Martin lets out a watery laugh and then hums, soft and sheepish, lifting his head so John can better dry his tears.

"I'm sure," he murmurs, and sniffs once. He opens his mouth to say more, but he isn't sure what, or how; he feels he ought to explain himself, but he can't imagine doing it without running the risk of breaking down all over again. Perhaps later, perhaps once he feels steadier, and steadiness lies past the comfort and affection he still craves. In the end he just lists toward John and kisses him, brief and gentle and slightly salty; then he pulls back and takes John's hands, moves them gingerly to his shoulder, his belly, before turning himself about and getting awkwardly back into position.

"Touch me," he whispers, blushing a little at the twinned intimacy and innocence of the request, the intense vulnerability of it. "Please."