John's return admission manages to startle Martin a bit, though perhaps it shouldn't. It was the first time John had seen how aggressive the Lonely had become; it would only make sense for him to worry, on top of how much he'd already cared. But it also doesn't quite represent the missed opportunity it seems to be. Martin remembers quite well how he'd felt that night. Drifting, confused, that desire for intimacy papered over by the certainty he'd made some sort of mistake. He remembers the next morning, hungover, scrambling to make sense of himself, staggering to Greta's doorstep in search of clarifying wisdom she couldn't quite offer. She'd understood his feelings more than the complex intricacies of why his feelings felt like a problem to him. Her perspective makes a lot more sense now, now that he's broken free of his patron's entangling grasp, now that he sees how truly miserable he'd made himself. But it's a bit horrifying to think that if John had gone after him, he's not sure how he would've responded. Maybe to brush him off. Maybe to push him away.

He doesn't want to think about that, and John doesn't seem interested in pursuing it either as he burrows in against Martin's neck and kisses him just beside his collar. Martin lets out a soft hum, the sludge of older memories easily washed away by such gentleness. He tips his head to press a kiss of his own to John's hair.

"Mostly," he says, his tone growing just the tiniest bit rueful, "I just remember it was the first time you touched my hair." He smiles. He hadn't meant to take them on quite such a tangent, and he's keen to get back to what started the whole thing in the first place. "Never stopped thinking about it," he adds, now slightly coy as he nuzzles against John again, not quite willing to ask for him to continue outright, content to imply it.