It's such a tremendous relief when John doesn't pull away, when he instead presses closer, arms drawing around to envelop him gently, that a little half-sob, half-laugh bursts out of Martin, and although he doesn't want to disrupt their positioning entirely, he twists about enough to meet John halfway. He curls in alongside him, tucking his head up under John's chin quite like The Bishop did with him on their first meeting. So secured, he lets himself cry a little easier, needing to let it out, wanting to have done with it; John holds him through it, and it's over quicker the less he tries to resist it. Soon enough it subsides to a few quiet whimpers, and he lets his hands slip down from his face, one settling on John's arms where they wrap around his waist, the other curling into the soft knit of his jumper.

"Thank you," he whispers, and draws a shuddering breath, letting it out again in a little huff. "I-I'm all right now, I think." Still a little tender, but no longer overcome, anyway. He wonders briefly if he should say more, should try to explain himself, but he isn't sure it's necessary, isn't even sure where he'd begin. He doesn't want this to become a conversation about bad memories; they've already evaded that once today, and that's a path he wants to stay on. He has no desire to delve into how his past relationships may have hurt him when he has John now, holding him and taking care of him. That's what matters; that's where he wants his focus to remain.

"You can keep going," he says after a moment, a little tentative but not uncertain. "Wh-whatever you like." He shifts a little, not quite returning to his original position, but offering the suggestion of it. Soft, flushing brightly even with his head still turned down: "I'm yours."