Jonathan Sims

John is always so incredibly gentle with him, and sometimes Martin almost wants to stop him, wants to promise him that it's okay, he's not going to break and there is nothing to make up for, nothing to prove. That's an old, ignorable impulse that belongs to a life and context that now feels distant and unimportant. It's not about proof or atonement or equilibrium. The fraught lives they led, where circumstance had edged out any opportunity to talk with true honesty, are gone now. Now, John is washing is hair, treating him with a care that is appropriate for the situation, given freely, and desired by them both.

Martin is too tired to really dwell on any of this, all of it flitting by in the back of his mind, the unimportant flotsam of fading associations and insecurities. Warm water flows over his hair, over John's supporting hand, and it's as divine a sensation as he can imagine. John takes his time with it, thorough and methodical in this as in anything, and when he finally nudges Martin to straighten a little and asks after him, Martin feels like he's waking from a particularly lovely dream.

"Mhm," he answers automatically, blinking out of his haze and peering at John with a shy smile. "Feels really nice."