[ When Martin draws away, he becomes aware again of how cold the air is. His skin prickles at the loss, and Jon reaches up to run one hand back over his shoulder.
He doesn't know what to say. Jon genuinely doesn't have the first idea. So he turns, and catches Martin's hand in his, before he can properly flee. It's the burned one, he realizes distantly; there are numb spots in the shape of Jude's hand, where he can't feel the warmth of Martin against his fingers. ]
I, uh. It's alright. [ God, how has he ever done this? Why isn't he good at it? He must be at least as red as Martin. ] That felt... very nice. Your hands.
[ This can be approximately translated as thank you and please don't go. ]
no subject
He doesn't know what to say. Jon genuinely doesn't have the first idea. So he turns, and catches Martin's hand in his, before he can properly flee. It's the burned one, he realizes distantly; there are numb spots in the shape of Jude's hand, where he can't feel the warmth of Martin against his fingers. ]
I, uh. It's alright. [ God, how has he ever done this? Why isn't he good at it? He must be at least as red as Martin. ] That felt... very nice. Your hands.
[ This can be approximately translated as thank you and please don't go. ]