Jonathan Sims

John wakes to the familiar sensation of Martin watching him. Consciousness arrives by degrees: he keeps still and quiet, knowing he wants to bask in the sensation before remembering why it would be worth savoring. Martin is still in his arms, something that first strikes him as only a little unusual, and then strikes him again with staggering force.

Martin is still in his arms. Martin is awake, and watching him.

The former was... probably inevitable. John isn't even sure which one of them dozed off first, but he is committed enough to Martin's comfort that, even half-asleep, he wouldn't have attempted to extricate himself. Unless Martin had made a move in that direction, of course, which... it seems he didn't. It seems he isn't: he is awake, and watching him, but he hasn't moved and doesn't currently seem inclined to.

It wouldn't be fair to read anything into it besides Martin simply not wanting to disturb him, which makes any continued basking feel a little perverse (even presuming he wasn't too alert for such liminal pleasures). And it goes without saying that a dry, familiar joke about the subject is out of the question. Martin doesn't know about... Christ, any of that, and John isn't eager to get into it.

So he takes what feels like the only decent option available to him: he pulls in a deep breath and shifts a little, stretching beneath the covers and lifting the hand that isn't still pinned beneath Martin to rub at his face. "Morning," he mumbles, drawing out the little show of wakefulness for as long as he can before he cracks his eyes open, craning his neck a little to look at Martin. He isn't sure if he'll be able to stave off mutual self-recrimination through sheer force of will, but hell, he can try. "Sleep okay?" he asks, as if that is the only detail that matters.