Inevitable, Really

[loficharm]

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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[loficharm]

"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.

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

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.

[statement_ends]

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.

[loficharm]

"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.