Whatever fears Martin might have had that John would pull away, reject his plea as he would surely be within his rights to do, vanish almost instantly. John moves achingly slow, but there is never any doubt about his intentions. His answering gaze, the way it never flickers even as he takes the cup and sets it aside. Martin's breath comes increasingly quick and shallow, but otherwise he holds himself perfectly still, waiting, wanting so badly it might make him dizzy were it not for the intensity of his focus.

John's hand moves to his cheek, and Martin almost shatters at the unbearable tenderness of it, the gentle trace of his cheekbone, the curl of a finger under his chin, Christ, oh Christ, it hasn't even begun and yet he already knows nobody's ever kissed him like this before. He lifts his chin ever so slightly in response and John starts to lean down toward him, and it's like time is slowing down. Martin cannot keep his eyes open; he lets them flutter closed, lets the moment take him fully, wherever it's going to lead.

When John's lips finally meet his Martin cannot stop a desperate, plaintive moan from slipping out of him, there is nothing in the world that could stop him and he doesn't care. He could almost collapse on the spot if he weren't so determined to stay upright, and he settles for slumping back against the counter, ignoring how it bites into his back as he raises both his hands to John's face, holding him gingerly, as gentle as he's always wanted. And he doesn't stop kissing him. He whimpers, soft and muffled against John's lips, and embarrassment cannot even find him here. It doesn't matter. None of it matters. This is all he ever wanted, barely daring to hope past pathetic, lonely dreams and imaginings, and now he has it nothing will pry it from him, certainly not his own self-doubt.