John's breath hitches when Martin speaks, not because the sentiment is new, but because of how he says it, the reverent weight he gives each word. "O-oh," he says, a bit foolishly, before Martin kisses him again, and then sinks into his arms. It's second nature to hold him close, to turn his face into the soft weft of Martin's hair and press his lips against his crown. "I love you, too," he says, shutting his eyes for a few moments and just letting himself breathe.

There's nothing uncomfortable about the silence that follows, both of them wrapped snugly in one another's arms. John is perfectly content to just hold him, to feel his breathing shift from something more deliberately controlled to something deep and even and thoughtless. But then his eyelids start to droop, and he realizes that Martin, too, is probably on the verge of dozing off, and while the thought of relocating to the bed seems like far too much effort, he also knows from ample experience that they won't be comfortable for long if they try to do this upright.

"Here," he murmurs, rubbing Martin's back in a bid to rouse him just enough for a little rearrangement. "Let's do this right." He helps ease them both into lying down, his head propped against a spare cushion (they've done this often enough that it seemed a sound investment, being easier on his neck than just leaning against the armrest), Martin tucked comfortably against his side. "There we are," he says softly, puffing out a small, settled sigh and absently running his palm along Martin's arm.