down at the beach, shivering a little as the brisk winter air worms its way beneath his collar and chills his skin, now dampened with nervous perspiration. The cold hadn't bothered him when he'd been on his ridiculous little mission; now, it feels appropriately wretched. "I should have told you sooner," he admits. "I just..." he trails off, shaking his head at himself. Just... what, hadn't wanted to crack open the door between the relative comfort of the life they lead here and all the fucking misery that preceded it? Just preferred the childish fantasy that he'd only changed in ways that flattered him? Christ.

That isn't really the sort of how Martin had meant, but it was such a hopelessly vague question on such a broad topic that he wonders if any interpretation would have satisfied him. He wants to know how this happened, how their work changed them, what that really means. But he doesn't want to know so badly, so immediately, that he's willing to continue this like a damn interrogation, while John shivers miserably in the wind. He can't bear it.

"Okay," he says, letting out a soft huff of a sigh as he pinches the bridge of his nose, less to rub out a headache and more to get himself together. "Okay, let's... let's go. You can tell me more on the way, or... or later."

Perhaps John should have told him sooner. He isn't really going to argue with that. But it also isn't entirely fair to expect John to just have given him the entire rundown of everything that has happened to them in the years he's forgotten. The Martin John knows — the one who lives with him, who loves him with far more history and context than he can possibly manage — lived all this. Why should John have to account for all that when there's no bloody guidebook for how to manage this situation? Why should it be his responsibility to predict what will come up when, when by his own admission this was a bloody accident? Even setting aside the alarming implications of it, the clearly unpleasant background behind it. He doesn't have enough information to be angry, or even afraid. And he doubts that would hold much appeal even if he did.

He's not sure how to articulate all this just yet, but he'll just have to figure that out on their way back to the flat. It's not going to get any easier out here. "Come on," he says, a little more gently, and slips the fossil into his pocket. "It's okay. I'm okay, see? Let's just get out of the cold."

Edited 2022-03-03 23:09 (UTC)

He doesn't know what to expect from Martin regarding any of this. He might have very clear ideas about what Martin owes him, but Martin has already demonstrated a startling generosity on that front. Still, John can't help looking faintly incredulous when Martin — even this Martin — insists that it's all right, that he's okay, that the myriad questions he must be harboring are less critical than getting back inside. He's grown to expect leniency and understanding from his Martin, because his Martin loves him. But this one...? John swallows thickly, then nods, not trusting himself to speak.

They walk in silence for a minute or two, giving John enough time to recover himself a little, and to take a few mental soundings of just how miserably awkward he'll feel if he remains silent as they continue. It's not a terribly long walk back to their flat, but it's long enough that he doesn't think he can bear to spend it all sulking. So he clears his throat, and begins, a bit haltingly, to explain the Entities. He steals brief glances at Martin as he speaks, half-expecting some degree of disbelief. Darrow's strangeness is both demonstrable and comparatively benign; the truth about their London feels far more fantastic, for all that the proof of it is written all over his skin.

"That's what Jane Prentiss was... involved with," he says. "The Corruption, specifically. And that's what we were collecting at the Institute, aside from the nonsense: Statements that related to the Entities— well, the other Entities. We weren't exactly independent observers, as it turned out."

The silence is a bit hard to bear, and Martin is still struggling to find the words to put John at ease, if they even exist, when John beats him to it with a calmer, more thorough explanation of affairs. It is a relief to hear him talk, and to have all this information offered up, as much as it is all rather difficult to absorb. It sounds mad, and then it sounds terrifying; the more plausible he finds it, the more frightening it becomes. He glances up at John when he ties it back to their work, in more ways than one.

He keeps his questions limited and as brief as possible, only prompting where necessary. As much as John is telling him, he gets the sense it's still only an overview, that there's much more and far worse to be found if he were to really dig in. He connects some dots himself, as John describes each of these so-called Entities, several of them putting specific Statements to mind. There's more than the wind chilling him at this point. He pulls his coat a little closer round himself as John trails off again, and he wonders what comes next.

If he allows himself to start asking more specific questions he fears he'll never stop. Did anyone really know how involved the Institute was? Did Elias, or Gertrude Robinson, for that matter? How did Tim and Sasha make out? What other changes have there been?

These questions scare him. He's not sure he wants to know all that, at least not yet. This is too much to cover on a walk, and... and god help him, he can't stop thinking about how cold John's hands were, likely still are. And about the burn on his palm. The scars that cover him. The implications of them all starting to expand from vague, disquieting notions to something much more concrete. Several awful somethings, equally horrible to imagine, but unlike any fearful curiosity about their friends and colleagues, their home, this is right here, walking beside him. Tangible. Reachable.

It is not thoughtless when he reaches out this time. It is with slow, careful intent that he lets his fingers brush along John's hand, and when he isn't rebuffed, that he takes it again. And it isn't just to warm him, though his thin fingers are still bitterly cold. It isn't even for anything so absurdly self-indulgent as just wanting to (though there is that, too, much as he tries to shove it aside). He takes John's hand in both of his and turns it gently so the palm is facing upward, brushing one thumb tentatively across the scar tissue there. It looks horrible. It looks like it hurt like hell.

"Was this... one of them?" he says softly, and peers back up at him. "Did they all... do these things to you?"

Edited 2022-03-04 00:35 (UTC)

He is expecting — or perhaps it would be more accurate to say 'dreading' — more questions about their work, about the impact it had on all of them. Even if he wanted to lie about it, he doesn't think he'd be capable of selling any softer approximation of the truth, but Christ, the last thing he wants is to have to gently inform Martin that the two of them are all that's left of the archival crew he remembers.

The prospect so preoccupies him that he starts at the gentle brush of Martin's fingers against his hand. He starts, but he doesn't pull away, though some distant part of him wonders if he ought to. He hasn't earned the comfort. But neither has Martin earned the scorn, and so John offers no resistance as Martin takes his hand, gently manipulating it until it lies cradled in his much warmer palms. There's a dull sheen to the burn in the thin winter light. It isn't something he notices much anymore, certainly not the way he notices it now, as he realizes how awful it must look through Martin's eyes: the unnatural waxy smoothness, the discoloration, the way his skin faintly puckers at the edges, as if it's still protesting the original offense. It is horrible, and for the first time in years, his stomach lurches over the inescapable fact that this is part of him, now and forever. That his hand will never be right again.

It's too much. He has to look away, his eyes cataloguing street signs and shop fronts and grit-encrusted gutter debris, desperate for any other point of focus. But he still feels the impossibly gentle passage of Martin's thumb over his palm, and he still hears the question, and he still can't bear to refuse Martin anything.

"Yes," he replies, soft and hoarse in a way that might pass as simple fatigue, if he's lucky, or if Martin is feeling particularly generous. "That one was Jude Perry. The Desolation. I made the mistake of shaking her hand."

Martin grimaces, not just at the answer itself but the way John says it, the thickness of his voice belying a heavy pain that Martin cannot hope to soothe. Christ, there is so much he has borne, it is written all over him, and was there ever anyone to care for him in the wake of it all? Did he? He can't imagine he would, coward that he is, that he's always been. Certainly wouldn't fit with the rough timeline John gave him, how long it apparently took them to get together. So all these... people, these Entities, did all that to him, and he probably carried it all on his own the same way he seemed inclined to carry everything. And now he's tearing himself up over — over asking if Martin is okay, over wanting to know so badly that it became supernaturally imperative. It's ridiculous, and the more Martin turns it over in his head, the angrier it makes him. How much John has suffered, and how much he seems willing to castigate himself for, in this moment, causing no suffering at all.

But he suspects anger won't do either of them much good. Any reaction he might have is weakened by his piecemeal understanding of the situation. So he just clicks his tongue and lowers their hands, letting them rest at their sides. He keeps hold of John's, stubbornly and without the earlier panic of self-doubt. He keeps it, because he cannot imagine a reason to let go.

"Thank you for telling me," he murmurs after a while. There are still questions and still things he could stand to be told, but those can wait. It can all wait.

Martin, mercifully, doesn't comment. John doesn't think he'd be able to stand it if he did; the weight of Martin's sympathy would shatter him. It's not that he thinks he doesn't deserve it — actually, it's the opposite that scares him. That's the real source of the itchy discomfort he feels at the prospect of Martin fussing over all of these old injuries, as if he only acquired them yesterday. They shouldn't be able to horrify him anymore. He doesn't want to be plunged back into mourning over something he lost before they even arrived here. He doesn't want Martin to be appalled on his behalf, because he doesn't want to confront the idea that Martin is right to be appalled, that it is appalling. He'd rather just... put it away, tucked back where he won't have to think about it.

But Martin limits his reaction to a faint tsk, and though he lowers their hands, he doesn't let go. His fingers remain curled around John's palm, and after a moment of inert hesitation, John tentatively returns the gesture, his fingers warming themselves along the familiar contours of Martin's hand.

He responds to Martin's thanks with a soft hum, not quite trusting his voice. He isn't sure what he could say, regardless; what he's offered so far feels too inadequate and belated to tie up with a magnanimous 'you're welcome' of a bow. Besides, they've nearly reached the Bramford. Whatever comes next will keep until they're out of the cold.

They complete the journey in silence, and John carefully extricates himself so he can open the front door. Once they're back in the flat, The Bishop chirping and winding around their ankles, he finds himself at something of a loss. He doesn't know what comes next, doesn't think he has the right to plot their course, and he watches Martin uncertainly as he sheds his coat. "Do you, er..." is as far as he gets into a half-hearted suggestion of tea before he loses steam.

While getting back to John's building is a small relief, losing the gentle grip of his hand leaves him feeling embarrassingly bereft. He steps back into the flat, smiling faintly as the cat comes bounding up to greet them, and it isn't until John starts to speak that he looks back.

John looks so tired, wrung out and burdened by so much weight that he doesn't fully understand. Martin sometimes got a sense of this before, that he was carrying too much, or keen to, but the scale was so much smaller, limited to work that they'd thought was just... work. Seeing John like this, it's... it becomes impossible to deny himself the desire to fix it, to try and help in some way. Absurd to think he doesn't have the right, as if the imperative to offer comfort was bound to a full understanding of the damage.

Martin hangs up his coat and turns to face John fully, giving him a more openly assessing look. "John," he says steadily, and reaches out to lay a hand on his arm. "It's okay."

It's tempting to just leave it at that, but it feels hopelessly inadequate, so after a moment's deliberation he adds, "You don't have to... lay everything out right now, okay? We can talk about it more later, or... whenever you're ready. It's just context to me, but you... I mean, it's real to you." He keeps his eyes on John's, steady and determined. "It's okay," he says again, and when that still doesn't feel like enough: "You're okay."

John stills under Martin's assessing gaze, distantly surprised by the familiarity of it. The surprise feels unearned; Martin has been giving him assessing looks for... well, probably for about as long as they've known one another (though it took John some time to notice them), and there's no reason for him to stop now. If anything, John's given him good cause for the concern. Perhaps the real issue is that he's spent the last few days so determined not to presume anything that it's listed into a fundamentally absurd refusal to read Martin at all, lest he spend too much time dwelling on all the aching similarities between the one he's still missing and the one he can't have now.

But there's no missing the care that Martin is taking with him, despite how uniquely undeserving he feels. He wants to object that Martin is entitled to the context — Christ, he ought to know who and what he's offering to share a bloody bed with — but he doesn't have the strength or the inclination to argue with Martin's enviable certainty that it's okay.

He's nodding along in weary acquiescence when Martin changes the tune, and the subtle variation is enough to cut him off at the knees. John looks at him, startled and stricken, and the breath that bursts out of him is far too close to a sob for his liking. Oh, Christ, not this. He lifts his hands to his face, mortified, and manages something a little closer to a laugh, though it's strained and rickety. "You’re sure about that?"

Perhaps that last addition was too much, Martin thinks with a pang of nervousness as John's composure crumbles a little more. Might've been better to keep things abstract and impersonal; except he meant it, and he wanted John to hear it. That John is fracturing before him doesn't have to mean he's done something wrong. Maybe it's an expression of trust, in a way, that he's allowing himself to be seen like this. Or maybe that's giving himself too much credit, but either way, he doesn't think the right response now would be to shrink from it. Not when this almost constitutes a plea.

He lets his hand move a little, rubbing up and down John's arm, he hopes comfortingly. "I think you will be," he says, "even if you're not right now."

It's not enough. Nothing he can say is going to make this right, and it is with a softly impatient huff that he gives up on trying, giving over instead to the simplest and most straightforward option, latent intention already telegraphed in the passage of his hand up John's arm. In the end it's easy to give into the temptation. It isn't so far a stretch from what comfort John has offered him. There's no reason he shouldn't return it, especially not after the day they've had.

"C'mere," he murmurs, and he sinks forward, moving his arms around John's back, enfolding him with startling ease and pulling him close into a warm, firm hug.

John all but collapses into Martin's arms, entirely unable to refuse him. And why should he? They've both demonstrated that this is something they're willing to offer and accept; after last night, it would feel ridiculous to get hung up on the prospect. More to the point, he just wants it: he wants the familiar warmth of Martin's arms around him, he wants to bury his face against Martin's neck where no one will see him struggle to compose himself, he wants to anchor his own arms around someone steady and safe. Maybe it doesn't matter that this isn't strictly his Martin, that the boundaries of their relationship haven't expanded enough to include this sort of thing as a matter of course. If Martin wants to offer this, then... maybe that's enough. Maybe he can simply accept it without berating himself over having such embarrassing needs in the first place.

He's still mindful of wearing out his welcome, and determined not to go completely to pieces. But it's easier to pull himself together now, as if the physical pressure of Martin's arms precludes even a wholly emotional fracturing. His shoulders shake for a few seconds, and he can't help sniffling a bit, but he gets his breathing under control. And once he's feeling steady enough to speak, he croaks out a quiet, "Thank you."

John leans immediately into his embrace and Martin can't quite stop a sigh from slipping out of him, relieved and happy that this is welcome, that it seems to have been the right choice. Not just in that it's comforting to him, but in how much John seemed to need it and how quickly it seems to have an effect. Martin holds him and he shudders a little, sniffles audibly, but it isn't long before he steadies, seeming to pull himself back together. Martin smiles, even though it won't be seen with him half-pressed to John's chest. And then John thanks him, and Martin finally draws back. He's not eager to let go, but he shouldn't indulge himself too far, either. This isn't about him.

There is something sort of profound, though, about being allowed to comfort John; about being able to. And even if this has to end, he doesn't see why that should.

"Come on," he says gently, his hands still settled on John's arms as though making sure he'll stay upright. "I'll make us some tea."

He lets one hand drift back down to John's, taking it and drawing him along. There is some distant anxiety that this is too much, that John will bristle at being led about like a child, but John does not resist him, and Martin doesn't let him go until he's in the kitchen, filling the kettle and flicking on the burner, fetching the cups down from where John's shown him. He takes his time setting up their cups, not exactly wanting to watch the proverbial pot boil but now having a hard time imagining turning around, seeing John there. Not sure what he'll see, or what he'll want, or how to mitigate that. Tea will help. Tea always helps.

Martin draws back, but only a little. His hands still clasp John's arms, just firm enough to feel bracing. He looks... pleased, and satisfied, and he announces that he's going to make tea as if that's the only thing their lives are missing. It's so easy to just keep letting him lead, to trail along after him as he heads into the kitchen. It's fine. Martin will make sure that it's fine. John barely even realizes that a small, irrepressibly fond smile has fixed itself on his face; he's too busy watching Martin work. Martin has re-familiarized himself with the kitchen by now, moving confidently between the stove and the sink and the cabinets. It could almost pass for any other day: him making the tea, as is his custom, and John loitering in the kitchen to pester him while they wait for the water to boil, as is his custom.

Not that pestering is currently on the table, for more reasons than one. John fidgets a little, fingers plucking at the hem of his sleeve. He feels adrift where Martin released him, caught without occupation somewhere in the vicinity of an arm's length away. Squarely between too close and not close enough. But he lacks the wherewithal to course correct in either direction. Instead, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, as if that approximation of motion will satisfy the urge to do something more concrete. He should probably go and sit down. That would be the sensible move, and Martin probably wouldn't begrudge him. But Martin drew him here, and he can't bring himself to move away.

Two cups of tea have never taken so long to prepare. John is downright restless by the time Martin finishes making his cup (to perfection, as always), and he steps forward to take it a little too quickly, before Martin has even finished turning around. Martin startles a bit, because of course he does, and John pulls up short with an abashed little 'oh,' laying a steadying hand on Martin's arm. His other hand reaches for the cup, his fingers settling over Martin's in a combined effort to either mitigate a spill or be the one to suffer a mild burn if it can't be avoided. But after a few beats of threatening sloshing, the tea settles back where it belongs, and John slowly releases a breath as if they've successfully defused an explosive.

He lifts his gaze to Martin's face, the beginnings of a sheepish smile fading away as he becomes abruptly aware of how close they are, and how flushed Martin is, and how shallow his own breathing has become. His gaze darts searchingly between Martin's eyes, his breath catching as he recognizes what he sees, and wonders how long it's been there, and how stupid he's been, and how stupid he is perhaps about to be as, god help him, he glances down at Martin's lips.

Martin is half-expecting John to eventually depart, or to say something, and when he does neither, he wonders if he ought to speak instead. But he doesn't trust himself for it and doesn't know what he'd talk about that wouldn't either plunge them back into the unpleasantness of what he doesn't remember or feel hopelessly inane by comparison. He wills himself to just wait for the water to boil, to be patient and remain at ease with John hovering behind him. It doesn't feel uncomfortable, anyway; things are a little tenuous, perhaps, but it feels more that John just wants to stay close, and that is why Martin pulled him along, after all.

Still, it's a relief when he can finally pour their tea, and a relief to turn around, to present John with his cup. But then John is much closer than he'd expected, and Martin startles far more than he ought to, and John's reaction is swift and almost graceful, reaching out to steady both Martin and the cup, fingers settling gently over Martin's, holding him like that until the tea settles.

And Martin realizes he is staring. They are standing quite, quite close and he's just staring up at John, his face hot, his breath shallow, his lips slightly parted. The hand on his, the immediacy with which John had reacted, wanting to protect Martin from something as minor as spilled tea — it all feels a bit ridiculous, and yet it's sweet, too, and there is such genuine tenderness in John's touch, in his expression, in absolutely everything he does. Christ, how is Martin supposed to cope?

John finally looks at him, starting a smile that vanishes at once, the moment their eyes meet. Martin feels, overpoweringly, that he should look away, that he should extricate himself. The counter is at his back, preventing him from stepping aside without it being a bit of an ordeal, and — and John isn't moving, either. John is still there, looming over him, staring into his eyes. And then, and there is absolutely no room for doubt because of how bloody close they are and how absolutely fixed his gaze has been, his eyes flick down, down to Martin's lips.

Oh, Christ. Martin's heart skips and he feels a sort of nervous lifting sensation in his chest, butterflies in his stomach and the fire of adrenaline under his skin. Christ, he's still standing there, still looking, breathing like that, his fingers still laid over Martin's, everything about him radiating desire, and Martin doesn't think he's ever been looked at like this before, and he knows, instantly, that he would do anything to keep it, to be looked at like that again and again.

"Please," he whispers. It's out of him before he can even think, before he realizes what he's saying. It's out, and he can't take it back, and as he continues staring at John's dark, beautiful eyes, he doesn't think he could ever regret it, either.

He sees Martin shape the word before he truly hears it, before its meaning drops into him like a stone into a pond, and an answering shiver ricochets up his spine. Any lingering doubts or vague notions of propriety are swept away by that one syllable, because if Martin wants this, then Christ, who is he to patronize him with some vague refusal? He might regard the idea that he deserves good things with a healthy dose of skepticism, but with Martin, there is no question. Martin is asking. Martin is saying please, and John cannot imagine denying him.

The cup of tea is a slight impediment — he will want both of his hands for this — and John carefully extricates it from Martin's grip and sets it back on the counter, his eyes never leaving Martin. Part of him is checking for signs of doubt or reconsideration, but he has also simply missed looking at him like this, close enough to easily pick out the little details that he loves so much (the light freckles that dot his skin, the warm, rich brown of his eyes), and he drinks them in as if making up for lost time.

There is no doubt, though he does watch for it. He gives it time to show, if it's going to: lifting a hand to Martin's face, letting his thumb trace the subtle contour of his cheekbone, letting his finger curl in a suggestion beneath his chin. He bends slowly, telegraphing his intentions with such clarity that it might strike him as ridiculous if he wasn't so distracted by the weight of his own wanting, and the critical importance of doing this right. But there is no objection, and it is with a soft sigh of relief that he finally lets their lips meet in a gentle, lingering kiss.

Whatever fears Martin might have had that John would pull away, reject his plea as he would surely be within his rights to do, vanish almost instantly. John moves achingly slow, but there is never any doubt about his intentions. His answering gaze, the way it never flickers even as he takes the cup and sets it aside. Martin's breath comes increasingly quick and shallow, but otherwise he holds himself perfectly still, waiting, wanting so badly it might make him dizzy were it not for the intensity of his focus.

John's hand moves to his cheek, and Martin almost shatters at the unbearable tenderness of it, the gentle trace of his cheekbone, the curl of a finger under his chin, Christ, oh Christ, it hasn't even begun and yet he already knows nobody's ever kissed him like this before. He lifts his chin ever so slightly in response and John starts to lean down toward him, and it's like time is slowing down. Martin cannot keep his eyes open; he lets them flutter closed, lets the moment take him fully, wherever it's going to lead.

When John's lips finally meet his Martin cannot stop a desperate, plaintive moan from slipping out of him, there is nothing in the world that could stop him and he doesn't care. He could almost collapse on the spot if he weren't so determined to stay upright, and he settles for slumping back against the counter, ignoring how it bites into his back as he raises both his hands to John's face, holding him gingerly, as gentle as he's always wanted. And he doesn't stop kissing him. He whimpers, soft and muffled against John's lips, and embarrassment cannot even find him here. It doesn't matter. None of it matters. This is all he ever wanted, barely daring to hope past pathetic, lonely dreams and imaginings, and now he has it nothing will pry it from him, certainly not his own self-doubt.

The desperate little noise Martin makes is both gratifying and thrilling, familiar and unprecedented, a song he knows by heart played on an instrument he's never touched before. A faint smile settles tucks itself into the corners of John's mouth, though he resists the urge to chuckle. He remembers how self-conscious Martin used to be, and he has absolutely no desire to fan that particular flame. It may be presumptuous to think he might nip that nonsense in the bud, either, but a little encouragement probably wouldn't hurt. So he answers with a low, deliberate hum of his own, his free hand sliding around Martin's back, fingers splayed across his shoulder blade.

He lets the kiss break softly, leaning back a fraction so he can look at Martin again, his eyes hooded but his gaze adoring. Christ, he's so beautiful, and his hands are framing John's face so gently. It occurs to him, distantly, that he needs to take extra care — that there are things Martin hasn't learned, yet, that John cannot expect him to instinctively understand. But there are means of communication besides awkward conversations over tea, ways to let Martin know that he's on the right track before he accidentally finds himself on the wrong one. John lifts his hand from beneath Martin's chin and settles it over the back of Martin's palm, cradling Martin's hand against his own cheek, and he turns his head just enough to brush his lips against the unbearably soft skin of Martin's wrist.

Even that brief detour leaves him eager to return to Martin's mouth, and he eases back down for another slow kiss. His hand gently guides Martin's back into his hair in implicit invitation: yes, here, please.

Martin lets out a quiet, delighted little "Ah—" as John's hand presses to his back, not quite pulling him closer but holding him firm and steady. His eyes open as John draws back, letting himself see him, the glorious reality of him right there. He would never have guessed John was so good at this, but then, he supposes this John has had a fair amount of practice. It's sort of thrilling, thinking how well John knows him, knows what he likes, perhaps better than Martin knows it himself. Thrilling and a bit daunting, if he's being honest, but he pushes that aside for now. Easy, with John's other hand covering his own, with John's lips brushing against the inside of his wrist. Martin shivers, his eyes widening just a bit before falling shut again as John returns to his mouth.

John doesn't let go his hand, instead drawing it up to his hair, and Martin lets out something that almost constitutes a squeak as he eagerly sinks his fingers into the short, soft hair at the back of John's neck, bracing there gently while his other hand rises to card through the thicker length up higher on his head.

There is absolutely nothing voluntary about the noise John makes when Martin slides both hands into his hair, as if he'd been desperate to do so and was only awaiting permission. It feels divine, not least of all because it's been days since Martin's done it — a small span of time in the grand scheme of things, but one that feels like an age when measured against the frequency with which John used to receive such attentions — and it draws a soft, low moan out of him. Christ, he's missed this.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to gasp out a, "God, yes," leaning, cat-like, into Martin's touch. The arm around Martin tightens, wanting both to pull him closer and to alleviate some of the pressure of the counter against Martin's back, and he brings his other arm around to assist in the effort as he kisses Martin again, lips parting, drawing him deeper.

If he'd allowed himself to think a little harder about all this before giving into the overwhelming strength of his desire, he'd probably have gotten very hung up on how little he knows about what John might want, what he might even tolerate. He's never seemed particularly tactile to Martin, and while there's clearly a lot that's changed, this sort of physicality is entirely different from comfort offered after a nightmare, or holding hands on a walk. He scarcely has any room for relief on the subject, though; John's reaction is so pronounced, so staggeringly positive, that it's equal parts astonishing and intoxicating. Martin grins as John gasps and arches into him like a bloody cat; and then John pulls him in tighter and he lets out a little gasp of his own, a pleading murmur immediately swallowed up as John parts his lips.

Martin keeps his hands where they are and presses in a little closer, though he feels like he might melt. He is a little more tentative as he parts his lips in acquiescence; he isn't terribly practiced at this, or at least he doesn't feel like he is. John is very easy to meet; unlike some of the men he's kissed in the past, it doesn't feel like he's expected to know what to do with his tongue, or to do anything with it at all. It's more like they're breathing together, and... it's good, Christ it's good. He doesn't want it to stop.

Even wanting it to go on forever, it doesn't feel unnatural to draw back after a moment, gasping, his heart pounding and his face flushed up to his ears. "John," he whispers, breathless, blinking up at him as he allows his fingers to curl softly in John's hair. "Oh, god."

It's Martin who draws back next, giving both of them a moment to catch their breath. John gazes down at Martin's reddened face, realizing with some embarrassment that he's the one nearest to getting carried away, and he pulls in a deeper breath, willing his heart to pound a little less wildly. They have time, and Christ, Martin deserves some extra care, considering the circumstances. Better for them to slow down a bit, both because it lessens the odds of things going a bit too far, and because he doesn't want to stop. He wants to patiently introduce Martin to everything he's missed, wants to show him everything he doesn't yet know that they've discovered, wants to give Martin enough time to appreciate each one before he hurries him along to the next.

He hums quietly when Martin's fingers curl in his hair, then leans back down — not for a kiss, this time, but to let his forehead gently rest against Martin's while he continues to breathe. "You're all right?" he murmurs, leaning back and tipping his chin up a fraction, his nose brushing against Martin's in a fond little nuzzle. "This is okay?"

Martin lets his eyes fall shut again as John leans down against him, basking in the closeness, the simple intimacy he'd never thought to even dream of. A little smile flickers across his lips at the questions and the gentle brush to his nose. It isn't just how good it all feels, how powerful his own affections; it's how much, how evidently John loves him, wants this, wants more. Checking in on him like this, not pulling away but just waiting for the go-ahead to continue. No one's ever treated him like this, nor wanted him so insatiably. He's never known such devotion. He doesn't know how he'll ever recover.

"I'm—" he starts, then lets out a breathless little laugh, amazed at the whole situation. How does he answer such straightforward questions? "Better than all right, more than okay, I..."

He curls his fingers again and tips his chin up, intending to give up on words and resume kissing him, but something stays him, his lips just brushing against John's as he asks, "Are you?"

He thinks he knows the answer, but it doesn't feel right not to ask.

John's gaze warms as Martin lets out that astonished little laugh, and he gives Martin's back a slow, idle rub as he listens. The answer doesn't surprise him, but he's still glad that he asked. It feels like another introduction, a demonstration of how they do things: that they check in even when it might not seem glaringly necessary, not so much out of a surplus of caution as for the simple pleasure of knowing that they're both having a good time.

His eyes start to slip shut as Martin lifts his chin up to meet him, but when their lips do brush, it's in the form of a question. John grins outright, just for a moment, before closing the barely perceptible distance between them. The kiss is brief but sweet, like something he'd ambush Martin with in passing, when they both have other things to do but he simply can't resist the temptation. He draws back just enough to murmur, "I am," then leans back in to brush another kiss against the corner of Martin's mouth. "Tea's getting cold," he adds a bit slyly, making absolutely no move to retrieve said tea.

"Mmh," Martin sighs as John answers him with another kiss, then smiles at the verbal answer and the next little kiss at the corner of his mouth. The mention of the tea feels like it ought to throw him off balance — ordinarily he might nervously interpret it as a subtle reprimand, or at the very least he might allow the threat of wasted tea to distract him. But it barely registers. He lets out something close to a giggle and says, "I think I can live with that."

He closes the distance again, kissing John a little gentler and slower, as if wanting to explore him or commit him to memory. His hands drift down to cup John's face again, his thumbs brushing at the hair at his temples, before he slides them back into his hair, hoping to get another reaction, even if it's a smaller one.

There are a few ways John might further the joke — feigning incredulity or skepticism, a playfully dubious 'if you're sure' — but Martin is kissing him again, and no clever rejoinder would be worth the interruption. He sighs softly, luxuriating in the sensations: the gentle drag of Martin's lips against his own, the way Martin tenderly frames his face in his hands before pushing his fingers back into his hair in what he knows is deliberate bid for a reaction. John hums his pleasure, drawing back just enough to whisper, "Menace," before he gently captures Martin's lower lip between his own in playful retaliation.

The curl of Martin's fingers through his hair doesn't just feel bloody fantastic, it also serves as a reminder of what other uses he might find for his own hands. He lets his right continue its slow circuit of Martin's back; his left, he draws back in so he can reach up between them. He rests his palm against Martin's shoulder for a beat or two, and then he moves, his fingers ghosting up Martin's neck and his thumb tracing the line of Martin's jaw.

Martin laughs, surprised and delighted over John's teasing little rejoinder, only to be pulled up short in the next instant as John catches his lower lip, as his hand wanders delicately up Martin's neck and along his jaw. A tremor runs through him, a wholly involuntary shiver, punctuated by a soft whimper and a gasp. This was already multiple kinds of uncharted territory, but it keeps striking him over and over again how no one has ever handled him like this, no one has ever thought to or even wanted to. John knows him better than he knows himself, every playful touch and gesture full of so much inherent familiarity and love that it could paralyze him were he not so desperate for it to last.

"Oh god," he breathes again, arching helplessly toward him. "God, yes, please."

He doesn't know what he's asking for, apart from more, like he wants to be shown absolutely everything he's missed. Latent anxiety starts to nag at him a little, growing a little stronger the longer this goes on, the more the outright shock value wears off. Accusations of selfishness, or reminders of how little he's earned this. He ought to reciprocate but he doesn't know how. He wants it to be good — he doesn't think it can be as good as whatever John's used to, with a Martin who knows him better and did the work to get here, but Christ, he has to try.

He keeps one hand in John's hair and lets the other wander, down to John's cheek, his jaw. The skin there is not smooth, mottled and scarred and rough to touch, but he finds he doesn't mind. He traces his thumb along the sharp slant of John's jaw as if to mirror John's hand on him, marveling at how he feels, how he's here and this is really happening.

Martin gasps and arches into him, and it feels like both a reward and a faint warning. The situation is already a delicate one, with John's relative experience putting him at an unavoidable advantage. And Christ knows that's a foreign experience — even with Martin, who was so careful to demand nothing of him, he'd felt like he had some significant catching up to do — but that doesn't excuse him making a botch of it. If anything, it means he needs to put extra effort into not casually bulldozing over the boundaries of someone who might be having too good a time to really think about or articulate them — or, more likely, encouraging Martin to stumble blindly into one of his hard 'no's. The last thing he wants is for either of them to end up regretting any part of this. And that means, until they sit down and have a proper conversation about it all, he cannot let it escalate.

The irony is that escalation would be easy, almost instinctive, a more organic option than the slow, careful winding down that used to be the only manageable exit they had. If this were his Martin trembling beneath him, there'd be no question of it: the hand currently sinking into Martin's hair would curl into a fist; he'd relinquish his mouth in favor of sucking a bruise onto the soft span of his throat. He wants to, in the same way that he wants to stretch when first getting out of bed in the morning, or split a dessert at a restaurant, the sort of pleasure he wouldn't normally have to interrogate. He also knows it would be monstrously unfair to expect Martin to navigate anything more intense than what they're currently doing. Hell, even expecting Martin to navigate this is a bit much; it's only caution and luck that have kept them both on an even keel.

John sighs softly, both in response to Martin's touch and in some regret, before he consciously eases back a bit. "Hey," he breathes, punctuating it with both a light brush of a kiss and a gentle curl of his fingers in Martin's hair, wanting to indicate above all else that nothing's wrong, nothing's ruined, "I need a-a bit of a breather, okay?" He leans back a little so he can look at Martin properly, his thumb sweeping back the hair at Martin's temple, then lets his other hand drop to where Martin's back is still pressed against the counter. "And this cannot be comfortable," he adds dryly, before tipping his head towards the living room. "Here, do you— can we sit down?"

Edited 2022-03-06 20:49 (UTC)

John's hand wanders into his hair and he gasps again, wanting — he's not sure what he wants, whether just more or something else he hasn't defined yet and is far too unpracticed to request. He settles for continuing to kiss him, his growing desperation marked by a steady stream of soft, pleading whines. It is inevitable — and a bit of a relief, if he's being perfectly honest with himself — that John backs down, brings them both to a gentle halt. Martin blinks up at him, dazed and disoriented, the only response he can presently muster a little nod of acknowledgment. He looks over his shoulder as if he needs to see the counter biting into his back to agree that it isn't very comfortable, not that it's much crossed his mind. John's hand there is far more relevant to his attention, the gentle ease with which he bestows these touches, the evident concern for Martin's comfort above nearly all else.

"Okay," he agrees, and shifts forward as John steps back to allow him space. Now he's missing the bolstering warmth and taste of tea, but it feels ridiculous to cycle back to that now. John guides him toward the couch, and he allows himself to be led.

The act of sitting seems to dislodge something in him, and he looks up at John with sudden fearful energy. "I — should I not have—" He stammers wordlessly, but there's nothing specific to ask about. Any of it could have been a misstep; all of it could have been. Now that it's no longer happening, it feels outlandish that it happened at all.

"I'm sorry if I, if I overstepped, I—" he babbles with no end in sight, like a nervous runaway train.

Martin seems a bit dazed — fair enough, really; John still feels a little unmoored, himself — but he follows John's lead without objection. He doesn't seem upset as they move to the couch, at least. It doesn't help that John is rather preoccupied with how to handle this with a minimum amount of awkwardness, to say nothing of the nascent worry that with this line crossed, any other he might attempt to draw will just seem painfully arbitrary. Maybe it was stupid of him to think this could be avoided, but simple, straightforward avoidance is all he'd thought to anticipate.

The possibility that it might've been better if he had showed some bloody self-restraint gnaws at him; the idea that Martin is the one who overstepped takes him by surprise, and he meets the stammered apology with a startled blink. "Wh—no, Martin," John hastens to reply, shifting on the cushions to face him and instinctively reaching for his hand. "If anything, I'm the one who—"

He cuts himself off with an exasperated huff. It feels inescapably patronizing to frame what just happened as either one of them taking advantage. Not when Martin had asked, and John had already been on the verge of offering. That doesn't mean it was the most intelligent collective impulse they've ever had, but Christ, Martin certainly doesn't owe him an apology.

"You didn't overstep," he tries again, giving Martin's hand a gentle squeeze. "Okay? You didn't do anything wrong; you were—you were perfect. I just didn't want us to... to get carried away."

It's almost worse that John initially tries to take responsibility for having gone too far. It'd be within his rights to regret it, Martin thinks, and he looks away as bitter shame starts to creep over him. John stops himself, and there's an achingly long span of seconds wherein Martin is sure he's about to be let down gently.

But then John rephrases it, and while it doesn't totally allay Martin's anxieties, it does pull him back with a shocked stare, shame momentarily cut off by astonishment as John tells him he was perfect. His concerns sound more reasonable than anything close to rejection, though Martin's own tendency toward insecurity is determined to see it that way — but perfect?

Maybe it was just colloquialism. Or an affectionate remark that slipped out, meant for the other Martin, the experienced Martin. That makes more sense, and it isn't long before it takes root as the only truth Martin can accept, and his expression slackens a bit as he looks down at their hands.

"I..." He frowns tightly, already feeling the threat of potential tears, angrily trying to stave them off. Christ, not after all that, after he already pulled John out of a depressive mire. He swallows and says, "I don't know how to do this, I... I don't know how to be that Martin. I want to—!"

He looks up quickly, lest he be misinterpreted, finding John's eyes, his own darting nervously between them. "God, I want to. I just—I'm scared I'll get it wrong, or... or I won't be what you want, and—"

He can't maintain eye contact, and he looks back down, back at his hand still clasped in John's, wondering if he ought to sever that contact as well. "This isn't mine," he says, soft and far more desolate than he'd like.

"O-oh," John says, his uneven tone conveying both surprise and the dismayed realization that there is nothing here that should shock him. If he'd given this possibility, this likelihood, the amount of forethought it deserved, then this is the snag he would've predicted. Of course it would be unfair to expect this Martin to just intrinsically understand the things that took him years to learn the first time around. That's why he stopped them in the kitchen. But he hadn't accounted for the strength of Martin's wanting, let alone the strength of his own desire. He hadn't thought about how desperate they would both be to not do everything wrong. And he hadn't even begun to think about how they might do this right.

If that option even exists.

He stares down at their joined hands, and thinks about how both of them keep referencing his Martin like a completely different person who's lurking in the next room, like he might walk in on them at any moment. It's not entirely wrong, he supposes, but he doesn't think it's entirely right, either. At any rate, he wouldn't call what just happened a case of mistaken identity. And maybe that's the problem — Christ, when Martin does come back to himself, maybe he'll resent this; maybe it will feel, in retrospect, like some extremely bizarre form of infidelity. But that Martin isn't the one currently sitting across from him and looking completely fucking heartbroken and lamenting that he doesn't deserve this, so... so that Martin will just have to wait.

"I... look," John pauses, rubbing his forehead as he tries to get his thoughts into some semblance of order. "You don't— I don't expect you to just... intuit years of experience you don't have. That's not possible, let alone fair. A-and... I don't know, maybe there isn't a fair way to do this. Maybe you'll be furious with me in a few days." He lets out a brief, humorless huff of laughter at the prospect, dragging his hand down his face before letting it drop into his lap. "But however we decide to handle this, I just..." he lifts his gaze to Martin's face, a focused line between his brows. "I didn't forget who you are, Martin. I think I—" his breath catches, and he has to swallow past the lump in his throat before he can conclude: "I remembered. Christ, you never stopped being you, Martin, that's why I..." he gestures, helplessly, back towards where they abandoned their tea.

John draws him back, slow but steady, fumbling a little not enough to distract from the clear intention of what he has to say. Martin lifts his head, unable to deny him the courtesy of looking at him while he talks, while he grants so much more grace and patience than he could ever have expected, from John or from anyone. It's difficult not to think of him as a different person, much in the same way he's thinking about himself. Still the same person — even easier to fall in love with — but brimming with so much kindness that Martin doesn't know how to bear it. Martin cannot imagine being furious with him, for any of it, in any circumstances.

And then John looks back at him, struggling to articulate something that feels just out of reach, that feels impossible, and yet it's there, a ghost in John's unfinished sentences. Martin feels something tighten in his chest, like a fist closing around his heart, and his breath catches in his throat under the weight of it all. That he's still him, the same him John couldn't stand, the same one who was little more than an incompetent annoyance, a pathetic, cowardly liar with a miserable crush on his abusive boss. That's who he is and it somehow hasn't changed anything. John, this John he can barely recognize, sees him for what he is and still wants him.

He shouldn't — John needed a breather and they need to talk — but that needs an answer, and he can't muster any words that would do it justice. The only sound he can make is a slight whimper, the sound of his own resolve failing him as he collapses forward, his hands rising again to cradle John's face as he kisses him again.

The kiss is far more of a relief than a surprise. It's barely a surprise at all, in fact. It's what Martin would do — just like forgiving him an inhuman transgression, or stubbornly drawing him out of a gloomy spiral, or holding him close while he recovered his equilibrium, or gently coaxing him into the kitchen to make a bolstering cup of tea that would fix everything. This is always who Martin was; he didn't need to grow into his potential as much as John needed to become the sort of person willing to see what was on offer and embrace it.

But he has, and he does, leaning into the cradle of Martin's hands and returning the kiss with a soft hum. He lifts a palm to Martin's cheek, lingering at his lips for a few dragging seconds before drawing back again, seeking his gaze.

"You don't owe me anything," he murmurs, gentle but firm. "And I don't want to do anything that either of us might regret. But if... if you want this," he says, brushing his thumb along Martin's cheekbone, "then Christ, I want you to have it." He swallows a bit thickly, letting their foreheads rest together and his eyes fall shut. "I just need you to be okay."

"I want it," Martin breathes, the words falling out of him, his eyes falling shut. John's forehead braces against his, more grounding this time, and Martin makes no move to pull away or kiss him again, instead drinking in the simpler and somehow even more profound intimacy of just existing here like this, pressed to him. "You're all I want, John."

Nothing happens; lightning does not strike him and no rug is pulled from beneath his feet. He said it, he meant it, and John is still here. "I—I'm okay," he says, and again with more certitude: "I'm okay. And I need you to be okay, too. I always wanted that, even when—when things were like they were before, I... I just knew. I knew there was so much here that I couldn't see." He keeps his hands on John's face, gentle but firm, as if to indicate the here he means. "I wanted to be better, to—to find it, and now I—"

Abruptly he runs out of steam, a string cut, though maybe not so literally this time. A laugh tumbles out of him, soft and faintly amazed. "Christ, I've never been so happy," he murmurs, and sinks forward, letting his arms draw back around John to embrace him, nuzzling at his cheek and the greying hair at his temple.

John slides his fingers back into Martin's hair, curling them in a practiced, grounding motion as he lets Martin's reassurances sink in. There is a part of him that still feels foolish for not anticipating this, and still worries about what else he might not be properly considering. But there is comfort in the simple exchange of words, in hearing Martin say with certainty that he wants this, that he's okay, that he's happy. That he has never been so happy, in fact — words that strike John like an echo of what he had blurted out in the wee hours of the morning, never expecting to have it returned anytime soon. The startling symmetry and the sensation of Martin nuzzling against him both conspire to draw a giddy little laugh out of him, and John pulls Martin in.

Their other embraces have largely been either delicate or desperate, but this one is warm and unapologetically firm, one hand cradling the back of Martin's head so he can continue his idle ministrations, the other curling close around his back. John presses a kiss to Martin's cheek, then nests another in his hair. "You never had to be better for me," he softly insists. "I just... didn't let myself see you." That feels, perhaps, a little too gracious towards his former self; it would be more accurate to say he simply hadn't cared to look rather than imply that there was subconscious self-restraint involved. But that John isn't here, thank Christ, and he has better things to do than either condemn or make excuses for him. "I do now," he says instead, nuzzling against Martin and breathing him in.

John lets out a laugh of his own, small but bright and happy, and a grin breaks across Martin's face at the sound of it. He's nearly delirious with relief as John accepts him, draws him in, holds him firmly with a gentle hand in his hair. The sensation is sublime, and that it's John doing it only makes it that much more potent. John speaks, answering him with reassurances of his own, murmured against him through a kiss to his cheek and one to his hair, and Martin sighs softly as they fall over him like a carefully arranged blanket. He still feels fragile, like he might burst into tears at any moment, but they'd be happy, overwhelmed and joyous, and he hasn't cried like that in... he doesn't remember exactly. Maybe never, not like this, not while feeling so resolutely safe.

"Thank you," he whispers, carefully letting the idea that there is anything in him worth seeing take root. A few tears do well up in the end, and he lets them fall without resistance. John sees him. John sees him. "God, thank you."

Kissing him again doesn't feel right at the moment; he'd rather just sit here in his arms, let the warmth and affection of it wash over him. And he is tired, holy hell, he didn't realize how tired he was. He starts to slump a little, leaning heavier against John and breathing slowly. "Feels good," he mumbles as John continues to stroke his hair.

The thanks could break his heart, if he let it. Martin has told him on many occasions that no one has cared for him like John has, and he has exchanged the simmering indignation those words used to inspire for a more stubborn determination to make up for all that lost time, to show Martin the care he has always deserved. Maybe, under these circumstances, Martin has fewer disappointments to recollect; maybe that's a mercy. But even if that's true, it wouldn't lessen the novelty of John's sincere adoration. It wouldn't make being loved the sort of thing you can simply accept without feeling compelled to offer thanks for it.

He doesn't think either of them have the energy to confront that head-on, so he just gives Martin an extra squeeze. It ends up being the right call; he can feel Martin relaxing against him, growing heavier in his arms, and the warm familiarity of it all soothes him in turn. When Martin mumbles out a few words, it rouses him enough that John opens his eyes, and then he blinks, realizing he has no idea when he let them fall shut. Christ, they're both on their way to dozing off — no great surprise, considering the bloody roller coaster of a day they've had, and John finds himself profoundly disinclined to fight it, even for the purposes of a more comfortable relocation to the bedroom.

"Here," he murmurs, rubbing Martin's back gently, "let's have a proper lie-down, hm?" He shifts on the cushions, negotiating them both into a more horizontal configuration, patiently waiting for Martin to rediscover what works best as they collectively ease any points of uncomfortable pressure. Once they've settled, he turns to press a kiss to Martin's brow, puffing a soft sigh into his hair. Much better.

"Mkay," Martin answers automatically, barely registering the suggestion until John starts moving around, and his face scrunches up in sleepy protest. But ultimately it's a relief to lie down alongside John, nestled as close as the limited width of the couch requires, as close as he likes. He smiles softly at the kiss to his brow, then turns inward, burying his face against John's chest and breathing against him. He smells good, and it is remarkable that he gets to know that, to enjoy it.

If he were less tired, less on the brink of encompassing sleep, there might be more he wants to say. Something currently held close in his chest might rise to the surface and slip out. But he's too tired to speak and too tired to even appreciate any sort of relief over that. The only sound he manages is a sleepy, formless murmur before he's fully drifted off.

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Inevitable, Really

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