Martin isn't sure how to take that initial observation. It's a fair assessment; an accurate assessment. It is given gently, straightforward, no intention to hurt or dig for details. But it isn't nice to hear, worse to think about. Martin doesn't move, gazing intently at the floor, feeling a prickle of discomfort crawl up his spine.
But Eliot keeps talking, and then he keeps talking, and slowly Martin finds his way back, finds himself watching Eliot in growing astonishment as he lays out what is clearly his own experience. Martin is so caught up that he barely flinches when the kettle sounds, continues watching mutely as Eliot goes to prepare the tea, only averting his eyes in a last minute panic when he returns and sits back down. But his gaze can't remain elsewhere, and soon enough he meets Eliot's eyes, catches the edge of his little smile, the unabashed earnestness in his expression.
What is really astonishing is not the honesty or the generosity Eliot is showing him. It is how thoroughly, how unfairly Martin underestimated him. He'd put Eliot on a pedestal without even thinking about it, imagining him to be a perfect ideal, imagining all that confidence to be real and earned. He is a king, after all.
But he is also just another young man who had a difficult time of it growing up, and when he tells Martin that he is not what he thinks he is, that he is worth attention, it is staggeringly difficult to dismiss.
Martin blinks at him for a few moments, not sure what to say or how to even go about saying anything, and slowly he looks down at the offered hand. He hesitates, not for reluctance or uncertainty, but because he feels a bit like he's in shock. He can't see himself through Eliot's eyes; he can't see himself as worth so much, as comparable to someone so beautiful and so practiced at, at least, appearing put together. But he cannot deny the heartfelt conviction of it, either.
So he takes Eliot's hand and gives it a gentle squeeze, needing something to ground him. "I..." he says, quiet and embarrassed. This isn't where he expected to wind up, his agonies about John playing second fiddle to a, a whole speech about worth and all-too-familiar ideas about coping. How can he possibly respond to this?
He sniffs, and hastily reaches up with his free hand, scrubbing at his eyes before offering Eliot a shy, watery smile. "Th-thank you," he murmurs. "I don't... I don't know if I can..." He doesn't quite finish the thought, the idea of saying Eliot hasn't fully convinced him feeling somehow ungrateful, and he just shrugs. "But thank you for saying it."
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But Eliot keeps talking, and then he keeps talking, and slowly Martin finds his way back, finds himself watching Eliot in growing astonishment as he lays out what is clearly his own experience. Martin is so caught up that he barely flinches when the kettle sounds, continues watching mutely as Eliot goes to prepare the tea, only averting his eyes in a last minute panic when he returns and sits back down. But his gaze can't remain elsewhere, and soon enough he meets Eliot's eyes, catches the edge of his little smile, the unabashed earnestness in his expression.
What is really astonishing is not the honesty or the generosity Eliot is showing him. It is how thoroughly, how unfairly Martin underestimated him. He'd put Eliot on a pedestal without even thinking about it, imagining him to be a perfect ideal, imagining all that confidence to be real and earned. He is a king, after all.
But he is also just another young man who had a difficult time of it growing up, and when he tells Martin that he is not what he thinks he is, that he is worth attention, it is staggeringly difficult to dismiss.
Martin blinks at him for a few moments, not sure what to say or how to even go about saying anything, and slowly he looks down at the offered hand. He hesitates, not for reluctance or uncertainty, but because he feels a bit like he's in shock. He can't see himself through Eliot's eyes; he can't see himself as worth so much, as comparable to someone so beautiful and so practiced at, at least, appearing put together. But he cannot deny the heartfelt conviction of it, either.
So he takes Eliot's hand and gives it a gentle squeeze, needing something to ground him. "I..." he says, quiet and embarrassed. This isn't where he expected to wind up, his agonies about John playing second fiddle to a, a whole speech about worth and all-too-familiar ideas about coping. How can he possibly respond to this?
He sniffs, and hastily reaches up with his free hand, scrubbing at his eyes before offering Eliot a shy, watery smile. "Th-thank you," he murmurs. "I don't... I don't know if I can..." He doesn't quite finish the thought, the idea of saying Eliot hasn't fully convinced him feeling somehow ungrateful, and he just shrugs. "But thank you for saying it."