Perhaps that last addition was too much, Martin thinks with a pang of nervousness as John's composure crumbles a little more. Might've been better to keep things abstract and impersonal; except he meant it, and he wanted John to hear it. That John is fracturing before him doesn't have to mean he's done something wrong. Maybe it's an expression of trust, in a way, that he's allowing himself to be seen like this. Or maybe that's giving himself too much credit, but either way, he doesn't think the right response now would be to shrink from it. Not when this almost constitutes a plea.

He lets his hand move a little, rubbing up and down John's arm, he hopes comfortingly. "I think you will be," he says, "even if you're not right now."

It's not enough. Nothing he can say is going to make this right, and it is with a softly impatient huff that he gives up on trying, giving over instead to the simplest and most straightforward option, latent intention already telegraphed in the passage of his hand up John's arm. In the end it's easy to give into the temptation. It isn't so far a stretch from what comfort John has offered him. There's no reason he shouldn't return it, especially not after the day they've had.

"C'mere," he murmurs, and he sinks forward, moving his arms around John's back, enfolding him with startling ease and pulling him close into a warm, firm hug.