Jonathan Sims

John shivers in Martin's arms, trying to find solace in the way Martin holds him and the reassurances whispered in his ear. It's harder than he wants it to be. Every word and every touch feels stained by the awareness that he nearly lost this, that if things had been just a little different... Christ, it was so close. John buries his face against Martin's neck with a miserable groan, wishing he could just rein himself in, aware that it was Martin who had the actual near-death experience and that it's absurdly selfish to be falling to pieces like this when their roles really ought to be reversed. Martin shouldn't have to comfort him, for fuck's sake.

In the end, his own exhaustion accomplishes what willpower cannot. He doesn't have the energy to sustain that pitch of emotion, and the storm passes after only a minute or two. The shudders diminish into occasional tremors, the tears slow, less because he feels better and more because he's too tired to carry on. He is weary to his fucking bones.

But his guilt is stronger even than his exhaustion, though it now lies along a different axis. Much as it tears at him, there is nothing to be done about his absence when Martin needed him before. Being needed now, though, is something he can answer, provided he pulls himself the fuck together.

"I'm sorry," John says, lifting his head stiffly, then loosening his grip just enough to lean back and look down at Martin directly. "I-I didn't mean to—" he huffs once, wetly, and looks away, lifting one hand to swipe at his own cheeks. "I should be comforting you; it's all... backwards." He sniffs, a bit pathetic but stubborn, and looks back down at Martin. "What do you need?" he asks, wanting to help, wanting direction.