Martin grunts noncommittally at all that, but the constant, gentle pressure of John's hand against his back is more soothing than words could ever be right now. He feels wrung out and overexposed, having said all he needed to and not regretting it, exactly, but having no idea how to pick himself back up from here. How he'll ever manage to proceed through the rest of the day with the slightest normalcy. John provides little stepping stones along the way, offering a hand out of the dark like he so often does, hugging him close and kissing his hair.

And then he speaks again, softer and more conclusive, and Martin finally looks up, finally seeks his eyes, lips parted more from the ongoing effort of breathing regularly than anything else. He can already feel the sting of welling tears, and he doesn't have the requisite energy to hide or forestall them. He starts to answer, realizes he doesn't know how, thinks he might just ruin it if he tries. What does he say to something like that?

At first the only concession to his own building emotion is a tiny murmur as he shifts around to pull himself close, to hug John properly. But it isn't enough; even if he can't find the words, can't pull himself together enough to give voice to the truth lodged in his chest — that John is the only one who ever saw him, the first person to really see him, and it's why Martin fell in love with him and it's still a part of why Martin loves him now — he has to express it somehow.

So he pulls back just enough to meet John's eyes again, to lean close enough to kiss him and to wait, telegraphing his intent as long as he can bear to hold off, only closing the distance when John doesn't stop him.