The desperate little noise Martin makes is both gratifying and thrilling, familiar and unprecedented, a song he knows by heart played on an instrument he's never touched before. A faint smile settles tucks itself into the corners of John's mouth, though he resists the urge to chuckle. He remembers how self-conscious Martin used to be, and he has absolutely no desire to fan that particular flame. It may be presumptuous to think he might nip that nonsense in the bud, either, but a little encouragement probably wouldn't hurt. So he answers with a low, deliberate hum of his own, his free hand sliding around Martin's back, fingers splayed across his shoulder blade.

He lets the kiss break softly, leaning back a fraction so he can look at Martin again, his eyes hooded but his gaze adoring. Christ, he's so beautiful, and his hands are framing John's face so gently. It occurs to him, distantly, that he needs to take extra care — that there are things Martin hasn't learned, yet, that John cannot expect him to instinctively understand. But there are means of communication besides awkward conversations over tea, ways to let Martin know that he's on the right track before he accidentally finds himself on the wrong one. John lifts his hand from beneath Martin's chin and settles it over the back of Martin's palm, cradling Martin's hand against his own cheek, and he turns his head just enough to brush his lips against the unbearably soft skin of Martin's wrist.

Even that brief detour leaves him eager to return to Martin's mouth, and he eases back down for another slow kiss. His hand gently guides Martin's back into his hair in implicit invitation: yes, here, please.