Martin's hands hesitate on the hem of his binder. "Are you sure?" He keeps asking Jon that, he feels like a broken record.
"Are you?" Jon counters. Jon is completely dressed, in contrast to Martin, who's down to his boxers and aforementioned binder. "This isn't necessary."
Martin breathes through the ensuing wave of anxiety. He's learning to speak Jon, a little bit. "You mean that I don't have to, not that you'd prefer I didn't."
"Right. Thank you. But-- you're interested, if I am?" It's hard to say. His voice shakes; his hands shake, despite the warmth of Jon's bedroom.
"Yes," Jon says again, relieved. He speaks so precisely, except in matters of emotion, where he manages to say precisely the wrong thing with staggering regularity.
Martin inhales, exhales. "All right. This isn't going to be dignified, mind." He starts to wriggle out of his binder as Jon says, "I don't mind, actually." Martin focuses on getting out. He throws the binder on the bed and flops down, breathing heavily, relishing the ability to expand his lungs. "Oh, that's better."
Jon gives him all the time he needs to sit back up. Then he says, "If I touch it, would you... react unfavorably?"
Martin dredges up a smile. Jon's so shy, in a way he'd never expected, reluctant to touch not because he's disgusted but because he's afraid of hurting Martin. "I won't get dysphoric, if that's what you mean. I don't mind them, most days, I just don't want people to misgender me."
Jon nods, serious. He gingerly places a hand on top of Martin's-- chest, today that seems like the best word. Which reminds Martin, "I can't tell you what to call it? Some days breasts," Martin grimaces, "is fine, other days I don't want to think about them at all. All in all, it's better if you don't call it anything. We can, I don't know, point at it."
"The body part which must not be named," Jon intones, then ducks his head. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be glib."
Martin gives a small laugh. "It's fine. We can call it Voldemort if it makes communication easier."
Jon looks pained. "I really regret making that joke now." Martin laughs again and grabs the back of Jon's head, tugging him gently into a kiss. Jon comes easily, happily, and for a moment everything is warm and good.
The gentle glow of the kiss stays with them as Jon breaks off the kiss, squeezing Martin's chest with careful pressure. "The texture is interesting."
"Isn't it? Like stress balls. It's one reason I'm conflicted about surgery, really, I'll miss it if it's gone. Just from a sensory perspective." Martin sucks in a breath and blushes as Jon squeezes a little harder. "Ah. And there's-- this, I suppose."
Jon's gaze flicks over him. "You're getting turned on." Martin would flinch, but Jon's voice has no censure in it, only curiosity.
Martin smiles, wobbly. "That's all right, isn't it?"
"Why wouldn't it be?" Jon applies more pressure, and Martin hisses. "Is that a good noise?"
"Yeah." Martin closes his eyes. "Just... can I lie down, and you'll touch whatever you want? However you want. I'll stop you if I don't like it." He's a bit worried that Jon will try to get him off, focus on Martin's enjoyment rather than his own, but they did discuss this.
Jon touches him lightly at first, tracing the stretch marks over Martin's lower belly and his upper arms, running two fingers down the curve of Martin's cheekbone. He puts his hand on Martin's solar plexus and rests it there, where the pressure fills the echoing emptiness that so often plagues Martin. He runs his fingers through Martin's hair, and Martin makes low approving moans. He wants to ask Jon to tug, to pull, but that's not what this is about. What Martin wants, right now, is not to get what he wants.
Eventually, Jon's hands return to Martin's chest. It's just so different, not like any contact he's ever felt. There isn't disgust or lust in Jon's touch, certainly not the toxic mixture of both that has characterized some of Martin's worse one-night stands. Martin doesn't feel gross, or like he owes Jon a reaction, like he has to lie back and breathe carefully and let Jon do what he wants until it's over.
It feels no different than Jon touching anywhere else. Martin can feel curiosity in the touch, and a lingering affection, but it's just... "Would you mind touching elsewhere, now?"
Jon hums assent and moves his hands up, tapping a gentle rhythm on Martin's collarbone.
Martin's exhalation comes out ragged. "All right. You can go back to touching there if you want. I just...." He loses words.
"Wanted to see I'll stop if you ask?" Jon says, and Martin nods, because that's it exactly.
And now, knowing that... it feels nice. Arousing, in an aimless way, an action that feels good with no need for follow-through. He doesn't owe Jon his arousal, or an orgasm. Jon doesn't come around other people, they've discussed that, so there isn't the low-grade anxiety of making sure the other person isn't frustrated.
"I might want to jerk off," Martin says, low, blushing. It's all right to tell Jon these things. He asked.
"Of course. Do you want privacy?"
Martin bites his lip. "I'd like you to stay, if that's all right."
"Of course," Jon says again. He moves away, enough that Martin mourns the loss of his body heat, but Martin can feel Jon's eyes on him like a separate heat of its own.
Martin's orgasm comes quickly and with little fanfare. He opens his eyes afterwards, stares at the ceiling. "If I wash my hands," he says, "would you come lie with me?" Jon nods, and Martin goes about that business, gritting his teeth at how cold the water is in Jon's bathroom sink. He burrows under the blanket, and a moment later, Jon comes burrowing by his side.
Jon runs tentative hands through Martin's hair. Martin hums enjoyment. "That was good?" Jon asks.
Martin wraps his arms around Jon. "It was wonderful. Thank you." Being seen, and seen correctly, without being judged; Martin had scarce believed this could happen. "Thank you."
Jon tucks a strand of Martin's hair behind his ear. "Thank you," he says in return, intensely earnest as he can be at times, "for letting me see."
In lieu of reply, Martin buries his face in Jon's shoulder, breathes him in, and revels in the uncomplicated physical reality of the two of them together.