A faint smile graces John's lips as he continues to bask in Martin's affections, all of it familiar enough in nature to be comfortably borne, even in such unusual concentration. Martin cares for him in small ways all the time, and he often puts some single-minded focus into it: a shoulder rub at the office that goes beyond just 'in passing,' or losing the plot of whatever film they were ostensibly watching because he was too busy petting John's hair to pay proper attention. But this is still inescapably different, indisputably more. This isn't some idle diversion. There is no suggestion of another occupation, some quotidian duty that can only be delayed for so long. This is all there is, the span of it stretching beyond his reckoning — for Martin to decide, not him.
The uncertainty doesn't concern him, though he knows it would have, once. Martin knows him too well and loves him too carefully for John to regard acquiescence as a risk. That he doesn't know what he's acquiescing to feels like little more than semantics: he isn't sure what word would do this justice, and is less interested in terminology than in gathering more proverbial data. He is safe in Martin's hands, and that is enough.
If he were to voice any guiding preferences, it would have only been to suggest that they perhaps move this somewhere more comfortable than the loo: a detail that feels small and distant, but not quite distant enough to be wholly unembarrassing. But there is no need. Martin preempts any concerns, coaxing John to his feet with a murmured invitation, smiling up at him with breathtaking self-assurance, leading him out by the hand. John follows him into the bedroom, sparing The Bishop a brief look and momentarily entertaining the question of whether the cat might be getting himself in the way of whatever comes next. But Martin doesn't indicate that The Bishop's presence is anything but more company.
John follows Martin's hand with his gaze as he grazes a finger against one of his shirt buttons, and answers Martin's assessment of the garment with a small, rueful grunt. The shirt may not be damaged, but John's been sweating into it enough over the past hour or so that its physical integrity is about all it currently has going for it. He won't be sorry to take it off.
His arms have just begun the thoughtless motion of reaching for the button himself when Martin's next words pull him up short. John stills, frozen mid-motion, cheeks prickling with a blush he can't quantify. It isn't embarrassment; he doesn't feel as if he's made a misstep. He just requires clarification, 'best get comfortable' and 'I'm going to take care of you' leaving the question of who ought to remove the shirt unresolved. "Should I...?" he starts, lifting his hands a fraction in unspoken indication.
no subject
The uncertainty doesn't concern him, though he knows it would have, once. Martin knows him too well and loves him too carefully for John to regard acquiescence as a risk. That he doesn't know what he's acquiescing to feels like little more than semantics: he isn't sure what word would do this justice, and is less interested in terminology than in gathering more proverbial data. He is safe in Martin's hands, and that is enough.
If he were to voice any guiding preferences, it would have only been to suggest that they perhaps move this somewhere more comfortable than the loo: a detail that feels small and distant, but not quite distant enough to be wholly unembarrassing. But there is no need. Martin preempts any concerns, coaxing John to his feet with a murmured invitation, smiling up at him with breathtaking self-assurance, leading him out by the hand. John follows him into the bedroom, sparing The Bishop a brief look and momentarily entertaining the question of whether the cat might be getting himself in the way of whatever comes next. But Martin doesn't indicate that The Bishop's presence is anything but more company.
John follows Martin's hand with his gaze as he grazes a finger against one of his shirt buttons, and answers Martin's assessment of the garment with a small, rueful grunt. The shirt may not be damaged, but John's been sweating into it enough over the past hour or so that its physical integrity is about all it currently has going for it. He won't be sorry to take it off.
His arms have just begun the thoughtless motion of reaching for the button himself when Martin's next words pull him up short. John stills, frozen mid-motion, cheeks prickling with a blush he can't quantify. It isn't embarrassment; he doesn't feel as if he's made a misstep. He just requires clarification, 'best get comfortable' and 'I'm going to take care of you' leaving the question of who ought to remove the shirt unresolved. "Should I...?" he starts, lifting his hands a fraction in unspoken indication.