Chapter Text
Andy stops by to see Martin after work, with some leftover cake and no real reason for coming, which worries him just in case Martin asks. He can't make something up on the spot for Martin -- that would be lying, the one thing he'll never do to Martin again. But it's too soon for Martin to have new photographs for him to describe. Andy went through Martin's most recent roll just the other day, telling the blind photographer what he'd managed to capture with his lens...the park, the dog, and Andy himself, smoking beside the rubbish bins behind the restaurant.
Maybe Andy just wants to prove to Martin that he isn't with Celia, though Martin seems to have forgotten all about his former housekeeper until Andy foolishly mentions her name. And there's his excuse, telling Martin he wanted to make sure he was getting along all right without her. At Martin's unexpected laughter, Andy wonders whether to mention all those other photographs -- Celia's photographs of Martin, hundreds of them, cluttering her flat, documenting her obsession -- but Martin doesn't need to have those described to him. There are some truths it's easier not to see, even if Martin might not understand that. Besides, Martin probably has nearly as many photographs of Andy, just from the weeks since they met; people might misunderstand if they saw.
Martin seems very happy to see Andy -- that is, to have him there -- but though it's hard to read Martin's unseeing eyes, Andy can tell that he's restless. He clenches and unclenches his hands and opens and shuts his mouth, like there's something he wants to say but doesn't know how to start. It's late, and Andy's tired, and can't guess how to help; he's preparing to say goodnight when Martin finally speaks.
"I'd like to know what you look like."
"Well, I'm about so tall." With a finger Andy draws an imaginary line across Martin's face, showing where the top of his head would reach. It makes Martin smile, though he also flinches away just a little, as if the finger isn't quite comfortable on his skin. "I already told you I have green eyes. My hair's a bit curly, and my nose is...well, it's not too big, I don't think, but I've been told my eyes are too small for my face and they make me look untrustworthy. My neck isn't small, it's kind of thick, and..."
Martin holds up his hands to stop the narrative. "Not like that. I want..." The fingers waver in midair, moving as if they're tracing something, until Andy understands: he'd known that blind people did that, touched people to know the shape of their features, he'd seen it in a movie once, but he'd never thought about that with Martin because Martin didn't much like to be touched.
"You want to know what my face is like? Sure," he shrugs, flopping closer to Martin on the sofa and tilting his head against the back. But it's the same sofa where Andy fucked Celia, and he tenses, remembering, before consciously pushing the memory away. Celia hadn't been making love to Andy even if it had been his prick moving in her, and Andy's pretty sure his prick betrayed him because he hadn't wanted her, not really, not when he'd known what kind of person she was all along. She'd lied to Martin, and she'd made him lie to Martin, though of course he could have stopped and he'd known it, but instead he'd lied to himself...
Martin turns to face him, though of course the blind man can't see him. Even so, Andy can tell that something's bothering him, too. "My mother...she didn't like me touching her," Martin begins, squirming very slightly, so that Andy raises his eyes to the photo on the mantel that shows a frowning child and a pretty young woman holding the son who never believed that she loved him. "She used to tell me that I couldn't go around touching people -- they wouldn't like it. So if you don't want..."
"I've already said it's fine. Here." Reaching out, Andy takes Martin's wrists, though Martin makes a bit of an effort to pull them back as if he's not sure that he's ready to be touched, himself. Raising the hands up, Andy puts Martin's fingers against his forehead. The fingertips are cool and firm, assessing, like the hands of the nurse at that clinic where he got his forehead stitched up after those punks beat him up for trying to defend Martin. His face twitches slightly at the memory; instantly Martin jerks away his hands, and Andy grabs at them to put them back.
"Really. I'll tell you if you're bothering me. I kind of like it -- being read like you'd read a book." He grins, and Martin, feeling Andy's face shift, returns the smile. The blind eyes look straight at Andy as if they're determined to see all his secrets, and that, as much as the soft brush of Martin's thumbs over his cheekbones, makes him shiver just a little. Again the fingers lift from his face.
"You don't like this."
"Don't you dare stop. That feels nice. Unexpected, is all. I'm not lying to you, Martin." It does feel nice, and Andy tilts his chin higher, letting his eyes fall shut. He's surrounded by darkness. So this is what it's like, for a moment, to be like Martin...or does Martin not "see" darkness, being blind from birth? His fingers brush Andy's lips, making Andy giggle, which in turn makes Martin laugh softly. Without thinking Andy flicks his tongue out, tasting a fingertip, still cinnamon-flavored from the cake. He hears an indrawn breath of surprise from Martin and opens his eyes.
Martin's face is rigid with concentration, lips parted, brow furrowed slightly. Even though the eyes can't see Andy, he finds it rather exciting to be the subject of such scrutiny, and his own breathing quickens. Martin's fingers are on his jaw now, moving in and out of the cleft in his chin; a moment later they slide to his throat, bobbing up and down with Andy's adam's apple as he swallows. The hands part and hesitate on either side of his windpipe, making him wonder if Martin is taking his pulse -- a little fast against the pressure of those fingers -- maybe Martin would consider that a more true statement of Andy's reaction than his words.
Whatever Martin finds, though, it must be all right, because his hands start to move again, ever so slowly down the sides of Andy's neck to his collarbone and chest, forcing him to squirm. "Tickles," he mumbles as goosebumps break out beneath his shirt, making him feel a little embarrassed. Martin stops, and Andy curses inwardly, adding, "Not in a bad way! Just keep -- yes. That."
Martin's hands are stroking over his shirt, pressing down harder now that they're not touching bare skin. The thumbs encounter Andy's nipples and examine them through the fabric, sliding away, then curiously back as the flesh knots and rises. It's the way Andy would touch a woman he didn't know well, gentle yet thorough; he manages to bite back a groan, but cannot repress another shiver, and the fingers fall still. Andy is about to protest once more when Martin speaks. "Celia...she wanted me to touch her breasts," he explains with difficulty. "Her blouse...she told me...satin..."
Martin starts to pull his hands away. Quicker than thought, Andy catches his arms by the elbows, slides his own hands down and presses the fingertips against his shirt again. There must be static electricity between them, for the touch is charged, tingling; he imagines what it must have been like to be Celia, moving Martin's fingers where she wanted them. She had done that to Andy, too, when they slept together, putting his hands on her body, making him close his eyes and let her move against him. Some kind of transference is occurring...perhaps it has already occurred.
"It's all right," Andy mutters, for himself as much as for Martin. Beneath his fingers, the other man's palms flatten against his pecs, squeezing, and he draws in a breath. There's a spike of tension in his groin, thickening, making him want to move. He's going to be hard soon, and then what? Will he have to pretend it's not there, or tell Martin he needs to leave? Would that count as a lie?
Martin's breath is warm against his face, still smelling of the cinnamon from the cake -- sweet not yet turned sour. The wide, unseeing blue eyes seem to be staring into Andy's, so he's blushing, though it's silly really, since Martin can't read his expressions the way Andy can read Martin's. Nothing is hidden on that face -- it's like looking at someone who doesn't know he's naked -- and it scares Andy how much he can see, every subtle curiosity and pleasure. Martin's lips turn up in a faint smile when Andy's nipples stiffen all over beneath those careful, probing fingers; then the fingers slide lower, grazing the bottom of Andy's rib cage, and he cannot hold back a quiet moan. "Oh fuck..."
"Andy? Do you want me to stop?" Martin's voice is very quiet, shy, but he doesn't drop his eyes like anyone else would, and Andy hears his words again from weeks before, haunting him like guilt: You must never lie to me. He shakes his head, forgetting once more that Martin can't see before he realizes that he will have to speak. His heart is beating fast, like he's been running, or like he's scared -- the way it was hammering when they were trying to get away from those guys threatening Martin in the car park. When he licks his dry lips, Martin does the same, making Andy wonder whether he could hear that tiny movement of his tongue. Martin's mouth looks soft, and his eyes are like wet tinted windows, that glassy blue: beautiful, though Martin will never know it.
"Don't stop," Andy whispers. "It feels...you keep...just do what you want."
Martin still hasn't dropped that unflinching non-gaze, and he must know how close his mouth is to Andy's but he doesn't back off. In fact he's leaning in, not trying to pull Andy closer but spreading his fingers as if he wants more contact, the touch firmer and more possessive. The hands on Andy's body tremble as, almost inaudibly, Martin whispers, "I don't know how."
Oh. Oh. That... But Andy knows he can give him that. And, honestly, he wants to -- such a small thing to ask, after the way he lied to Martin. "Close your eyes, mate," he whispers, and, sitting forward, he meets him halfway.
It's very gentle -- the kiss only brushing Martin's lower lip because his mouth is partway open -- there's no response at first, and Andy thinks perhaps he's just made a terrible mistake, but Martin doesn't open his eyes, swaying forward, trying to follow Andy's lips with his own. So Andy kisses him again; and this time, Martin tries to kiss him back. Their mouths fit together awkwardly. It's obvious Martin's never done this before, probably not even with a woman, which is more thrilling than it has any business being. Andy's shaking almost as much as Martin when they finally move apart.
"I don't know how," repeats Martin, anguished. Admitting that he needs help is so hard for him.
"You're doing fine." At some point Andy's arms have come up around Martin's shoulders, though he doesn't remember putting them there. He strokes his back, thinking, this would be easier lying down -- stretched out on Martin's sofa, or on the bed -- but he doesn't dare suggest it because Martin might think he's, you know...
It hits Andy all at once how much Martin had wanted to kiss him. And how Martin did not want Celia. So Martin probably is, you know. Andy's never thought before about blind gay people, though of course they must exist. He doesn't think Martin talks to very many other blind people, let alone very many gay people -- Martin's not much of a talker at all -- in fact Martin might not know, exactly -- hadn't he laughed with Andy about those bastards calling them faggots in the car park, and about the policeman thinking they were...?
Well, the name-calling doesn't matter, and Andy doesn't care what the policeman might have thought, and it's all right if Martin is, you know, in principle at least. But Martin is tilting his face, seeking Andy's mouth again; this isn't just an experiment, this is how Martin feels. And himself? Andy could tell himself that it's the right thing to do, or at least the kind thing to do, but when he kisses Martin back, it's because he wants to.
So what does that make him? What's the truth? He shudders, and Martin jerks away, wiping his own mouth with his hand and turning his eyes, finally, toward the floor. "You don't want to be doing this."
"It's not that. I mean, it's not you. Listen, man, I -- I don't know how, either."
"You mean with a blind person, or with a man?" All right, obviously Martin gets that part. And if Andy's going to tell the complete truth, there have been some men, though no actual, you know; a couple of times when he was high, and a couple of times, truth be told, for some money and a place to sleep, though he doesn't do that anymore and he's sorry that he ever did. Not because they were men, just because it was wrong. Like it was wrong with Celia. He'd known as soon as she said "Let's pretend we're blind," and he'd tried to make it all right by pretending they were falling in love, but he'd known better. It wasn't Celia he'd been falling in love with. He should have realized from the way he felt when she said Martin would never forgive him.
Martin has pulled even further away, to the far side of the sofa, rubbing a finger back and forth across his lips like he's trying to keep whatever feeling he can, left over from kissing. When Andy slides closer, he crosses his legs and half-twists away. "I know you like women," Martin tells him with difficulty, swallowing. "Even if you're not with Celia. I didn't expect..."
"Look at me," Andy tells him, because he can't think of another way to make Martin turn back in his direction. Slowly Martin lets his body curve toward Andy, who puts his arms back where they had been, before. Now when they kiss it's different, still awkward and new, but hungry and curious. Now Andy knows he didn't lie to Martin about not knowing how, either; he might have sucked off a couple of blokes but he's never done this with one, and he's still not sure he knows how but he's sure it's more right with Martin than it was with Celia and a lot of other people before.
Martin is growing bolder by the moment, touching Andy again, using his mouth to map Andy's face the way his fingers already did, and there's no lying about trembling lips and goosebumps and the way his own mouth falls open when Martin's tongue tickles against his throat. It's going to have to be so slow...even though Martin is older than Andy is, he's practically untouched, despite having to go by feel all his life...Andy imagines those lips and hands exploring all of him they way they touch his face and a harsh groan tears from his throat.
"Oh god," he says, and trembles, "Oh god, please," then it's Martin who's bending over him, pressing him down on the sofa, like nothing he ever imagined but his body knows what it wants to do, lifting up against Martin, grasping blindly for his hand, his hip, seeking his lips with closed eyes, moving by touch alone. There isn't much light in the room -- Martin only turned on the lamp for Andy. Next time, he thinks, it should be in total darkness, blindfolded, even, so he can really see what it's like for Martin, who has to be so much braver than Andy ever thought.
It's just hands that first time, each of them guiding the other, revealing their long-accustomed patterns. There's some shyness but less shame than Andy would have expected from Martin, who laughs in quiet pleasure at the things they learn from one another. Andy expects to feel strange afterward, maybe even panicky -- he always needs to leave, it's what he does -- but that's simply not a choice here. He knew it before they started. He can pretend he's trying to be kind to Martin, but the truth is that Martin has made his truths more important than ever before, and Martin has made him feel wanted, and Martin has already forgiven him for what is, for Martin, unforgivable.
And Andy loves him for it.
That's what's true.