Entry tags:
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.
"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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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.
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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.
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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.
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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."
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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?"
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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?"
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"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.
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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."
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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.
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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 — 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.
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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.
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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."
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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.