John waits for Martin to recover himself with a quiet steadiness that could almost pass for patience. Patience doesn't feel like the right word, though, even if it's only a technicality that eliminates it from contention. 'Patience' implies that he knows where this is going, that there is a clear destination, that he'll recognize it when they arrive. Or, if nothing else, 'patience' might suggest that the destination is of little concern to him: that he is content to simply wait and see how it all plays out, with no particular attachment to the end result.
None of that is true. He is caught at a crossroads, suspended between two equally plausible eventualities: that this will resolve itself in a manner that is... okay, by a metric that isn't his to define, or that it will prove to be some kind of too much — too close, too sustained, too presumptuous, too embarrassing. Sure, he can tell himself that this isn't inappropriate, that this isn't even something limited to the confines of them being in an official relationship. Letting trauma excuse intimacy is right out of their bloody playbook, a move they devised well before he fell through the factory floor. But it's a book they wrote together, a years-long collaboration, and it may be a well-thumbed volume to him, but Martin, this Martin, has never seen it before. So it is easy to conceptualize this as some form of cheating. To believe that the familiar comfort of having Martin wrapped in his arms is something he doesn't deserve, that he is deliberately muddying the waters between what Martin really needs from him and what he wants to offer. And it is easy to imagine that this Martin — one who remembers John's former nastiness as if it was only yesterday, because to him, it is that recent, fresh and jagged-edged and unsoftened by years of better behavior — will recognize the hypocrisy and call it what it is.
If their roles were reversed, John knows that he would've spent the entire week sneering incredulously in the face of Martin's kindness and patience and care. He would've stalked the city like a feral cat, too proud and too bloody terrified to let anyone lay a hand on him. He would've stayed in a fucking hotel, would've insisted on it. He would've made Martin miserable — a new universe and years of missing time unable to dissuade him from treating 'making Martin miserable' like a goddamn calling — and then he would have spent the rest of the year appalled with himself, trying desperately to make up for it.
How can he know that, and pretend he has any right to this?
Martin draws back, inevitably, though he doesn't put as much distance between them as John expects. His hands remain on John's arms, and John doesn't know what to do but cautiously mirror him, letting Martin lead and matching him step for step. There's still a persistent temptation to offer more, to press a cool palm against Martin's reddened face or brush his fingers through Martin's hair, but it's easier to resist now that Martin's regained some of his equilibrium. "Good," he answers instead, allowing himself a light press of his hand against Martin's arm, but no more.
He's awaiting his next cue when Martin lifts his gaze, and asks that question. For a beat or two, he can only blink, a little thrown by how broad it is, but not quite willing to ask Martin to... what, specify? Christ.
"Um. Well..." John looks away, his gaze sliding into the middle distance as he thinks. He's never needed to summarize his relationship with Martin before — certainly not to Martin himself — and he doesn't know if he can do it justice without first conveying the mountain of circumstances that preceded it. But 'context' isn't what Martin is asking for, and John hums softly, a non-verbal 'hold, please' while he considered the question exactly as Martin posed it. Not how it happened, but how it feels, how it is, when things are normal.
"It's... it's easy," he says at length, sounding faintly surprised by the conclusion, himself. "We, er, we spent such a, such a long time caring for one another, a-and— and we both had reasons we thought it wouldn't work, reasons that turned out to... to not be as insurmountable as we'd thought." He can feel himself blushing, still faintly embarrassed by both his own prior convictions and by the needlessly melodramatic behavior that preceded their resolution. "So when we finally worked things out, it was just..." he shakes his head once, wonderingly, and his shoulders hitch in a gentle shrug, "it was like we didn't have to fight ourselves anymore. We could just have what we wanted, without all the, the bloody angst."
He's making it sound simpler than it was, and he leans back against the headboard with a brief, dry huff of laughter. "I mean, it wasn't all easy. We still had to work through some things. But it's— it's good." He shrugs again, dropping his gaze. This all feels so inadequate, but he was never the poet. "We're... really good."
no subject
None of that is true. He is caught at a crossroads, suspended between two equally plausible eventualities: that this will resolve itself in a manner that is... okay, by a metric that isn't his to define, or that it will prove to be some kind of too much — too close, too sustained, too presumptuous, too embarrassing. Sure, he can tell himself that this isn't inappropriate, that this isn't even something limited to the confines of them being in an official relationship. Letting trauma excuse intimacy is right out of their bloody playbook, a move they devised well before he fell through the factory floor. But it's a book they wrote together, a years-long collaboration, and it may be a well-thumbed volume to him, but Martin, this Martin, has never seen it before. So it is easy to conceptualize this as some form of cheating. To believe that the familiar comfort of having Martin wrapped in his arms is something he doesn't deserve, that he is deliberately muddying the waters between what Martin really needs from him and what he wants to offer. And it is easy to imagine that this Martin — one who remembers John's former nastiness as if it was only yesterday, because to him, it is that recent, fresh and jagged-edged and unsoftened by years of better behavior — will recognize the hypocrisy and call it what it is.
If their roles were reversed, John knows that he would've spent the entire week sneering incredulously in the face of Martin's kindness and patience and care. He would've stalked the city like a feral cat, too proud and too bloody terrified to let anyone lay a hand on him. He would've stayed in a fucking hotel, would've insisted on it. He would've made Martin miserable — a new universe and years of missing time unable to dissuade him from treating 'making Martin miserable' like a goddamn calling — and then he would have spent the rest of the year appalled with himself, trying desperately to make up for it.
How can he know that, and pretend he has any right to this?
Martin draws back, inevitably, though he doesn't put as much distance between them as John expects. His hands remain on John's arms, and John doesn't know what to do but cautiously mirror him, letting Martin lead and matching him step for step. There's still a persistent temptation to offer more, to press a cool palm against Martin's reddened face or brush his fingers through Martin's hair, but it's easier to resist now that Martin's regained some of his equilibrium. "Good," he answers instead, allowing himself a light press of his hand against Martin's arm, but no more.
He's awaiting his next cue when Martin lifts his gaze, and asks that question. For a beat or two, he can only blink, a little thrown by how broad it is, but not quite willing to ask Martin to... what, specify? Christ.
"Um. Well..." John looks away, his gaze sliding into the middle distance as he thinks. He's never needed to summarize his relationship with Martin before — certainly not to Martin himself — and he doesn't know if he can do it justice without first conveying the mountain of circumstances that preceded it. But 'context' isn't what Martin is asking for, and John hums softly, a non-verbal 'hold, please' while he considered the question exactly as Martin posed it. Not how it happened, but how it feels, how it is, when things are normal.
"It's... it's easy," he says at length, sounding faintly surprised by the conclusion, himself. "We, er, we spent such a, such a long time caring for one another, a-and— and we both had reasons we thought it wouldn't work, reasons that turned out to... to not be as insurmountable as we'd thought." He can feel himself blushing, still faintly embarrassed by both his own prior convictions and by the needlessly melodramatic behavior that preceded their resolution. "So when we finally worked things out, it was just..." he shakes his head once, wonderingly, and his shoulders hitch in a gentle shrug, "it was like we didn't have to fight ourselves anymore. We could just have what we wanted, without all the, the bloody angst."
He's making it sound simpler than it was, and he leans back against the headboard with a brief, dry huff of laughter. "I mean, it wasn't all easy. We still had to work through some things. But it's— it's good." He shrugs again, dropping his gaze. This all feels so inadequate, but he was never the poet. "We're... really good."