Martin answers his rather fumbling remark with quiet confidence, and John blinks at him, stunned into silence. It's not that confidence is unprecedented, at least in some contexts: Martin hasn't been particularly shy about his managerial duties in the office for quite some time. But he makes requests far more often than he gives anything approaching an order, and isn't much inclined towards self-endorsement. Anything even adjacent to either of those things comes packaged in a cushioning layer of irony, an implicit nod to roles reversed. Even at home, orders feel like a private joke they share, or a game they play, not something delivered wholly in earnest. Martin doesn't speak to him like this: soft, gentle, and as inescapable as gravity.
Except he does. 'I do,' he says, and smiles at him. And that is simply all there is to it. John is caught fast, locked in Martin's orbit, surrendering to the pull. He watches as Martin lifts his hand to his lips, allowing the tender manipulation without a second thought. His trust in Martin was hard-earned, a choice that became a habit that became a reflex, and now it is as easy as breathing. Easier, even: an act that never pulls against the scars on his chest, an impulse that he feels no need to temper into something shallow and unobtrusive, lest it somehow distract him from whatever happens next. Martin stands, one warm hand curling beneath John's chin, the novelty utterly arresting, and John almost smiles as he lets his head tip back a few obliging degrees. He is okay, he is more than 'okay,' and it isn't until Martin tells him to close his eyes that there is any distant suggestion to the contrary.
John hesitates, his expression unchanging except for his gaze, which sharpens out of its earlier placidity. The request budges up against another instinct, older and just as powerful: one that tells him to keep his eyes open, to Watch, one that quivers with sudden urgency at the idea of not Knowing every detail of what Martin might intend, one that bristles at the indignity of passively allowing himself to be acted upon. One that frets and sneers and mutters too-familiar verses: what was the point of choosing this if you're going to just let things happen to you? What is the point of you, if you don't Know things, if you don't Know everything?
One that might have won out if he wasn't already tired enough for choice to feel like a chore and foreknowledge a burden he'd rather relinquish to the man who is handling him so gently. John trusts Martin more than he trusts the voice in his own head. And when he closes his eyes, he feels no trepidation, only relief.
Martin's kisses land like a benediction, delivered with such care that John almost has to infer them, less feeling the pressure of them against his eyelids and more assembling the truth of them from the other disparate sensations and scraps of awareness at his disposal. The more decisive press of Martin's chin against his cheek; the warmth of his breath ghosting against his brow; the overwhelming and entirely mundane knowledge that this is exactly the sort of thing Martin would do, isn't it? He would wonder what he had done to deserve this if wondering was currently within his purview. Instead, he quietly luxuriates in the sensations, and in the intoxicating awareness that all he needs to do is accept it. And acceptance is so easy. The weight of Martin's forehead resting against his own is a familiar comfort; so is the solid pressure of his hands on John's shoulders, though John is once again struck by the implicit confidence of the gesture, the certainty of that unspoken suggestion to stay put, to wait.
The check-in, too, is unsurprising. He still doesn't respond for a beat or two, but only because it takes an extra moment for him to rouse himself into any sort of action. He hums, brief and quiet, as if he was near to dozing and Martin nudged him awake. He is not tired, though — or not that kind of tired. Certainly not in any danger of drifting off when that might not be what Martin intends for him. "Yes," he breathes. It distantly occurs to him that he could reach out, let his hand curl around Martin's leg or brace against his side. But exploration would require initiative, and that seems to be currently beside the point. He remains still, instead, patiently waiting for Martin's next move.
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Except he does. 'I do,' he says, and smiles at him. And that is simply all there is to it. John is caught fast, locked in Martin's orbit, surrendering to the pull. He watches as Martin lifts his hand to his lips, allowing the tender manipulation without a second thought. His trust in Martin was hard-earned, a choice that became a habit that became a reflex, and now it is as easy as breathing. Easier, even: an act that never pulls against the scars on his chest, an impulse that he feels no need to temper into something shallow and unobtrusive, lest it somehow distract him from whatever happens next. Martin stands, one warm hand curling beneath John's chin, the novelty utterly arresting, and John almost smiles as he lets his head tip back a few obliging degrees. He is okay, he is more than 'okay,' and it isn't until Martin tells him to close his eyes that there is any distant suggestion to the contrary.
John hesitates, his expression unchanging except for his gaze, which sharpens out of its earlier placidity. The request budges up against another instinct, older and just as powerful: one that tells him to keep his eyes open, to Watch, one that quivers with sudden urgency at the idea of not Knowing every detail of what Martin might intend, one that bristles at the indignity of passively allowing himself to be acted upon. One that frets and sneers and mutters too-familiar verses: what was the point of choosing this if you're going to just let things happen to you? What is the point of you, if you don't Know things, if you don't Know everything?
One that might have won out if he wasn't already tired enough for choice to feel like a chore and foreknowledge a burden he'd rather relinquish to the man who is handling him so gently. John trusts Martin more than he trusts the voice in his own head. And when he closes his eyes, he feels no trepidation, only relief.
Martin's kisses land like a benediction, delivered with such care that John almost has to infer them, less feeling the pressure of them against his eyelids and more assembling the truth of them from the other disparate sensations and scraps of awareness at his disposal. The more decisive press of Martin's chin against his cheek; the warmth of his breath ghosting against his brow; the overwhelming and entirely mundane knowledge that this is exactly the sort of thing Martin would do, isn't it? He would wonder what he had done to deserve this if wondering was currently within his purview. Instead, he quietly luxuriates in the sensations, and in the intoxicating awareness that all he needs to do is accept it. And acceptance is so easy. The weight of Martin's forehead resting against his own is a familiar comfort; so is the solid pressure of his hands on John's shoulders, though John is once again struck by the implicit confidence of the gesture, the certainty of that unspoken suggestion to stay put, to wait.
The check-in, too, is unsurprising. He still doesn't respond for a beat or two, but only because it takes an extra moment for him to rouse himself into any sort of action. He hums, brief and quiet, as if he was near to dozing and Martin nudged him awake. He is not tired, though — or not that kind of tired. Certainly not in any danger of drifting off when that might not be what Martin intends for him. "Yes," he breathes. It distantly occurs to him that he could reach out, let his hand curl around Martin's leg or brace against his side. But exploration would require initiative, and that seems to be currently beside the point. He remains still, instead, patiently waiting for Martin's next move.