He sees Martin shape the word before he truly hears it, before its meaning drops into him like a stone into a pond, and an answering shiver ricochets up his spine. Any lingering doubts or vague notions of propriety are swept away by that one syllable, because if Martin wants this, then Christ, who is he to patronize him with some vague refusal? He might regard the idea that he deserves good things with a healthy dose of skepticism, but with Martin, there is no question. Martin is asking. Martin is saying please, and John cannot imagine denying him.

The cup of tea is a slight impediment — he will want both of his hands for this — and John carefully extricates it from Martin's grip and sets it back on the counter, his eyes never leaving Martin. Part of him is checking for signs of doubt or reconsideration, but he has also simply missed looking at him like this, close enough to easily pick out the little details that he loves so much (the light freckles that dot his skin, the warm, rich brown of his eyes), and he drinks them in as if making up for lost time.

There is no doubt, though he does watch for it. He gives it time to show, if it's going to: lifting a hand to Martin's face, letting his thumb trace the subtle contour of his cheekbone, letting his finger curl in a suggestion beneath his chin. He bends slowly, telegraphing his intentions with such clarity that it might strike him as ridiculous if he wasn't so distracted by the weight of his own wanting, and the critical importance of doing this right. But there is no objection, and it is with a soft sigh of relief that he finally lets their lips meet in a gentle, lingering kiss.