Martin pitches against John's shoulder, drawing a muffled, abashed honk out of him. Even as he weathers the giggling, a small, slightly paranoid part of him wonders why Martin would bring it up now — if it's merely that being drunk and ridiculous reminded him, or if there's some other reason that the mutually understood implication should matter — but it's probably the former, and the prospect of even trying to determine if it might be the latter does nothing good for his baseline embarrassment.

John cracks apart his fingers just enough to peek out at Martin with one eye. "'S no excuse," he insists, partly because he can imagine how mortified Martin must have been, but mostly because he still feels too wretchedly embarrassed to let himself off the hook. He lists sideways against the back of the couch, burying his face against the cushions. "Don't look at me," he says dourly. "I'm not fit to be seen."