let me show you what you're worth

[loficharm]

September 23rd, 2021


"The bloody arrogance," Martin snaps as he shuts the door and locks it with a sharp flick of his wrist. He has contained the rising boil of his fury, if barely, for the entire walk home from the thoroughly unpleasant encounter with Sylvie; limited it to silent (if practically visible) radiation until now, as they enter the relative privacy of their flat, and not a moment longer. "The sheer fucking — god, what is it about us that we attract the exact same type of magical arsehole every time?"

He stumbles out of his shoes and yanks off his coat and practically throws it over the back of the couch as he moves through the flat on a direct line for the kitchen. He grabs the kettle and starts filling it with the water at full blast. "It's always our fault for not just deferring to their ideas about how things work. Like they're so fucking superior and we're these funny little — i-insects she found on the sidewalk and decided to poke with a stick for a while. Talking to me like I'm a bloody child."

As angry as he is — he hasn't felt this angry in a long while, and he's not even totally sure why — it's starting to feel weird, swearing so much. He shuts off the water and sets the kettle on the stove as gently as he can manage and flicks the burner on before pressing a hand to his forehead and forcing himself to breathe.

"Sorry," he says, his tone still terse, his jaw still clenched. He drops his hand and finally looks at John. "I just hate it, I hate when people — when they act like that, and the way they talk to you, like they — like they know you, like they have any idea—"

He cuts himself off again, his gaze shifting quick and hot to a dusty corner of the floor. It takes him a moment to push out the unwelcome memory of Jacob Riggs, hand around his throat while he spewed all his ignorant assumptions. He shudders slightly as he forces it away, drawing another breath through his teeth.

"Not like it's even new," he says bitterly. "Everyone did this back home, too. They all reduce you to this, this title, this idea, like what happened to you was... like it's the only thing worth knowing, like everything else is just—" He gestures, a vague flap of his hand, frustration over the struggle to find his words. He can't keep up with his own anger, moving faster than he can speak, and yet he can't stop now that he's started. "Just details! Just a bunch of awful little footnotes nobody bothers to read. What are you, like it's — like that's the most interesting thing about you when it's not, and it never has been. Christ."

He stares balefully at the kettle, wishing it would get on his level, knowing he filled it too much and now he's bought himself an awkward amount of time to just stand there ranting. He needs to stop, but he doesn't know what that would even begin to feel like.

"Well they don't get to know," he snaps. "They don't get to know that you— you hum to yourself when you do the dishes and you have this very specific system for putting the mugs back in the cabinet. Or that you did improv in uni, or that you have a bunch of random bits of Shakespeare memorized, or that you know a frankly weird amount of facts about emulsifiers, or — or that you're funny, like really funny in the most ridiculous ways when you have the chance to show it. They don't know how much you hate auto-tuning, or that you're an incredibly pleasant drunk, or that you have this particular voice you use when you talk to cats. What you sound like in the morning, how good your hair smells after a shower. They don't get any of it, and they don't deserve it. Those things are mine."

He stops short, drawing a shaky breath and feeling a bit like he might be about to topple over. The kettle finally starts to work toward whistling, and Martin moves to switch off the burner. He stares at it for a moment, trying to imagine himself getting down cups, putting tea together, having a sit down and a cuppa like that might fix him right now. Then he breathes out slowly and turns back around.

"That's what you are," he says, making some effort to slow down, to soften. "All the messy little human things. Not what happened to you. Not what was forced on you and not the choices you had to make. And it's everyone else's loss."

Enough. Stop. He looks at John, blinking, breathing, not sure where things possibly go from here and unable to regret it.

Comments

[loficharm]

No matter how intent his focus or confident his approach, Martin still feels himself blushing a little. It's true, his particular fondness for John's hands usually takes center stage, while John's appreciation of his physicality is often more general than that. It's surprisingly nice to be on the receiving end, and were he less locked into his task here, it might make him falter. Instead, it's only the work of a moment to pull himself back together, drawing a breath and pressing down between John's shoulder blades, gently, slowly pushing out the lingering tension.

"Don't know about that," he says idly once he's let up. "I'm rather of the opinion you're at least as clever with yours. Don't know where I'd be without those fingers." He smirks, distantly surprised he's reached the point where he can talk around this subject so easily. "Considerably less satisfied on a regular basis, I suppose."

[statement_ends]

John lets out a low chuckle, half delight at Martin's willingness to compliment him about this so casually, half bashful self-satisfaction over the compliment itself. He still marvels, sometimes, over how compatible they turned out to be along that particular axis; it had initially felt so unlikely — if not outright impossible — that he doesn't think he'll ever take it for granted. But they've earned this ease, this ability to treat it lightly. And he's far too physically comfortable to get maudlin about it.

"Perhaps," he allows, "but let's not erase your own hands' contributions. They usually play an important role." He grunts softly as Martin locates another knot, then spends the rest of his current lungful of air on a contented purr. "Unsung heroes," he concludes, muzzy but decisive.

[loficharm]

Martin smiles softly, accepting John's murmured convictions with a little hum and a fresh bloom of warmth in his chest. He takes his time with the massage before replying, drawing patiently to a natural conclusion as he works his way down to the small of John's back, then back up to his shoulders as if checking his work. He lets up gently, gradually, until he finally comes to a halt, breathing out in quiet satisfaction.

"True enough," he says finally. "I can't think of anything more important, really."

He bends down and, at last, indulges himself with a soft kiss pressed to John's hair. He stays there a moment, breathing him in, before lowering himself down to lie alongside the long angle of his body. "Come here," he whispers, his fingers settling tenderly on John's cheek as he moves in to kiss him properly.

[statement_ends]

The balance between curiosity and torpor can be delicate, and it swings a little more towards warm lethargy as Martin bends to kiss his hair. Taken as a whole, it's been a novel evening — but this, here and now, is so soothingly familiar that what happens next feels less like a question and more like a scene they've rehearsed a hundred times: so solid and comfortable that even a little light improvisation isn't enough to throw them off their stride, or change the direction in which things are headed.

John's eyes remain shut, but he can feel Martin shift his weight on the mattress, and he hardly needs the encouragement to turn towards him, snuggling near the comforting warmth of his body as if on instinct. The kiss is telegraphed through the brush of Martin's fingers against his cheek and the whisper of his breath against his skin, and John meets him with a quiet hum. One hand lights on Martin's side, then drifts round to his back as John pulls himself a bit closer.

[loficharm]

They fall into a comfortable synchronicity as John moves in, as Martin folds his arms around him and hugs him close. There may still be a facet of novelty to the exact particulars, but when all is said and done there is still nothing that feels more natural or familiar than this: the two of them holding each other, warm and safe.

There is still a piece of Martin that feels astonished — he suspects it will never truly fade away — that this is familiar, that it's so natural, that John trusts and loves him so much. But it's a quiet background murmur, scarcely worth his attention. John has his attention right now: how nicely he fits in Martin's arms, how peaceful and relaxed he feels, the warmth of his breath, his lips.

"Love you," Martin whispers between each slow, patient kiss. And again: "Love you."