"Mmnh," he mumbles, stirring like a child from sleep as John gingerly eases them down into a better position. Martin doesn't quite open his eyes, nor does he let go, keeping a close hold around John's middle, but he goes along obediently, settling into a more horizontal position tucked up alongside him. It's a little crowded on their couch, but they're used to it by now, and there's no possibility of discomfort with John holding him like this. He adjusts his own grip and position until he's reasonably sure he won't cause John any undue aches, and then he breathes out slowly, allowing himself to slip comfortably back toward unconsciousness.

In a way that whole conversation feels like it was a bad dream now; it gnaws at him a little, the way a nightmare would, and he knows when he wakes a lot of those little hurts will still be there, along with his grief and his guilt. But John's got him, and John will have him when he wakes up. He never had this before; he always had to deal with it alone, which too easily turned into not dealing with it at all. So even if it takes more time than he wants, even if it goes on hurting, even if he can't quite visualize what being okay looks like... he won't be alone. Not anymore.

That thought carries him gently toward sleep.