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."
no subject
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."