"Mrrrrnnnng," John objects as Martin rolls away from him, allowing the relative light of the morning to pry at his eyelids. No, thank you. When Martin deposits John's hand on his stomach in implicit (and adorable) request, John first slides said hand round to Martin's other side so he can pull himself closer. He traverses the bed in a few seal-like wriggles until he can cram his face against Martin's side, shielded once again.

So settled, he lets his hand drift back over Martin's stomach, smoothing his palm over Martin's shirt, letting his fingers circle idly. "Tha's good," he says around a yawn. The sort of dreams that stick, for them, tend to not be the sort one wants to remember. John can't recall his either, for that matter, and so much the better.

He gives Martin's belly a drowsy little pat. "You're good," he opines, muffled against Martin's side.