Jonathan Sims

John cracks a faint smile at Martin's response. It's a little stilted, almost polite, and it serves as an inevitable reminder of his own complacency. He doesn't regret the compliment, but he recognizes that there's no easy way for Martin to respond to it, or to anything else that pertains to everything he's missed over the past six years. Maybe he's being unfair by leaning into all that, solely because it's easier and more comfortable for him — well, and because it's a useful diversion from a miserable nightmare, but it's hard to argue for that motivation when he's the one getting a soothing back rub.

Martin's apology only solidifies the conviction, and John lifts his head with a soft noise of dismay. "No, hey," he starts, loosening his grip and leaning back enough to meet Martin's eyes, but not pulling away entirely. "You don't have to apologize, all right? Christ knows this is all harder on you than it is me." Hard enough that Martin shouldn't be the one doling out comfort, and John sweeps his thumbs in two gentle arcs over Martin's back. With a small, focused frown, he adds, "You're still you, Martin."