John lets out a laugh of his own, small but bright and happy, and a grin breaks across Martin's face at the sound of it. He's nearly delirious with relief as John accepts him, draws him in, holds him firmly with a gentle hand in his hair. The sensation is sublime, and that it's John doing it only makes it that much more potent. John speaks, answering him with reassurances of his own, murmured against him through a kiss to his cheek and one to his hair, and Martin sighs softly as they fall over him like a carefully arranged blanket. He still feels fragile, like he might burst into tears at any moment, but they'd be happy, overwhelmed and joyous, and he hasn't cried like that in... he doesn't remember exactly. Maybe never, not like this, not while feeling so resolutely safe.

"Thank you," he whispers, carefully letting the idea that there is anything in him worth seeing take root. A few tears do well up in the end, and he lets them fall without resistance. John sees him. John sees him. "God, thank you."

Kissing him again doesn't feel right at the moment; he'd rather just sit here in his arms, let the warmth and affection of it wash over him. And he is tired, holy hell, he didn't realize how tired he was. He starts to slump a little, leaning heavier against John and breathing slowly. "Feels good," he mumbles as John continues to stroke his hair.