John focuses on his own tea while Martin methodically puts the toast away, noting the lack of any real enthusiasm for the food, but satisfied by the effort. Maybe it's not much, but it should be enough for the purposes of getting some medicine down, and that should help.
When Martin leans against him, he cracks a faint smile. Part of him wants to curl an arm around Martin's shoulders and pull him close, but there's something careful and restrained about the pressure of Martin's arm against his, like he can't quite bring himself to settle properly. There could be any number of reasons for that, of course — John doesn't have an itemized list of his current symptoms and how much relative discomfort they might be causing — so he doesn't presume to up the ante. Instead, he just leans over to press a light kiss against Martin's hair, a fond acknowledgment that he hopes won't exacerbate anything.
And then Martin speaks. They rarely discuss their childhoods at length, and John isn't sure how much of that is down to preference and how much of it is a sensible sort of rationing. But he's heard enough by now to be unsurprised by what Martin says, and he hums softly in lieu of any fresh outrage. It goes without saying that no child should have to become consciously adept at avoiding illness — that caregiving shouldn't have been Martin's youthful priority — not just because it's obvious, but because the reiteration wouldn't change anything. He does echo Martin's little huff, recognizing both the attempted joke and the stinging ricochet: that it shouldn't've taken him until his thirties to catch a fucking break.
"I might take that as a compliment," he replies, reaching over to gently brush the back of his palm against Martin's, a light touch that he hopes won't aggravate any sensitivities (or require Martin to let go his mug of tea). With a dry sort of flair, as if quoting a film poster, he adds, "Jonathan Sims: implicitly adequate caregiver. Who would've guessed?" It's a little self-deprecating, but intentionally so; he doesn't mind making a silly target of himself if it serves as a distraction.
no subject
When Martin leans against him, he cracks a faint smile. Part of him wants to curl an arm around Martin's shoulders and pull him close, but there's something careful and restrained about the pressure of Martin's arm against his, like he can't quite bring himself to settle properly. There could be any number of reasons for that, of course — John doesn't have an itemized list of his current symptoms and how much relative discomfort they might be causing — so he doesn't presume to up the ante. Instead, he just leans over to press a light kiss against Martin's hair, a fond acknowledgment that he hopes won't exacerbate anything.
And then Martin speaks. They rarely discuss their childhoods at length, and John isn't sure how much of that is down to preference and how much of it is a sensible sort of rationing. But he's heard enough by now to be unsurprised by what Martin says, and he hums softly in lieu of any fresh outrage. It goes without saying that no child should have to become consciously adept at avoiding illness — that caregiving shouldn't have been Martin's youthful priority — not just because it's obvious, but because the reiteration wouldn't change anything. He does echo Martin's little huff, recognizing both the attempted joke and the stinging ricochet: that it shouldn't've taken him until his thirties to catch a fucking break.
"I might take that as a compliment," he replies, reaching over to gently brush the back of his palm against Martin's, a light touch that he hopes won't aggravate any sensitivities (or require Martin to let go his mug of tea). With a dry sort of flair, as if quoting a film poster, he adds, "Jonathan Sims: implicitly adequate caregiver. Who would've guessed?" It's a little self-deprecating, but intentionally so; he doesn't mind making a silly target of himself if it serves as a distraction.