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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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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