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.
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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.