Jonathan Sims

Martin leans into him with a readiness that would have startled John if it wasn't so familiar, if it didn't feel so right. But this is how it is supposed to be: Martin curling against his chest, his shoulders shaking as the lingering unpleasantness of the nightmare rattles through him, his arms settling around John in turn. It's all so normal that it takes John longer than it should to remember that it isn't, for the simple relief of having Martin in his arms to be displaced by astonishment that he's being allowed this, that Martin is literally embracing it — embracing him — instead of shrugging him off, mortified.

But that just speaks to how much he must need it, and John tsks softly, holding him a bit closer as if in stubborn defiance of some disapproving third party. "It's okay," he says again, as softly as before, but now with more conscious deliberation. One hand drifts along Martin's arm, from shoulder to elbow and then back again. "You're all right." 'All right' in the sense that he is well beyond the reach of the entity that still haunts his nightmares. 'Okay' in the sense that he is where he needs to be, if not where he belongs, and that maybe neither of them need to apologize for it.