John stirs and looks at him, and Martin's smile deepens, and for a long, comfortable silence they just hold each other's gazes, breathing, studying, feeling no urgency to speak or move. When John finally reaches out to him, Martin shifts only slightly, leaning into the touch by scant degrees. It is so gentle, so careful and tender, he would rather just let it flutter past naturally than encourage anything more. His eyes stay on John's even as John's gaze wanders over him, and then he reaches out himself, settling one hand against John's cheek and stroking his thumb over the faint scruff of stubble there with equal gentility. It's like an answer to something unspoken, like they're communicating in a certain way. That they missed each other without missing each other, that they both now seek to remember the way this feels, the way they feel.

Only that's not quite right either, is it? Martin's fingertips trace lightly over John's cheekbone around the shell of his ear to the soft hair behind, brushing through the short mix of grey and black, then curls his fingers and brushes them back over his cheek. It's more than a reminder or a reclamation. It feels closer to an acknowledgment — of what passed between them, of what they've learned, and most of all of what hadn't changed at all.

He touches John like it's new, like he's never done it before. Because in some ways it feels like it is.