It takes him a beat longer than it should to understand why Martin looks so poleaxed: that as far as this Martin is concerned, John just casually let slip something he wasn't meant to know. Maybe it was a closely guarded secret at the time, or maybe it was something Martin just assumed that John, specifically, hadn't realized — the utter obliviousness he'd suffered at the time makes it difficult to hazard a guess. And while it feels a little absurd to get hung up on it now, given that it's the sort of information you might expect your partner to know as opposed to an outright bombshell, John still feels his blush deepening.

He stammers out a few formless syllables, caught between the instinct to apologize and the inherent ridiculousness of the accompanying implication that Martin's crush is something he should have treated like an illicit secret, circumstances notwithstanding. And then he gets caught up in the fresh realization that this Martin — even this Martin! — has a crush on him, one that John hasn't even begun to deserve, as far as the temporal technicalities are concerned, and is almost overwhelmed with a desire to stroll calmly into the nearest peat bog. Christ. How is he supposed to handle this?

Martin saves him from any real contemplation of that question by making a startlingly pointed remark, and John resumes stammering for a few beats before he finally manages a flustered, "W-w— yes, eventually. I was still— I-I hadn't..." He lifts his other hand, the better to properly bury his face, the strained, pitiful conclusion leaking out from between his palms. "I haven't earned it, yet."