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.
no subject
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.