It goes on longer than it ought to, he thinks, but then, that's only because neither of them pulls away. And then he thinks, no, they've earned this with all they've been through. Being given this gift almost feels like some sort of message, a tacit approval of their progress, and it's a promise that John is going to be okay, that there is some sort of future here, even if it's not the one they expected or necessarily the one they want. John is happy, and Martin is all too happy to hold him, even as the seconds creep past the point of supposed propriety.
And then John tips his head down and just... well, he— Martin's eyes go a bit wide as John brushes against him, sort of... nuzzling might be the word. John lets out a quiet laugh before he finally pulls back, leaving Martin endeavoring to keep contained, smiling up at him, still breathless and a little overwhelmed. John doesn't pull away entirely; his hands stay at Martin's shoulders, and it's only then that Martin takes in the state of him, all casually rumpled, his sleeves rolled up. Christ, his forearms are right there, and it's so appallingly stupid, but Martin feels his heart flutter over that, over something so simple and innocent. He's seen John with his sleeves rolled up before, of course, and they've certainly caught his attention, just... never like this, actually wrapped around him, touching him like this. John's arms are lean and long and beautiful, and it takes everything Martin has not to stare at them.
And then John's gaze finds him again, and for a dizzying instant they're just standing like that, John hunched naturally toward him, his lips parted from the words he's just spoken, not that Martin has any idea what those were. Only then does John step back, a bit pointed, hands immediately going to rub at his face. Martin falters back a step, clutching reflexively at his collar as his gut plunges, sudden cold certainty hitting him like an avalanche: that he overstepped, that John saw something there, and that is what pushed him back.
But John doesn't let anything like that show, and after a moment Martin drops his hand back down and takes a few short breaths, attempting to compose himself.
"So you'll... you'll be okay," he says, his smile returning—no matter how desperately his mind wanders, not even his well-honed anxiety can undermine this relief. He laughs a bit weakly. "You're gonna be okay." He says this with a faint air of finality. It's all he ever needed.
no subject
And then John tips his head down and just... well, he— Martin's eyes go a bit wide as John brushes against him, sort of... nuzzling might be the word. John lets out a quiet laugh before he finally pulls back, leaving Martin endeavoring to keep contained, smiling up at him, still breathless and a little overwhelmed. John doesn't pull away entirely; his hands stay at Martin's shoulders, and it's only then that Martin takes in the state of him, all casually rumpled, his sleeves rolled up. Christ, his forearms are right there, and it's so appallingly stupid, but Martin feels his heart flutter over that, over something so simple and innocent. He's seen John with his sleeves rolled up before, of course, and they've certainly caught his attention, just... never like this, actually wrapped around him, touching him like this. John's arms are lean and long and beautiful, and it takes everything Martin has not to stare at them.
And then John's gaze finds him again, and for a dizzying instant they're just standing like that, John hunched naturally toward him, his lips parted from the words he's just spoken, not that Martin has any idea what those were. Only then does John step back, a bit pointed, hands immediately going to rub at his face. Martin falters back a step, clutching reflexively at his collar as his gut plunges, sudden cold certainty hitting him like an avalanche: that he overstepped, that John saw something there, and that is what pushed him back.
But John doesn't let anything like that show, and after a moment Martin drops his hand back down and takes a few short breaths, attempting to compose himself.
"So you'll... you'll be okay," he says, his smile returning—no matter how desperately his mind wanders, not even his well-honed anxiety can undermine this relief. He laughs a bit weakly. "You're gonna be okay." He says this with a faint air of finality. It's all he ever needed.