John draws him back, slow but steady, fumbling a little not enough to distract from the clear intention of what he has to say. Martin lifts his head, unable to deny him the courtesy of looking at him while he talks, while he grants so much more grace and patience than he could ever have expected, from John or from anyone. It's difficult not to think of him as a different person, much in the same way he's thinking about himself. Still the same person — even easier to fall in love with — but brimming with so much kindness that Martin doesn't know how to bear it. Martin cannot imagine being furious with him, for any of it, in any circumstances.

And then John looks back at him, struggling to articulate something that feels just out of reach, that feels impossible, and yet it's there, a ghost in John's unfinished sentences. Martin feels something tighten in his chest, like a fist closing around his heart, and his breath catches in his throat under the weight of it all. That he's still him, the same him John couldn't stand, the same one who was little more than an incompetent annoyance, a pathetic, cowardly liar with a miserable crush on his abusive boss. That's who he is and it somehow hasn't changed anything. John, this John he can barely recognize, sees him for what he is and still wants him.

He shouldn't — John needed a breather and they need to talk — but that needs an answer, and he can't muster any words that would do it justice. The only sound he can make is a slight whimper, the sound of his own resolve failing him as he collapses forward, his hands rising again to cradle John's face as he kisses him again.