Martin uncurls himself, pulling back enough to seek John's gaze. John meets it calmly — or means to, though it's hard to maintain his composure when he sees that Martin's eyes are filling with tears. But he doesn't look away; he refuses to look away when there is nothing here to shy from. If Martin wanted to remain tucked against John's shoulder, he could have done. If he wants to be seen, the least John can do is oblige him.

It's a different sort of relief when Martin leans in to hug him, and John hums quietly, tightening his own embrace into something firm and snug, his fingers curling into Martin's jumper. This is better — it feels more like a return to something that could be normal, eventually, an easing of the oppressive misery that had pressed both of them into the cushions.

And when Martin leans back again, this time for a different reason, there is still nothing for John to do but meet him, lips parting readily under Martin's gentle pressure. Christ, he loves him; he loves him so much he might burst with it, so much that nothing matters but proving it as many times as he has to, to make sure it sinks in. He hums again, low and deliberate, and lifts a hand so he can slide his fingers into Martin's hair.