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Entry tags:
Crash Course
January 22nd, 2022
"How does that feel?"
Martin had not intended to snoop. He'd expressly intended not to, in fact, in a way that had taken some conscious effort. With John needing to go to work for a few hours — needing to record Statements, as he'd sheepishly implied — Martin knew the temptation would be stronger than ever. His curiosity about his life here, their life together, is almost overwhelming at times. But just because this is all technically his doesn't mean he has any right to it, really.
He'd assured John he'd be fine, that he'd find some way to occupy himself. He'd thought perhaps he might read, or poke around on this universe's odd simulacrum of YouTube. He should've anticipated it would be harder than that, and he has a hard time believing that John wasn't fully aware of the possibility. So in a way, being left alone in the flat might almost be tacit approval of his own urge to search it.
He'd decided to clean, instead. Something active, helpful, allowing him exploration in a limited capacity. It had worked, too. Until the bedroom. Until the box under the bed, specifically. Filled with tapes, just like the ones they'd used at the Institute, with labels in John's handwriting, proclaiming them to be... innocuous things. Personal things. He'd picked up one off the top of the pile. Christmas, it said. Simple. Straightforward. He'd noticed the cassette player, sitting there on the bedside table, had glanced at it suspiciously, almost sure it hadn't been there before. He should've just put it back. He should not have slotted the tape into the player, and he should not be listening to it now.
But that is what he's doing, perched on the edge of the bed, the player clutched tight in his hands as he stares down at it, tape spooling away as his own voice grits out a response to John's question amid some layers of rustling fabric and creaking wood. "Jesus Christ, John," he says.
There's a moment where there's nothing but his own audibly labored breathing, and the slight shifting of what can only be this very mattress; and then John says, in a voice quite unlike anything Martin's heard from him before: "Well, now you've gone a bit quiet. I suppose we'll have to do something about that."
This is not some sort of idle little recording made during a Christmas party, or anything remotely related to Christmas at all besides the date. This is private. It is incredibly, unutterably private, and he should not be listening to it. He should shut this tape off and put it back and pretend he never found it; better still, he should own up to having found it, apologize, and go from there. But even as his face reddens and his heart rate skyrockets, as he listens to his own gasps and moans and evident struggling, he cannot bring himself to interrupt it. He sits, swamped in mortified fascination, and he lets it play on.
"Going somewhere?" John asks, and Martin very nearly gasps just hearing his voice pitched that low, laced with a sort of playful authority. As agonizing as it is listening to himself, especially in such intense vulnerability, it is intoxicating hearing John like this. He finds himself desperately trying to piece together the details. It's clear he's been... restrained somehow. Was he tied up? Is he the sort of person who asks for that? And is John the sort of person who does it?
He's only barely begun to work this out when his recorded self lets out such a sharp, sudden yelp that he jolts and nearly drops the player. Christ, what was that, what the hell did John do? He listens for any clue, but there's nothing, no words exchanged between them, just an oddly protracted moment of silence and shaky breathing and then another cry, so intense and raw that it's almost distressing. Martin has... he's always been noisy, but he knows he's never made a noise like that before.
"Mister Blackwood," John says, silky and amused, sending a shiver down Martin's spine, "you've been holding out on me. Or did you not know?" He's still doing it, whatever it is, drawing a constant stream of frantic whines and murmurs out of the other him. "Is this a shock to you as well?"
Is what a shock? What is he doing? What the hell is he doing?!
Martin can't fucking figure it out. He keeps listening, growing both increasingly uncomfortable and uncomfortably aroused as John keeps... investigating whatever this is, and there's never any clarity given. What exchanges do occur are unspecific, providing only more confusing evidence: that whatever this is, it does seem like a surprise, and that it's so good he's beside himself, swearing and begging for more. Even without knowing the details, Martin knows he's never had sex like this before, but he doesn't think a lack of experience is at fault for his bewilderment. He cannot picture it. If John were just... touching him, it wouldn't be so bloody novel. He's talking often enough that he's not using his mouth. What is it?
And then John asks if this is all it takes, and Martin nearly drops the tape player again, or rather nearly throws it across the room. The following confirmation that yes, he was tied up, barely registers. The idea that this, whatever it is, could be enough to finish the job but they hadn't ever thought to try it, is completely baffling. And yet it seems like an idea they were both keen to pursue. It keeps going like that for what feels like forever, and he keeps listening, rapt and distantly horrified with himself. The only clue that ever comes as to what any of it was is just his own one-word request: Harder, which could refer to literally anything. The sweeter moments — when he stops to ask if John is okay, resulting in gentle reassurance somewhat like what he's experienced himself — are overshadowed by more questions: why wouldn't John be okay? Is this strenuous? Is it...
Holy shit, is it actually working?
He sits there, sweating, turned on, and appalled as he listens to himself achieve an orgasm the like of which he knows he's never felt. It sounds... it sounds like it was incredible. He couldn't shut up the entire time. Christ, the whole building must know what they get up to.
He asks to be untied, and John sheepishly tells him Happy Christmas, and Martin finally forces himself to stop the tape. He's not going to find out what happened here and he shouldn't know to wonder. This wasn't his. He has no business wondering, committing such a towering invasion of privacy.
...Why didn't it sound like John was getting anything out of this, apart from his own amusement? He almost considers resuming playback, but instead he rather aggressively ejects the tape, returns it to the box and returns the box beneath the bed. The tape player he sets back on the bedside table, nervously, like it might somehow give him up. Then he slumps over, his head in his hands.
"Fuck," he mutters, and shifts uneasily. He's hard, and he needs to not be. He could just deal with it in the loo, he probably even has time for a shower — John will surely be back soon, but a shower is innocent enough — but even that feels like a gross impropriety. He has no right to any of this, erection fucking included.
It takes some time just sitting there, but he wills himself to calm down. Mostly, at least. Enough that he can get up, shaky but no longer... encumbered. He needs to find something to do, something productive, something to pull him away from all this. Something helpful, like he set out to do.
Laundry. He can do laundry. The hamper's nearly full, especially with John having made up the bed for him with new sheets that first night. Which felt ridiculous at the time, but may have been necessary, in retrospect. He feels bad about it either way. Laundry is tedious, slow, and requires some physical effort. It will help.
He pokes around until he finds detergent and some of Darrow's unfamiliar coins, not sure what he'll need, but multiple trips wouldn't be the end of the world. Fortunately the laundry room is easy enough to find. He lugs everything down to a rather dismal little room in the basement, cracked concrete floor and peeling walls, lights that flicker occasionally. The machines don't appear to require money, which is nice, at least. He loads up the washer, takes his time figuring out the right setting, and turns it on. Then he stands there for a moment, staring at it, listening to the mechanical churn. It's comforting, in a way. He is still overheated, his heart still pounding too fast, his face probably still flushed. But he's calming down by degrees. Maybe he can just... ask about this. Maybe he can find a way to ask that won't make him want to walk directly into the sea.
He's about to head back upstairs when the lights flicker again, more dramatically this time, and he stills, looking up at them with slight trepidation. He's not sure why. Work has made him paranoid, he supposes. Jane Prentiss made him justifiably paranoid. There was something off about the lights just now, and...
And is he imagining it, or is there some sort of low tone, somewhere beneath the washing machine? Like a drone or a hum, or... whispers?
The lights flicker again and his gaze darts back to the washing machine, drawn by some nebulous sense that there is something out of place, settling abruptly on the tape player that, this time, he knows to 100% certainty was not there before. It's on, recording, and he stares at it, a cold dread pooling in his gut, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He feels, suddenly, intensely sure that he doesn't want to turn around. That he won't like what he sees if he does. He should just get out of here, get back upstairs to the relative safety of the flat.
But instead, perhaps inevitably, he does turn around. There's something on the wall that he's pretty sure also wasn't there before, a sort of spidering crack in it, with something moving underneath. He can barely see it; it's barely perceptible, but it's there. Movement in those awful black lines, like ink flowing behind the plaster. Like moving shadows.
He's not sure why, but he takes a hesitating step forward. Cursed by curiosity, in more ways than one today. He just wants to get a better look, to try and see what's making that weird sense of movement. Maybe it's... somehow, something normal and reasonable, and if he can just get a look—
There is someone else there.
He doesn't know how he didn't see them before, standing in the corner, shadowed but very present in his periphery. He jolts, just barely biting back a shriek as he looks at them more directly, except there's no one there after all. He stands there, breathing heavily and feeling like an idiot. Christ, he was sure... well, at least the whole situation has him spooked enough now that he has no intention of staying. Fuck this, he thinks, and he pivots on his heel with every intention of hurrying out and back up the stairs.
Instead something lashes around his waist, catching him so sharply that he nearly chokes and topples over; there's nothing there, nothing he can see, but he can feel it, some sort of faint pressure twining around him, his legs, his arms, up to his chest. He tries to pull against it and it lifts him up off the floor with terrifying ease, holding him suspended for just a moment before it drags him back, slamming him to the wall. He gasps, winded, and looks down to see himself swathed in shadows, tendrils of intangible dark that are somehow, impossibly, holding him up, pinning him to the wall. The lights flicker violently, casting everything in a frenetic sort of stop motion. The noise is overwhelming now, like someone is whispering directly into his ear, not that he can make out a word of it. He struggles, his shoes scraping uselessly at the wall as he's pressed back against it like it wants to pull him inside somehow. And that isn't the only pressure exerted on him, neither the unyielding wall at his back nor the shadows weaving their way around him; there is also the overwhelming sense of some intense emotion, not quite malevolent but terrifying all the same. It feels... not even angry. Petty, which is almost worse.
"No—!" is the only cry he can muster once he's regained his breath, and only barely, as the response is immediate, another plume of darkness wrapping thickly around his mouth, muffling his voice so effectively he might as well be under water. He struggles harder, desperate and panicky and utterly ineffectual, and it just holds him there, motionless, like it's lying in wait.
"How does that feel?"
Martin had not intended to snoop. He'd expressly intended not to, in fact, in a way that had taken some conscious effort. With John needing to go to work for a few hours — needing to record Statements, as he'd sheepishly implied — Martin knew the temptation would be stronger than ever. His curiosity about his life here, their life together, is almost overwhelming at times. But just because this is all technically his doesn't mean he has any right to it, really.
He'd assured John he'd be fine, that he'd find some way to occupy himself. He'd thought perhaps he might read, or poke around on this universe's odd simulacrum of YouTube. He should've anticipated it would be harder than that, and he has a hard time believing that John wasn't fully aware of the possibility. So in a way, being left alone in the flat might almost be tacit approval of his own urge to search it.
He'd decided to clean, instead. Something active, helpful, allowing him exploration in a limited capacity. It had worked, too. Until the bedroom. Until the box under the bed, specifically. Filled with tapes, just like the ones they'd used at the Institute, with labels in John's handwriting, proclaiming them to be... innocuous things. Personal things. He'd picked up one off the top of the pile. Christmas, it said. Simple. Straightforward. He'd noticed the cassette player, sitting there on the bedside table, had glanced at it suspiciously, almost sure it hadn't been there before. He should've just put it back. He should not have slotted the tape into the player, and he should not be listening to it now.
But that is what he's doing, perched on the edge of the bed, the player clutched tight in his hands as he stares down at it, tape spooling away as his own voice grits out a response to John's question amid some layers of rustling fabric and creaking wood. "Jesus Christ, John," he says.
There's a moment where there's nothing but his own audibly labored breathing, and the slight shifting of what can only be this very mattress; and then John says, in a voice quite unlike anything Martin's heard from him before: "Well, now you've gone a bit quiet. I suppose we'll have to do something about that."
This is not some sort of idle little recording made during a Christmas party, or anything remotely related to Christmas at all besides the date. This is private. It is incredibly, unutterably private, and he should not be listening to it. He should shut this tape off and put it back and pretend he never found it; better still, he should own up to having found it, apologize, and go from there. But even as his face reddens and his heart rate skyrockets, as he listens to his own gasps and moans and evident struggling, he cannot bring himself to interrupt it. He sits, swamped in mortified fascination, and he lets it play on.
"Going somewhere?" John asks, and Martin very nearly gasps just hearing his voice pitched that low, laced with a sort of playful authority. As agonizing as it is listening to himself, especially in such intense vulnerability, it is intoxicating hearing John like this. He finds himself desperately trying to piece together the details. It's clear he's been... restrained somehow. Was he tied up? Is he the sort of person who asks for that? And is John the sort of person who does it?
He's only barely begun to work this out when his recorded self lets out such a sharp, sudden yelp that he jolts and nearly drops the player. Christ, what was that, what the hell did John do? He listens for any clue, but there's nothing, no words exchanged between them, just an oddly protracted moment of silence and shaky breathing and then another cry, so intense and raw that it's almost distressing. Martin has... he's always been noisy, but he knows he's never made a noise like that before.
"Mister Blackwood," John says, silky and amused, sending a shiver down Martin's spine, "you've been holding out on me. Or did you not know?" He's still doing it, whatever it is, drawing a constant stream of frantic whines and murmurs out of the other him. "Is this a shock to you as well?"
Is what a shock? What is he doing? What the hell is he doing?!
Martin can't fucking figure it out. He keeps listening, growing both increasingly uncomfortable and uncomfortably aroused as John keeps... investigating whatever this is, and there's never any clarity given. What exchanges do occur are unspecific, providing only more confusing evidence: that whatever this is, it does seem like a surprise, and that it's so good he's beside himself, swearing and begging for more. Even without knowing the details, Martin knows he's never had sex like this before, but he doesn't think a lack of experience is at fault for his bewilderment. He cannot picture it. If John were just... touching him, it wouldn't be so bloody novel. He's talking often enough that he's not using his mouth. What is it?
And then John asks if this is all it takes, and Martin nearly drops the tape player again, or rather nearly throws it across the room. The following confirmation that yes, he was tied up, barely registers. The idea that this, whatever it is, could be enough to finish the job but they hadn't ever thought to try it, is completely baffling. And yet it seems like an idea they were both keen to pursue. It keeps going like that for what feels like forever, and he keeps listening, rapt and distantly horrified with himself. The only clue that ever comes as to what any of it was is just his own one-word request: Harder, which could refer to literally anything. The sweeter moments — when he stops to ask if John is okay, resulting in gentle reassurance somewhat like what he's experienced himself — are overshadowed by more questions: why wouldn't John be okay? Is this strenuous? Is it...
Holy shit, is it actually working?
He sits there, sweating, turned on, and appalled as he listens to himself achieve an orgasm the like of which he knows he's never felt. It sounds... it sounds like it was incredible. He couldn't shut up the entire time. Christ, the whole building must know what they get up to.
He asks to be untied, and John sheepishly tells him Happy Christmas, and Martin finally forces himself to stop the tape. He's not going to find out what happened here and he shouldn't know to wonder. This wasn't his. He has no business wondering, committing such a towering invasion of privacy.
...Why didn't it sound like John was getting anything out of this, apart from his own amusement? He almost considers resuming playback, but instead he rather aggressively ejects the tape, returns it to the box and returns the box beneath the bed. The tape player he sets back on the bedside table, nervously, like it might somehow give him up. Then he slumps over, his head in his hands.
"Fuck," he mutters, and shifts uneasily. He's hard, and he needs to not be. He could just deal with it in the loo, he probably even has time for a shower — John will surely be back soon, but a shower is innocent enough — but even that feels like a gross impropriety. He has no right to any of this, erection fucking included.
It takes some time just sitting there, but he wills himself to calm down. Mostly, at least. Enough that he can get up, shaky but no longer... encumbered. He needs to find something to do, something productive, something to pull him away from all this. Something helpful, like he set out to do.
Laundry. He can do laundry. The hamper's nearly full, especially with John having made up the bed for him with new sheets that first night. Which felt ridiculous at the time, but may have been necessary, in retrospect. He feels bad about it either way. Laundry is tedious, slow, and requires some physical effort. It will help.
He pokes around until he finds detergent and some of Darrow's unfamiliar coins, not sure what he'll need, but multiple trips wouldn't be the end of the world. Fortunately the laundry room is easy enough to find. He lugs everything down to a rather dismal little room in the basement, cracked concrete floor and peeling walls, lights that flicker occasionally. The machines don't appear to require money, which is nice, at least. He loads up the washer, takes his time figuring out the right setting, and turns it on. Then he stands there for a moment, staring at it, listening to the mechanical churn. It's comforting, in a way. He is still overheated, his heart still pounding too fast, his face probably still flushed. But he's calming down by degrees. Maybe he can just... ask about this. Maybe he can find a way to ask that won't make him want to walk directly into the sea.
He's about to head back upstairs when the lights flicker again, more dramatically this time, and he stills, looking up at them with slight trepidation. He's not sure why. Work has made him paranoid, he supposes. Jane Prentiss made him justifiably paranoid. There was something off about the lights just now, and...
And is he imagining it, or is there some sort of low tone, somewhere beneath the washing machine? Like a drone or a hum, or... whispers?
The lights flicker again and his gaze darts back to the washing machine, drawn by some nebulous sense that there is something out of place, settling abruptly on the tape player that, this time, he knows to 100% certainty was not there before. It's on, recording, and he stares at it, a cold dread pooling in his gut, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. He feels, suddenly, intensely sure that he doesn't want to turn around. That he won't like what he sees if he does. He should just get out of here, get back upstairs to the relative safety of the flat.
But instead, perhaps inevitably, he does turn around. There's something on the wall that he's pretty sure also wasn't there before, a sort of spidering crack in it, with something moving underneath. He can barely see it; it's barely perceptible, but it's there. Movement in those awful black lines, like ink flowing behind the plaster. Like moving shadows.
He's not sure why, but he takes a hesitating step forward. Cursed by curiosity, in more ways than one today. He just wants to get a better look, to try and see what's making that weird sense of movement. Maybe it's... somehow, something normal and reasonable, and if he can just get a look—
There is someone else there.
He doesn't know how he didn't see them before, standing in the corner, shadowed but very present in his periphery. He jolts, just barely biting back a shriek as he looks at them more directly, except there's no one there after all. He stands there, breathing heavily and feeling like an idiot. Christ, he was sure... well, at least the whole situation has him spooked enough now that he has no intention of staying. Fuck this, he thinks, and he pivots on his heel with every intention of hurrying out and back up the stairs.
Instead something lashes around his waist, catching him so sharply that he nearly chokes and topples over; there's nothing there, nothing he can see, but he can feel it, some sort of faint pressure twining around him, his legs, his arms, up to his chest. He tries to pull against it and it lifts him up off the floor with terrifying ease, holding him suspended for just a moment before it drags him back, slamming him to the wall. He gasps, winded, and looks down to see himself swathed in shadows, tendrils of intangible dark that are somehow, impossibly, holding him up, pinning him to the wall. The lights flicker violently, casting everything in a frenetic sort of stop motion. The noise is overwhelming now, like someone is whispering directly into his ear, not that he can make out a word of it. He struggles, his shoes scraping uselessly at the wall as he's pressed back against it like it wants to pull him inside somehow. And that isn't the only pressure exerted on him, neither the unyielding wall at his back nor the shadows weaving their way around him; there is also the overwhelming sense of some intense emotion, not quite malevolent but terrifying all the same. It feels... not even angry. Petty, which is almost worse.
"No—!" is the only cry he can muster once he's regained his breath, and only barely, as the response is immediate, another plume of darkness wrapping thickly around his mouth, muffling his voice so effectively he might as well be under water. He struggles harder, desperate and panicky and utterly ineffectual, and it just holds him there, motionless, like it's lying in wait.
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Objection so registered, he lets his hand flop back down onto the bedspread. "And me in a vulnerable position," he adds in a drowsy approximation of indignation as Martin continues to knead him into liquid form. "Was gonna tell you how good you are at this, but now I shan't."
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Besides, he's enjoying the ease of their ridiculous little back-and-forth too much to want to shift focus away from that just yet.
"That'll teach me," he agrees as he continues working along John's shoulders, kneading out the tension around his spine, enjoying the way he just sort of melts and... well, purrs, really.
"You really are just like a cat, aren't you?" he says, grunting softly as he digs the heel of his hand in against a particular knot alongside John's shoulder blade.
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But the banter is a pleasant sort of routine, too, and worth staying moderately conscious for. Besides, John isn't about to let the cat comparison pass without comment when such an obvious rejoinder presents itself. "That was one time," he grumbles into his pillow.
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"Sorry, what?" he says, faintly bewildered, gentling his touch a little.
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He spends a beat or two not so much searching for a dignified way to explain it as reflecting on the inherent impossibility of sounding anything but ridiculous while doing the explaining, then pulls in a slow breath and rips off the plaster: "A few weeks after we arrived here, a wizard turned me into a cat."
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He barks out a startled laugh and than catches himself quickly: "Sorry, er... a wizard. Turned you into a cat." He slowly resumes his work, seeing no reason to stop even if this conversation has turned rather odd. "Are you fucking with me? Because you could tell me just about anything about this place and I'd probably have to believe you. Then I suppose we'd have to reevaluate who's doing the bullying here," he adds, unable to keep the cheek out of his voice.
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"Anyway, I dunno if he technically called himself a wizard," he continues, "but he used to throw these big parties, invite the whole bloody town. We went to one, just to... to check it out, I suppose. Investig—Jesus," John interrupts himself, arching slightly into Martin's hands as he hits a particularly good spot. Doing nothing good for the general cat comparison, of course, and he clears his throat and resettles himself. "Mmnh. Investigate. I crossed him by not enjoying the festivities enough. So he turned me into a cat." He sighs quietly, partly at the memory but mostly in response to Martin's continued work. "On the spot," he adds, every word requiring a bit of extra effort to dredge up out of the drowsiness that suffuses him. "Nightmare."
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"Jesus," he mutters, an unintentional echo. "That's... sort of awful." His brow furrows as he continues working away at John's back. "I hope I gave him what for."
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At the time, it had been mortifying for both of them; even now, he'd hesitate to describe all the memories as 'fond.' But he can't help a faint smile at how determined Martin had been to help, and how much he'd shouldered without question for the bizarre little lodger John had become. "You carried me halfway across town, back to your flat. Let me stay there for a week while we waited for the spell to wear off. Took care of me." Martin is still working on him, and John just basks in it for a few moments, breathing slow and deep. "You took such good care of me," he murmurs.
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"Of course I did," he replies after a moment, and suddenly — or perhaps not suddenly at all, considering everything that's preceded it — any embarrassment or latent sense of being an imposter, of it being not the right time, just melts away. Of course he did; of course he took care of John, no matter how bizarre the situation, and the because fills itself in as he says, almost matter-of-fact, "I love you."
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His idle musings on his own cluelessness are interrupted by the intensely ironic realization that 'I love you' actually, technically, isn't a normal thing for Martin to be saying at all. For all that's happened over the past week, this hasn't. It hasn't happened, and he — perhaps foolishly — hadn't even thought to anticipate it, had presumed that whatever else occurred, that would surely be too much and too soon.
John's eyes fly open, though he is still otherwise too lulled for a proper, physical jolt. "Wait— what?" he says, soft and almost stricken.
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"I said," he says, pausing to grunt softly as he shifts his attention to John's other shoulder, "I love you, John."
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The indignation provides sufficient vigor for him to push himself up onto his elbows. "Since when?" he squawks, bracing one hand against the bedspread and pivoting to gawp over his shoulder up at Martin.
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"Since..." He shrugs, growing a bit sheepish. "I mean, after I had that nightmare, I think. I wasn't sure how to say it then, but... yeah."
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And Martin's answer is so shocking that it doesn't help matters. That can't be right; that is too soon, barely 48 hours since arriving here, since meeting a John he hardly recognized for more reasons than the aesthetically obvious. John may not regret the way he'd crumbled that night, offering more comfort than he had any right to presume would be welcome, but he can hardly bear the thought that that was all it took for Martin to fall in love with him. Not after the way he'd treated him before.
The brief surge of manic energy that had pushed him upright gives out, and he flops back onto his front with another aborted little huff of general protest. He aware that he's being ridiculous, but that's preferable to the unthinkable alternative of simply accepting all of this at face value, and he uses what little strength remains in his arms to grab his pillow and drag it over his own head. "I don't deserve it," he insists, muffled beneath the down.
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He draws a breath and lets it out slowly, letting one hand come to rest on John's back. "John," he says. "In just a few days I've seen layers of you that I could scarcely even imagine, more than I ever thought to dream up. I've seen who you are, who you really are, who you've become. And you've given me these little glimpses of who I've become, and that person is happy. And you've made me happy. You've been kind, you've been funny, you've been gentle and patient and... and honest and careful, I mean, Christ, this whole situation could have been terrifying and frustrating but instead it's been the best few days of my life. You've let me into something that I never thought I'd get to have, and you've helped me keep my balance every step of the way. You've done more for me just today than anyone's ever done, but that first night you were so... I could really see how much you loved me, and that... I've never felt that. I've never felt any of this before. So... so first of all, you have grievously misjudged what you do or don't deserve. And second of all, it doesn't matter whether you deserve it or not, because it's just true. And I think I'd regret it if I didn't say it, like this, before I... you know, come back."
His breath comes in shaky this time, and he lets it out with a soft coo, as if he's just physically exerted himself. That was a lot, and his impulse is to apologize for it, or babble nervously to fill any silence it might beget, but he clamps down on that urge, too, focusing instead on gently stroking John's back.
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His grip on his own composure is already tenuous before Martin wraps up his little speech, but it can't hold up against the unanticipated weight of before I come back. That, too, has been all he's wanted: he misses Martin so much he aches with it, even now. And he knows that, in all likelihood, nothing will be lost; this won't become a slice of missing time that John has to recount for him, like some small, far less consequential reprise of what he's been navigating all week. But it strikes him with sudden, terrible force that when this is over, this Martin will be gone. The man he is now, with the memories he has now, will cease to be. An incorporation may not technically be a loss, but Jesus Christ, it feels like one.
And John doesn't want to lose him, because he loves him, too.
John's shoulders start to shake despite the soothing passage of Martin's palm down his back. It's not enough, and he shifts onto his side, sniffling a bit beneath the pillow before patting the bed beside him. "Come here?" he requests, his voice small and unsteady.
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"I'm here," he murmurs, then, unable to keep the anxiety completely locked away, "I- I'm sorry, was that... too much?"
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Now, with Martin nervously asking if he's said too much, it feels like an appalling omission. "No," John gasps out, clinging a bit tighter. "No, it— I just, I need a minute." He pulls in a deep breath, and then another, carefully nudging his own anxieties aside so he can focus on allaying Martin's. The first time they'd done this, Martin had at least managed to return the bloody sentiment before bursting into tears; John really has no excuse.
He exhales, finally feeling steady enough to lift his head and meet Martin's eyes. "I love you, too," he says, drawing back the arm that had been clinging to him so he can instead rest his hand on Martin's cheek, his thumb gently caressing his skin. Trying to convey with just his eyes that he isn't talking about the idea of him, that this isn't meant for someone else, but for the Martin he is here and now. "I love you so much, Martin."
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It was worth it, and it's worth the wait for John to level out, finally drawing back to meet Martin's eyes. And then John answers, and that feeling of steadiness drops out entirely, all over again, and for a reason he could never have predicted.
Martin's eyes widen a fraction before John repeats it, close and direct and leaving no room for doubt, that he means it, now, here, him. It shouldn't be a surprise. For all that he feels like a different person to this other Martin, for all that he draws a mental line between himself and that one, they are the same, and it stands to reason John wouldn't just stop loving him. It's been intrinsic. He's proven it, over and over, all week and today especially.
But Martin still wasn't prepared, and it's not so much John saying it as hearing it at all. No one has ever said this to him with such tenderness and warmth, such genuine intent and inherent truth. Christ, he's barely ever heard those words at all, and it hits him all at once, and there are already tears welling up in his eyes before he can even think how to respond.
"I—" he starts, twitching as he reaches up to cover his face, to hide himself, this is ridiculous, so short on the heels after John crumbled and now he's doing the same thing? But he can't help himself, can't stop from beginning to cry in earnest even as he hides a smile behind his fingers. "I'm sorry," he says, half-laughing at himself while a simultaneous sob shakes through him. "Oh, god."
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He hadn't anticipated this, exactly, but it falls well within the bounds of normalcy — especially considering how things went the first time they'd exchanged these words. This time, Martin had beaten him to the punch, and delivered the words with playful insouciance. But that's different to accepting them. Martin has been living under his future self's shadow all week, and this might be the first time John has adequately conveyed that his love for this Martin isn't just by proxy. It isn't some sort of thoughtless reflex, or a learned habit. It is as conscious and deliberate and true as the love Martin feels for him — and perhaps just as unexpected, despite ample evidence.
John tips up his chin to kiss Martin's forehead. Then, more impishly fond, he starts to bestow little pecks upon Martin's knuckles and the back of his palms. "I love you," he says again between kisses. "No apologies."
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"Okay," he murmurs, his tears subsiding as quickly as they'd come upon him. He sighs and lists forward, letting his forehead come to rest against John's. He wants to say those words again — again and again, words he's dreamed about saying to someone for a long, long time, to such an extent that he never made room to imagine hearing them back. But he doesn't want to wear them out, to repeat them so rapidly that they lose meaning. He wants to savor it every time.
He makes a small, contented sound instead, and shifts slightly to brush his lips against John's cheek. He still feels a little guilty about interrupting the massage, and thinks he ought to offer to get back to it. But he also wants to kiss John more, to lie here tangled with him until they pass out, to keep feeling those long fingers sift gently through his hair. He wants so many things, but he can't imagine speaking up, taking any kind of lead, because at the heart of it all is how much he wants to give himself over, to put himself in John's hands, whatever that means and however much or little it entails.
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His fingers continue to curl gently in Martin's hair as Martin brushes a kiss against his cheek. For a moment, he's tempted to say something a bit coy, like 'you missed,' but that doesn't quite befit the mood they've settled into. Instead, he cracks his eyes open to gaze at Martin. He looks gorgeous, all but glowing in the diffuse afternoon light, and John draws his hand back out of Martin's hair so he can trace his fingers over the subtle arch of his cheekbone, and then down the line of his jaw. His thumb brushes gently over his chin, sweeping just beneath his lower lip, and John follows its passage with his gaze before lifting his eyes back to Martin's. "May I?" he asks, barely more than a breath.
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"Yes," Martin whispers, his eyes falling shut again, his breath shuddering. He aches with how badly he wants it, could just answer with action and close that little distance himself, but John asked, and he deserves an answer rather than what might almost constitute a dismissal. "Please, yes."
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The distant, unobtrusive whirr of spooling tape. The answering reverberation of his own subconscious mind, which might best be translated as: Good. He doesn't know if Darrow will take this from Martin, but it will not take it from him.
So satisfied, he finally completes the journey, his lips meeting Martin's in a slow, languid kiss. There is no urgency behind it, no need for it to be more than it is, or convey more than it does. He refuses to let time press down on them when there is so little of it. Instead, he lets the first kiss roll seamlessly into another, parting his lips to draw breath against him as he sinks his fingers back into the soft tangle of Martin's hair.
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