statement_ends | A Perfect Waste of Time

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martin blackwood

A Perfect Waste of Time

There is nothing to suggest that the number of Statements he might extract from the space beneath the Observatory is limited. From what they've gathered, there's far more to work with down there than a single box from the Institute could hold. He should be able to draw from that proverbial well for quite some time. But presuming that his problems have been decisively solved seems foolish, and he's still playing it safe. He visits only as often as he must (for that specific need, anyway; he still stops by for social calls lest Norah start feeling a bit used), and often draws multiple Statements per visit so he'll have tapes in reserve in case something should happen. He tells himself the reserves are for something like rubbish weather, as opposed to the far more upsetting possibility that he might head to the Observatory one day and find it gone.

Granted, it's not just vaguely superstitious caution that has him trying to limit his sojourns. He's started picking up on... something from Martin over the past few weeks. Something he can't quite pin down. It can't be anything as absurd as disapproval, and if it's concern, he can't imagine why. But he has been getting an odd, persistent impression that Martin isn't thrilled with his trips to 'the Ghost Hole,' necessary as they unquestionably are.

Said necessity is why he hasn't got up the nerve to poke the bear, yet. The prospect of them having some sort of spat over something they both know is indispensable is a little too ridiculous for him to go manifesting into reality. If Martin had a sincere concern, surely he'd air it without needing John to prompt him.

Maybe he's just imagining it. Or perhaps Martin is just... having an off day. Several off days. That just happen to coincide with his trips to the Observatory. Sure.

The weather today wasn't rubbish enough to justify staying home, but despite taking a cab for most of the journey, John still returns home with a wet coat and hair that's started to curl a bit from the rain. "Hullo," he says, both to Martin and to The Bishop, who trotted to the entryway to greet him before pulling up short and eyeing his dampened trouser legs with feline trepidation. He leaves his shoes on the mat, sets his bag on the floor, and shucks off his coat, giving Martin a slightly more assessing glance than he normally might. "I don't suppose the kettle's on?" he ventures, trying to gauge whether Martin's vaguely sour mood from this morning has improved in his absence.

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Martin would like to think he's not obvious; he'd like even more to think there is nothing to be obvious about. Certainly he couldn't be sulking, can't have been sulking for the past few hours and the last several days. That would be stupid. It would be appalling. It would be unspeakably selfish to sulk because — not because, but it evens out just the same — John is okay.

But he is certainly in a mood, and John knows it. It's obvious from nearly the moment he walks back in, the pointed mildness in his greeting and the lingering look Martin can feel on the back of his head as he stares at his book, not reading. The question doesn't help. Yes, Martin, go put the kettle on; all you're ever good for. A nasty, uncharitable thought, but it carries him through setting his book aside, getting to his feet, and proceeding wordlessly to the kitchen where he fills the kettle, sets it on the burner, and stands there to watch it. He's being ridiculous, and he's obvious on top of it, and he wishes more than anything he could hide it better. Or that John wouldn't pick up on it anyway, somehow.

Even if achieving normalcy is out of reach, he still feels a subtle pressure to break the silence. So: "How was Norah," he says, failing to intone it as a question or to keep the slight frostiness out of his voice.

Well, as silences go, this one certainly qualifies as pointed. No improvement, then. He has to suppress a grimace as he bends to give the cat a brief scratch, bolstering himself to follow Martin into the kitchen. The way he finds him staring at the kettle isn't necessarily unusual, but Martin's tone is far from friendly when he asks after Norah.

"Fine," John answers after a beat of hesitation. He could elaborate, but it's not as if Martin is radiating sincere interest. He watches him for a moment, brow furrowed, far from eager to get into... whatever this is... but increasingly at a loss as to how to avoid it, or if he even should. And what's the alternative? Waiting for Martin to thaw on his own time? Or waiting for Martin to snap?

"She asked how you were," he says. Admittedly, she'd done so with only a little more enthusiasm than Martin has displayed, but that's not the point. Fixing him with a level look, John adds, "I wasn't sure what to tell her."

Martin can't quite catch the bitter scoff that slips out at that; then he shuts his eyes, trying to compose himself. He can't very well dig himself any deeper into this hole, but Christ, he can try to be a bit less of an arse. He already knows there's no getting out of this without some sort of discussion, despite his reluctance. The least he can do is not be awful about it.

The problem is he's not sure what alternative he has. He's sunk so deep into bitter resentment that he's not sure how to climb out. He's not even sure he could articulate the problem if it were put to him to try.

He stares at the kettle a moment longer, wishing he could reset this interaction. His shoulders slump slightly and he raises a hand to his face, pushing a breath out through his fingers.

"I'm sure she'll be relieved to know I'm fine," he mutters, then clicks his tongue and tries again: "She certainly doesn't need to worry about me, and..." Neither do you dies in his throat, because it's something the Lonely would have him say, and it would be an invitation for actual concern he doesn't want. "Look, it... it's stupid," he finally admits, and it comes out petulant, which is better than reproachful, for all it doesn't feel much better. He lets his hand drop and finally looks toward John, still not able to meet his eyes, like a bloody dog that's been caught misbehaving. "It's stupid and I don't want to talk about it but we're going to talk about it because we... talk about things." Said like it's the biggest burden imaginable. Christ, he's so bad at this.

Martin's resentful mutter of a response does nothing to allay John's concerns, and it also fails to offer any real clarity. Then Martin changes tack, visibly embarrassed, and John is abruptly reminded of his regression back in January. Like he's found an incriminating tape, or something, except that doesn't make any sense, either.

Christ, what is this about? Nervousness coils in his gut as he thinks back over the past few days, trying to remember anything that might qualify as a transgression on his part, 'stupid' or no. But everything's been normal — at least as far as he can recall — and despite Martin's evident mortification, he doesn't know how they're going to get past this if they don't talk about it like bloody adults.

"We do, yes," John replies. "When we need to. As it seems we do." He could add that it's a habit that Martin, in particular, insisted on cultivating, but they both already know that, and it would feel a little mean-spirited to belabor the point. Instead, he offers a cautious, "Would it, er... would it help if-if I... Asked?" It's not an offer John makes very often, not least of all because it's a crutch Martin rarely needs anymore. But Martin seems embarrassed enough that he might appreciate the shortcut. Then again, it's also possible that he'd prefer to have a bit more agency over what exactly comes out of his mouth.

"Oh god, no," Martin blurts with a brief surge of panic. Christ, he doesn't want to even think about that. But if he's not going to take that offer, then he needs to answer immediately. If nothing else, John deserves to be put at ease.

Martin breathes out in a soft, defeated gust and tries to get himself to look at John, though he can't get any closer than the vague direction of his shoulder, too embarrassed and too frustrated for anything as intimate as eye contact.

"I, I just..." He sighs, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders turn to more of a slump. "A little while ago I caught myself wishing that- that I hadn't been so useless, that I'd been the one to figure out how to... to deal with all this, like last time. Or even if I didn't figure it out, at least that it was down to something I could offer. I mean, like... telling you about myself, or... or the City giving me the box. I..." He feels himself blushing hotly, and he turns away, chewing his lip. "I wanted it to be me that fixed it, but I couldn't even help, and now... now it's all fine, and it's so incredibly selfish to be upset about it now, I'm well aware, but... It was just one of those thoughts I couldn't stop having once it started. That's all. It's just childish nonsense and I wish I could shut it off, but..."

He runs out of steam and shrugs wearily. It is a bit of a relief to have it out, in the end; he's only now realizing how tired he'd grown of being stuck in this unpleasant, ridiculous thought loop. Much as he hates having to admit to it, it is immediately better not to just be stuffing it down.

John presses his lips together at once, as if he needs to visually demonstrate that no compelling questions are forthcoming, and waits patiently for Martin to parcel out his explanation.

When it comes, it's... sort of heartbreaking, actually. It might technically qualify as childish, he supposes, if one wanted to be unkind about it. But to whatever extent that John doesn't want Martin shouldering full responsibility for his well-being, it has far more to do with not wanting Martin to feel miserably frustrated than it does with some lofty, logical awareness that obviously Martin can't be everything to him. Not least of all because... well, he very often is. They've always been a bit more codependent than average. Perhaps it's no surprise that he's having trouble gracefully accepting his ability to sit this one out.

"Oh," John says, tone and expression both softening as he takes a careful step towards him. Now that Martin's laid it all out, John feels a bit stupid for not guessing at it sooner. He'd been so busy being grateful for their elegant solution that he hadn't really considered the implications of its source. "I-I didn't know you felt that way. Though I suppose if I'd really thought about it, I..." he cuts himself off with a faint wince and a shake of his head. This isn't the time for mutual self-recrimination, and besides, he's not sure how comforting a notion it really is that perhaps he could've guessed at something that Martin clearly finds a bit humiliating.

Given said humiliation, he's wary of indulging his own desire to simply throw his arms around him. Maybe that would feel condescending. Instead, he adds, "But you've never been useless, Martin. I just..." he scratches the back of his neck with a sheepish exhale. "I guess I thought it was sort of nice that it didn't have to be your problem, or— or something you felt like you had to manage."

Which is its own kind of childish, really. Like they might more easily cosplay a normal couple if John could safely satisfy his darker appetites without Martin having to involve himself at all. Christ.

At first, Martin almost feels impatient with the attempted reassurance; he knows he's not actually useless, and so on. But impatience can't last. No matter how often he's told himself he's not useless and their relationship has never been about utility anyway, he never managed to actually take any comfort from it. Coming from John, it feels different; it finally is a little comforting.

Well, most of it. He can't help but wince a little at the idea that any of this was Martin's problem. The kettle starts to whine, and he switches the burner off with scarcely a glance, turning and finally looking at John, his whole demeanor relaxing at last.

"It's never felt like that to me," he says softly. "It's not a burden, it's... it's important to me. You're important. I'm so, so grateful you're okay, that matters more than anything, it was just... it was so hard watching you struggle and not being able to do anything to help. So I guess I started feeling like the relief wasn't mine, or... or something."

It had been agonizing, all those months watching John suffer, seeing the gradual uptick in hunger and stress that could not be alleviated. It would be insulting to imply it was in any way harder on Martin than it was on John, but nevertheless, that ache was something Martin hadn't quite allowed himself to feel until it was safe to feel it. And the solution was so... out of the blue, so far outside his expectations and wheelhouse, it was hard to find satisfaction in it. Suddenly having to let go of all that anxiety with no palpable resolution that he had any hand in took a greater toll than he'd realized.

Of course, he's not sure if he can articulate any of that better than his fumbling attempt so far. But he's also not sure he needs to. John probably understands just fine, and conversation now feels less important than the sudden, overwhelming desire for comfort. John had stepped closer, but hadn't made a move toward him beyond that, exercising a cautious respect for boundaries that now feels completely unnecessary. Martin closes the remaining distance, throwing his arms around John's middle and pulling him close with a soft huff.

The idea that Martin hasn't been offering meaningful help strikes John as a bit unfair — as if his struggles can be boiled down to just Statement-based supply and demand. Knowing that someone cares is important; knowing that he's accountable to someone he loves can easily make the difference between a night spent pacing around his own flat and a night spent prowling the city streets. None of it was comfortable or easy for him, and it clearly wasn't comfortable or easy for Martin, either. But Martin's help on this front has always run deeper than just a quelling personal anecdote.

He's weighing his phrasing when Martin steps forward and pulls him into a hug, and for a moment he abandons speech. His arms curl around Martin in turn, and he dips his head to press a kiss to Martin's crown. Any lingering chill from outside is banished by Martin's warmth, and John basks in it for a few more moments before he ventures to speak.

"I wouldn't say you didn't help, even if you weren't fixing everything," he murmurs into the soft weft of Martin's hair. "It helps that you care so much. It helps that I— that I don't want to disappoint you. It helps that you're here." He gives Martin's back a slow rub. "Maybe the solution wasn't your idea, but... I wouldn't have held out long enough for us to find it without you."

Then, his tone taking on the faintest hint of wry indignation, he adds, "And Christ, you've certainly earned your fair share of the relief." Things are better, more stable, than they've ever been; he shouldn't be the only one actually enjoying it.

Martin shuts his eyes as John answers his embrace in kind, the scent and weight and closeness of him offering a familiar stability that finally has Martin settling back into himself. Then John speaks, and Martin focuses on listening, on letting it sink in, on believing it. It doesn't feel like enough — it never feels like enough — but a deeper part of him knows that enough doesn't exist, that it's a lie he clings to that only serves the vestiges of his own self-loathing. John's right; he has helped, and their relationship is more grounding than any single solution can be. He just has to keep reminding himself of that.

He smiles faintly at John's last remark, and answers with a slight nod against his chest. "Okay," he says eventually, and breathes out, slow and audible. "Yeah."

He lets his hands pass slowly up and down John's back in a mirror of John's hands on him; he holds him a little closer as if reassuring himself that he's here, he's all right, he'll be all right. When he finally lets go, he pulls back, but not far, a little embarrassed but much more relaxed.

"I'm glad I... that I've been able to help," he says, slightly awkward but sincere. "And that you're okay." He meets John's eyes briefly before glancing back at the stove. Tea does sound good now, the subsequent sit-down even moreso. "H-how about that tea?"

He knows better than to assume that Martin is entirely convinced. Some truths take longer to internalize than others — if they can be fully internalized at all — and John is intimately familiar with the subtle gradations between acquiescence and acceptance. But this is enough for now: air cleared, tensions eased, the prospect of a cuppa that no longer feels fraught.

"Please," John replies, not without feeling. Martin's embrace has banished some of the chill, but none of the damp, and a hot beverage and some fresh clothes sound perfect. He leans in to press a kiss to Martin's temple, murmuring, "I'll be right back." Then, he gently extricates himself and heads for the bedroom, The Bishop trotting alongside and making the occasional bid to rub up against his shin.

It only takes him a minute or so to exchange his trousers for some dry joggers and his button-up for one of his loose jumpers (longer than it would have if he didn't need to navigate around a very insistent cat), and he wanders back out with The Bishop in his arms, feeling a great deal more comfortable. "All right?" he asks, pausing at the edge of the kitchen to see how Martin's getting on.

Martin's just finishing up preparation of their tea when John returns with the cat, both of them looking charmingly cozy. He gives John a quick smile before taking both mugs and guiding them over to the couch.

"Here we are," he says, setting John's mug down on the coffee table so he can get it after negotiating with The Bishop. He settles in beside them, taking a pensive sip of his own, quiet for a moment. He's not quite sure where to go from here, conversationally; it might be easy enough to share some gentle silence, but there is still something flitting around the periphery of his awareness, like something that didn't quite get settled with all the rest. It's without much thought that he eventually voices it.

"You and Norah don't... actually talk about me, do you?" Almost before he's even finished the question, he already regrets it. Christ, this is the last thing he needs to be prodding. He tries to hastily course correct: "I-I mean — Sorry, that's a stupid question. I'm sure you have much more interesting things to talk about." He frowns into his tea and takes another little sip before he can't quite help muttering, "Though what, I'm sure I don't know."

It's just as well that John's a bit preoccupied with his own tea when Martin puts his question: it gives him an excuse to not answer immediately, which gives Martin time to take a few bewilderingly hard turns, which leaves John with far more to chew on than either of them probably anticipated, and the tea is a useful prop to muck about with while he processes.

First, he blinks over the rim of his cup, riding out the initial burst of incredulity over the thought of Norah being inclined towards gossip, let alone gossip about Martin. It's a shame that the two of them have never really got on (and perhaps that excuses such a gross mischaracterization of Norah on Martin's part), but that generally translates to each of them only asking after the other to the extent that good manners would dictate. And even then, the lack of real interest is palpable. He wouldn't presume to natter about Martin to Norah anymore than the reverse — though Christ, perhaps he should, if only to correct some of these misconceptions before they can take root.

Martin dismisses his own question as 'stupid' before John can respond to it, though the backhanded self-deprecation strikes him as rather unfair. John takes a steadying sip of his own tea to prevent himself from responding a little too off the cuff, but his brows are drawn together in sharp disapproval. The uncomfortable truth of it is that Martin isn't an interesting topic of conversation to Norah, but that hardly translates to him being uninteresting as a rule, or uninteresting to John. If not for the awkward interlude in the kitchen (and even that was mostly about Martin's use as a bulwark against Statement withdrawal, not his overall value), he'd insist that they were well past that.

And perhaps they are, if Martin's final, muttered aside is anything to go by. John swallows his tea with conscious effort, eyes widening slightly as he considers this new piece of information, a square-shaped peg that doesn't quite fit in the round-shaped hole of Martin's usual anxieties. His tone was defensive, perhaps aiming for dismissive, but unable to stick the landing. John gets the distinct impression that Martin truly can't imagine what he and Norah might talk about, and that it bothers him for reasons that go beyond any niggling suspicion that they're talking about him. Maybe it's just that failure of imagination that troubles him — and John supposes that he, of all people, is in no position to fault someone for wanting to know something, even if it's technically none of his business. But this also doesn't feel like simple curiosity, not when Martin has been so stubbornly disinterested in actually getting to know Norah on his own.

He doesn't want to imagine that they talk about him. But he struggles to imagine what else they might talk about, because...?

There is a faint creak of fingers against ceramic glaze as a possibility occurs to him, but it is so outlandish that he cannot trust it, certainly not to the point of voicing it. Not on the basis of what little evidence he's gathered so far. But the thought is as tantalizing as it is completely fucking mental, and he has to lean hard away from the desire to simply Know. He doesn't want to do that to Martin; he has a long-standing policy of not Knowing how he feels. And there is also a small, preemptively giddy part of him that wants to earn this, if he's actually onto something.

John takes another sip of tea, then clears his throat. "I hadn't realized you were so interested," he says, light and faintly teasing. "Should I be recording that, too?"

All that hard-earned emotional stability he'd just found in the kitchen is already in danger of evaporating, and he has only himself to blame. It would have been so bloody simple to let them have a beat of shared silence, or at least to find something innocuous to dither about. The only thing that stops him feeling properly mortified — not to mention angry at his own lapse in reason — is the certainty John's about to offer him a way out with a change in subject rather than indulge more of his nonsense.

When John instead needles him further, it's a bit of a rude surprise, even if it's arguably deserved. Martin blinks, his shoulders tightening into an automatic defensive posture, and he stammers, "Wh- N-no, that's not what I — Don't be ridiculous." He feels himself blushing and realizes there's nowhere to hide, nestled here beside John on the couch. He stares down at his tea, half-wondering if he should attempt to spill it as some sort of diversion and not quite having the nerve. "Look, just forget it."

He'd expected some degree of stammering indignation; well deserved as it might be, he's still teasing. Specifically, he's teasing more than he might have otherwise, with the subject ostensibly put to bed and Martin already having suffered through his fair share of embarrassment. If being gracious was his only goal, he would've limited his response to a pointed look before changing the subject.

But he's discovered a hook so fascinating that he has no intention of letting Martin off of it just yet. It's the blush that convinces him, and John sets down his tea so he can give Martin his full attention, pivoting on the cushions to face him, an incredulous grin tugging at his lips.

"Martin," he says with considerable relish, elbow propped on the back of the couch and eyes bright with interest, "are you jealous?"

He doesn't understand why John is still pushing him, rather than letting him take his own clumsy exit, and there's a split second danger of genuine indignation as John turns fully toward him with acute, disarming intensity. And then comes that question, and Martin freezes, hit with such outright shock that his jaw actually does drop open.

"Wh—" Alarm bells are going off in the back of his head, and the worst of it is, he has no right to the surprise. If anything, he'd become far too complacent. It's just he'd been so certain that if this hadn't ever come up before, it never would. Because John's not a child, and neither is Martin, and no matter how obvious he is, his failure to get along with Norah is a mutual affair. So why would John ever think this? Why would he ever ask it?

"N-no!" he sputters, and opens his mouth as if expecting more indignant denial to come forward. His voice betrays him though, and he just sits there like an idiot, clutching his tea.

If John was grinning before, Martin's stammering attempt at a denial has him outright beaming. The Eye's gifts have done nothing to diminish the satisfaction of making a successful, old-fashioned guess. He's right! He still can't quite believe it, but he knows it's true, and he communicates as much with a wordless little 'ah!' and a triumphantly accusing point of his finger.

Edited 2023-05-13 02:45 (UTC)

Oh, god. This is the worst thing that's ever happened. Martin gapes at John, at his evident glee, and feels himself bristling like an angry cat as John actually points at him. He struggles to speak, to make the denials he ought to make, to leverage indignation and offense in the face of John's outlandish triumph.

But that's the problem. It's not outlandish at all.

"...Okay, maybe," he grits out a moment later, wondering if he can spin this like he hadn't realized it himself, before he finally crumples: "Fine. Fine. Yes. A bit." He stares at his tea, then knocks most of it back like it's a shot, setting the cup aside so he can better bury his face in his hands.

Martin's discomfort is so evident that John's own delight feels, distantly, a little perverse, but he can't help himself. He isn't even sure why this delights him so much (beyond the satisfaction of a well-placed guess and the sheer novelty of it all), but Martin's eventual, begrudging admission is rocketing him straight to cloud nine.

"Since when?" John asks, or starts to, but he hasn't even hit the final consonant before his own, human intuition once again provides the answer. Martin has always been a bit weird about Norah, stiff and standoffish for reasons John had never bothered to interrogate. But this new information provides fresh context for all that unfriendliness, and the answer spills out of him in an incredulous rush before he can even draw breath: "This whole time?"

This is appalling. This is the best.

Martin supposes he ought to be grateful that John isn't angry about this, or hurt, or any entirely rational response that would require a more serious conversation. There is some bewilderment, some slight hint that he is, distantly, aghast — but mostly he just seems delighted. Martin could count himself lucky that John is getting some kind of pleasure out of this, that this isn't turning into a row. Instead, he just feels a growing sense of flustered indignation. John isn't exactly trying to tease him — and on some level he knows he deserves the incredulity — but the delight is just too much to bear.

He can't even get his next question out before he's already answered it himself, and Christ, it was over two years ago that he met Norah the first time, her unexpected arrival at The Archive. He barely remembers it, except that she'd called him out for his nosiness and his over-protectiveness, and he'd expected John to confront him about it then but it hadn't happened. Only for it to come out now?

"Wh — Look, listen," Martin says a bit desperately, "She's just — You're always — You get on so well and I just—"

"We get on so well," John echoes, incredulity making way for something more like charmed appreciation, as if it's a particularly witty turn of phrase and not just an absurd excuse for Martin to feel romantically threatened. He could point out that he gets on well with plenty of people — or, if not 'plenty' in an objective sense, certainly more people than he could've boasted back home — but not to a point where Martin ought to-to watch his back, or something. John isn't interested in anyone else that way, and, more to the point, he's reasonably certain no one else is that sort of interested in him. This, he'd guess, is the true source of his ongoing elation: the inescapably flattering implication that anyone else in this city would actually have any interest in sniping him. Only Martin, with his rather unique propensity for seeing the best in him, would even dream of such a thing.

John feels such an overwhelming swell of fondness for this ridiculous man that he can't resist reaching for him, one hand lighting on his back and the other on his arm, the first suggestion of a proper embrace. He also can't resist continuing to tease a bit, because honestly. "Me and the incorporeal woman who's old enough to be my great-great-grandmother. You think she's going to... what, lock me in the Observatory and have her wicked way with me?" He starts giggling, unable to imagine even joking about such a thing with her. She'd lose all respect for him in a heartbeat.

Something even funnier occurs to him, and he guffaws outright. "Is it, is— sh-should we stop using the phrase 'ghost hole'?" he manages to gasp, so overcome with amusement that it's a struggle to squawk the words out. "T-too suggestive?" At that, he fully lurches over, head landing on Martin's shoulder as he continues to quake with laughter.

Far from taking John's playful encroachment with any grace, Martin stiffens in his arms, not projecting discomfort so much as irritation. Somewhere, he thinks, in some distant part of him, legitimate frustration is being quickly supplanted with histrionics, as though maintaining a bad attitude is now a point of pride. If he truly wanted John not to touch him, he'd pull away. But lingering embarrassment and the sunk-cost-conviction that he can't cede any ground prevents him from giving in completely, and he answers John's mirth with a determined scowl.

But before he can muster enough stubbornness to make any point about how her technical age has really got nothing to do with it — from what he's seen, she still reads as a young woman to him — John swerves into making childish entendres and collapses onto his shoulder, and Martin can only gawp at the wall beyond them before mustering a scandalized, "John!"

The worst thing of all is he has to admit it is pretty funny, and John's laughter has always been infectious, so it's with a slightly unsteady quiver that he grits out, "For Christ's sake."

Martin tolerates John's physical closeness with all the forgiving grace of a block of wood, which doesn't even surprise him, really. He's never teased Martin quite so mercilessly before — never been presented with an exposed nerve that also served as such a rich vein — and while his intentions aren't mean, that probably only counts for so much. Still, there's a telltale hitch in Martin's voice that belies the steadiness of his resolve. He can't stay grumpy forever. John tempers his laughter with some effort, but allows his arms to curl a little more decisively around him.

"Can't believe you were worried," he says, lifting his head and pressing a warm, only faintly giggly kiss to Martin's temple. "As if anyone else in this city would put up with me."

"Wh—hey," Martin says sharply, now resisting John's playful advances out of distracted indignation on his behalf rather than some vague sense of personal pride. He squirms a little, trying to put just enough distance between them to meet John's eyes. "First of all, I wasn't — I wasn't worried, I trust you, it's just—" He huffs impatiently, forcing himself to admit the painfully obvious: "It's not like it's rational. But sh-she obviously cares about you, and she's right to, and — and she would be so lucky!"

The idea that Norah, or anyone for that matter, wouldn't put up with John is enough to make him annoyed all over again. "Anyone would be," he insists rather aggressively.

Well, that's successfully got Martin out of his little sulk, though the exchange of one sort of indignation for another wasn't exactly what John had in mind. He's not entirely sure what he does have in mind, besides an instinctive (and perhaps ill-considered) urge to just keep kissing him, but he restrains himself in deference to Martin's squirming, and his continued parceling out of an explanation.

Said explanation really does nothing helpful for the urge to kiss him, and John's expression takes a turn for the hopelessly besotted. "Martin..." he starts, and then flounders for a beat. He wants to insist that Norah is plainly not attracted to him — he has a hard time imagining her being attracted to anyone, honestly, but it feels presumptuous to speculate about her proclivities, or to trust his own assumptions on the matter. At any rate, he's confident that if she had such inclinations, and considered them to be any of his business, he'd have been made aware by now. His ignorance, then, could be taken as evidence that it's really none of his concern.

But he's getting bogged down in the details, and he gives his head a small shake. "I suppose it's lucky that I'm madly in love with you, then," he murmurs, lifting his hand to Martin's cheek and leaning forward until their foreheads touch. "Though if you needed a little extra... reassurance," he adds, voice dropping to a purr, "I would be more than willing to oblige."

Martin stares into John's unabashedly sweet expression with something approaching defiance, as if daring John to argue with him over his own merits as a romantic partner, only to find John listing toward him, leaning even more pointedly into the suggestion of... of sensuality. This has all become completely ridiculous, but even still, he wasn't expecting this. Martin's mouth drops open and then snaps shut as he flounders for a moment, not quite pulling away, but still rather frozen in place.

"I—" he blurts, not even certain why he has any instinct to push back against this. Perhaps for the same reason that he refused to abandon his own sour mood: he's pretty sure he doesn't deserve to be let off the hook for all this, much less rewarded for it.

But that's too many words to get out just now. For a few beats he just stammers silently, then he finally manages a completely bewildered, "What?!"

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A Perfect Waste of Time

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