John's entire demeanor shifts, his grip relaxing and his free hand cupping around Martin's cheek to hold him, unbelievably delicate, wonderfully tender. Martin stares up at him and feels almost like he could cry at the weight of what passes between them, mostly unspoken but felt, like a reverberation in his chest. His lips part even though he has no idea what he might say, and in the end he can only utter a muffled, needy moan as John kisses him again. He can't stop vocalizing, the desperation showing through in a plaintive hum adjoining every breath, and when John clutches at his hand, drawing it up from the wall — when John whispers Please, like that, there is no hesitation. Martin answers as if it were always meant to be this way.

He wraps both arms around John and pulls him close, one hand splayed against John's back and the other clasping gently around the back of his neck. He doesn't stop kissing John, at once fervent and reverent, breathing him in, for a long time. Only gradually does he begin to slow, do his plaintive moans and murmurs settle and soften, does his desperation turning to something warm and gentle.

"John," he whispers against John's lips, a subtle punctuation, though precisely what sort he isn't wholly sure.