Jonathan Sims

John plucks at the bedspread in front of his nose, an anxious fidget, while he waits for Martin to respond. Deliberately flying in the face of whatever mood Martin was cultivating was more fun when he was stubbornly dragging things up, not down; now, he just feels like an arse. If Martin was able to set aside his own jealousy in the interest of having a good time, the least John ought to be able to do is to stop being so goddamn precious over his own reaction to it. As if liking someone else's jealousy is any more legitimate — or less ridiculous — than being jealous in the first place.

He can still feel the heat of his own blush, undiminished, but now it's solely because he knows he's being a child, and isn't sure how to steer things right again. It doesn't seem fair to expect Martin to salvage things on his own. So it's with a startled blink that he notes Martin's airy, matter-of-fact tone, and an even more startled bark of laughter over the remark that follows. Thank Christ. Sympathy or comfort would've ruined him; this, he can handle.

He nudges the pillow up a few inches with one hand; the other flaps a bit clumsily in Martin's general direction before finding his shin and then curling around his calf in a light, fond clasp. "I think I can about guarantee you that she won't," he replies drily, looking back at Martin over his shoulder. Then he lets his eyes fall shut, finally beginning to relax again under Martin's ministrations.

After a few moments, his tone lapsed back into a lulled hum, he murmurs, "It's only you, Martin. It'll only ever be you." That's all he'd wanted him to understand — something he would've otherwise sworn Martin already knew, no atypically enthusiastic reminders necessary.