The dread settles in, thick and heavy, as John continues his story, describing the book, his experience reading it, and the reappearance of his bully. The end result of it all is strange and horrifying, as expected, but Martin doesn't pull away, continuing to lean forward, his shoulders tense and his fist still curled tight. Christ, it's awful—that it happened at all, that John was so young, what became of the older boy. What nearly became of John. Martin's suddenly seized with an almost overwhelming desire to reach out to him, to grab hold of him and confirm—for him, for John, it doesn't matter—that he's still there, that he's safe. John's quiet distress over not being able to remember the name of the boy who inadvertently saved him is... familiar, understandable, but it doesn't feel as important as the rest of it, not now that Martin's heard it all.

For a second Martin thinks about getting up, putting his arms back around John, but he banishes the idea just as quickly. It's too soon after the last one, the last one which was already a bit... intense, and John's sitting and what if he doesn't want that sort of contact, it'll just be... awkward, and possibly a little bit patronizing. But he has to do something. He can't just sit there, his face etched with horror and sympathy that does John absolutely no good.

He shifts a little so he's no longer braced on his elbow, instead leaning forward a little more, his arm stretching out toward John. Both of John's hands are in his lap, curled together tightly, and Martin pushes past the heavy layer of nervousness and doubt that shrouds his every impulse as he reaches his hand out, his fingers sliding tentative and careful over John's. He says nothing, just keeps his eyes on John's face, waiting for John to look up, to look at him. He's terrified by how much he wants John to look at him, by what that look will or won't mean, by what it will make him want, and that John might see him wanting. But he doesn't—won't allow himself to—flinch from it.