Jonathan Sims

John gives a slight, subtle nod to Martin's answer. The novelty of all this is more incidental than monumental, he thinks — something that hasn't happened because there was never a reason for it, not because they'd been consciously avoiding it. But it's still new, and he wouldn't have begrudged Martin a different response. More to the point, it's always touching when Martin allows or encourages him to look at him, even in the lower-case sense of the word. It feels like an extension of trust, one that John is determined not to break.

He shuffles back half a pace as Martin starts to lift his shirt, wanting to give him room to maneuver, but stills when he sees Martin flinch. "Oh," John says, realizing the problem and huffing out a soft, disapproving breath, as if Martin's shirt has just made some sort of appalling faux pas. "Yes, I — well, let's see..." He steps back in, carefully taking the bottom hem in his hands. Fortunately, it's a sleep shirt, looser than what Martin would wear outside the flat, and it forgives the bit of stretching required to pull the back of it up and over Martin's head so he needn't lift his arms. "There we go," he murmurs, drawing the garment down until Martin's free of it and setting it aside. He touches Martin's shoulder, just a light brush of his fingers. "Okay?"