Martin stands there, his gaze still downturned at the dregs of his mimosa, letting Michael's advice sink in before he even considers a response. No, of course, John has never said these things. Not point-blank, not even obliquely. People have forced him to confront this before as though it ought to provide him some sort of hope, and it's difficult not to resent it. It is never so easy as just allowing himself to think maybe. As though the only thing missing in their situation is a bloody discussion, oh, why didn't I think of that.
But he can't explain all that. He can't explain about the tapes and what he said on them and how he knows John has listened to every one, and he certainly can't explain that a lack of discussion is evidence considering his own pointed unavailability that filled in space where John might have addressed any of it. Most of all he can't just go into a whole damn diatribe about John's asexuality and the murky state of his capacity for romantic attraction because that isn't anyone's goddamn business, least of all his own.
But the thing that really needles him this time, more than any other moment this has come up, is that he has a harder time shaking it off than usual, a harder time resenting it than he did last night. Because Michael is right: Martin's entire life has been a perpetual state of going through the motions, and it's only recently that anyone's had cause or willingness or interest to tell him he deserves better. And that person was John.
He rubs at the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up, and downs what little remains of his drink.
"Maybe you're right," he says tiredly as he resets his glasses, because as hedging goes, that at least feels marginally like the answer Michael is going for. "Just..." He risks one more glance toward John, then faces Michael directly. "We only just became friends, if I'm honest," he says, because if they're going by the first time they actually had the audacity to use that word with each other was here, just a day over two months ago. "I really, really don't want to mess with that."
no subject
But he can't explain all that. He can't explain about the tapes and what he said on them and how he knows John has listened to every one, and he certainly can't explain that a lack of discussion is evidence considering his own pointed unavailability that filled in space where John might have addressed any of it. Most of all he can't just go into a whole damn diatribe about John's asexuality and the murky state of his capacity for romantic attraction because that isn't anyone's goddamn business, least of all his own.
But the thing that really needles him this time, more than any other moment this has come up, is that he has a harder time shaking it off than usual, a harder time resenting it than he did last night. Because Michael is right: Martin's entire life has been a perpetual state of going through the motions, and it's only recently that anyone's had cause or willingness or interest to tell him he deserves better. And that person was John.
He rubs at the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up, and downs what little remains of his drink.
"Maybe you're right," he says tiredly as he resets his glasses, because as hedging goes, that at least feels marginally like the answer Michael is going for. "Just..." He risks one more glance toward John, then faces Michael directly. "We only just became friends, if I'm honest," he says, because if they're going by the first time they actually had the audacity to use that word with each other was here, just a day over two months ago. "I really, really don't want to mess with that."