"True," Martin allows, pleasantly surprised. He wasn't sure if John would go for it; for all that John can be playful and ridiculous, this might've felt too ridiculous for them. It's certainly not something he wants to make a habit of, but things still so tenuous, their brush with the edge of despair still so near, he's rather eager to do something so pointedly silly. They're both stabilized, and he wants to hold tight to that, to happiness, to their capacity to make each other laugh. Whatever form that takes in the moment.

He drifts to the kitchen just long enough to locate the bottle opener, uncorks the wine rather deftly, and then joins John on the couch, settling in comfortably beside him.

"S'pose we should let it breathe, or something," he says with a wry grin and no intention of doing so. He has never been much for wine snobbery; he didn't even drink wine much until relatively recently, not because he didn't like it, but because if any alcohol is most likely to obliterate his inhibitions, it's red wine, and it's only relatively recently that that's become a desirable condition.

So before John can even reply, he just shrugs and takes the first sip. It is quite good, as far as he's concerned, breathing or no. "I'm sure it's fine," he says, offering John the bottle.