Martin is quiet for a while, just listening to Eliot, his gaze still affixed on his drink. There are instincts, deeply rooted and reflexive, to brush this all aside. To deny, to make excuses, to reject the advice he's being given as he's done so many times before. John might care about him, may even want him to be happy, but Martin doesn't want that at the cost of undue pressure on John to be responsible for more than he signed up for. He does not want to ask for something John cannot give, and he is terrified of driving a goddamn barge through the peaceful waters of their friendship, not when it took so long to get there.
But he is tired. Tired of sadness, of feeling incomplete, of wanting; and if he really lets himself think about it, if he really listens to Eliot and accepts his insight, then it's all too easy to see that those waters are not peaceful at all. And they never will be, not while this is just there, lurking beneath the surface at all times. Maybe it is worse to keep this from John. Maybe John fears it too, that it might crop up, that it's still there. Maybe it would be best to just let John reject him, outright and to his face, and rebuild from that.
Martin sets his drink aside and hunches over, his head in his hands.
"Maybe he does," he says. John has certainly proven over and over how much he cares, how far he'll go for Martin's sake. But Christ, it doesn't feel safe to assume anything. It doesn't feel fair. "I just..."
He sighs heavily, releasing a muffled groan into his hands. "If I can't just get over him on my own, not even enough to take you up on this, then..." He sits up abruptly, looking at Eliot, feeling desperate and more than a little pathetic. "I'm scared, Eliot. I'm scared he'll break my heart. And h-he—he doesn't want to hurt me, so I don't want to put him in that position, and I don't want to live with it."
His eyes are starting to sting with the threat of tears, and he scrubs his sleeve across them impatiently, wishing he could just hold himself together for once. "I'm such a coward," he whispers, "and even if things were different, if he was... I don't know why he'd want me."
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But he is tired. Tired of sadness, of feeling incomplete, of wanting; and if he really lets himself think about it, if he really listens to Eliot and accepts his insight, then it's all too easy to see that those waters are not peaceful at all. And they never will be, not while this is just there, lurking beneath the surface at all times. Maybe it is worse to keep this from John. Maybe John fears it too, that it might crop up, that it's still there. Maybe it would be best to just let John reject him, outright and to his face, and rebuild from that.
Martin sets his drink aside and hunches over, his head in his hands.
"Maybe he does," he says. John has certainly proven over and over how much he cares, how far he'll go for Martin's sake. But Christ, it doesn't feel safe to assume anything. It doesn't feel fair. "I just..."
He sighs heavily, releasing a muffled groan into his hands. "If I can't just get over him on my own, not even enough to take you up on this, then..." He sits up abruptly, looking at Eliot, feeling desperate and more than a little pathetic. "I'm scared, Eliot. I'm scared he'll break my heart. And h-he—he doesn't want to hurt me, so I don't want to put him in that position, and I don't want to live with it."
His eyes are starting to sting with the threat of tears, and he scrubs his sleeve across them impatiently, wishing he could just hold himself together for once. "I'm such a coward," he whispers, "and even if things were different, if he was... I don't know why he'd want me."