John glances up, quick and furtive, when Martin starts to respond. He has no idea what to expect, really — they are well off the beaten path as far as social scripts are concerned. But if Martin's initial assessment feels a little inane, that only makes it a perfect match for what preceded it, and John cracks a faint, tentative smile, caught somewhere between encouraging and fond.
But then Martin continues, and it shouldn't hurt, he's paying him a bloody compliment, but John still has to look away in abrupt mortification, a heavy lump forming in his throat. He doesn't know how to bear Martin's belief that he was always secretly a better person than he let on. It feels far too generous to the John he used to be, a facile conclusion rooted in the same wishful thinking as the hypothesis. What's worse, it cuts far too close to one of the reasons John loves him now: that Martin never stopped believing there was something in him worth salvaging. That he insisted on seeing the best in him, no matter how well it was hidden.
His vision is hopelessly blurred by the time Martin says 'you really care about me' — for that, at least, he has no argument — and at the fumbling question that follows, the rest of John's tenuous composure shatters. "Christ," he gasps out, halfway to a sob, his hands flying up to cover his eyes, his fingers snarling in his own hair as if he can physically compress himself back together. He pulls in a few ragged breaths, struggling not just to keep from weeping, but to stop himself from laughing over the absurd disparity of it all: how visibly distressed he must look, and how horribly it clashes with his answer to Martin's question, the words tumbling out of him as surely as if he was Compelled. "God, Martin, I'm the happiest I've ever been!"
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But then Martin continues, and it shouldn't hurt, he's paying him a bloody compliment, but John still has to look away in abrupt mortification, a heavy lump forming in his throat. He doesn't know how to bear Martin's belief that he was always secretly a better person than he let on. It feels far too generous to the John he used to be, a facile conclusion rooted in the same wishful thinking as the hypothesis. What's worse, it cuts far too close to one of the reasons John loves him now: that Martin never stopped believing there was something in him worth salvaging. That he insisted on seeing the best in him, no matter how well it was hidden.
His vision is hopelessly blurred by the time Martin says 'you really care about me' — for that, at least, he has no argument — and at the fumbling question that follows, the rest of John's tenuous composure shatters. "Christ," he gasps out, halfway to a sob, his hands flying up to cover his eyes, his fingers snarling in his own hair as if he can physically compress himself back together. He pulls in a few ragged breaths, struggling not just to keep from weeping, but to stop himself from laughing over the absurd disparity of it all: how visibly distressed he must look, and how horribly it clashes with his answer to Martin's question, the words tumbling out of him as surely as if he was Compelled. "God, Martin, I'm the happiest I've ever been!"