"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 â 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'tâ 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 Iâ" 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.
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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 â 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'tâ 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 Iâ" 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.