The first time Martin kissed his eyelids, John was arrested by the novelty of it. The second time, it's the inescapable symbolism that strikes him, and his breath hitches. Every part of you, Martin says — even the parts that have been hijacked and turned to other uses, made into tools by and for something else. John swallows thickly, his hand drawing back from the cat's chest as he pivots more towards Martin, as thoughtless and automatic as a plant turning towards the sun. One arm is still pinned beneath him, but he tentatively reaches out with the other, the back of his hand brushing against Martin's hip in quiet acknowledgment: that he has John's undivided attention, that he is all John wants.

He almost hesitates to open his eyes, as if, by keeping them shut, he can more easily keep this for himself. The warmth of Martin's touch and the care he's taking — the care he always takes with him — are things that don't have to be seen to be known. But Martin wants to see him, the suggestion communicated clearly through the brush of his thumb against John's cheek, and John cannot resist him. He looks up at Martin, gazing at him as if Martin is the whole world, rapt and unblinking.

The kiss doesn't quite muffle the small, broken noise John makes in response to Martin's reassurance. His wrist flexes, the desire to reach budging up against the desire to do only what he is told, and his fingers gently clasp a fold of Martin's shirt in compromise. "Okay," he breathes. "All yours."