John has to bite down hard on the inside of his own cheek. It's not just that the set-up is funny in its own right, it's that most of the rejoinders that he can imagine would be impossible to utter with a straight face, either. They either veer too close to what he can only assume are pornographic clichés, or they zag away from that and land, inevitably, in absurdist territory. He imagines saying something indignant about the presumption that he has any desire to paw at Martin like he's a human-shaped stress ball and very nearly loses his composure entirely.

Perhaps it wouldn't be the worst thing, if they both had a bit of a giggle before continuing onward. But that also feels like giving up, and a stubborn part of him will be damned if he's the one to break first.

Well. There's really only one path forward that doesn't come with an immediate risk of snickering: he needs to be meaner. And while he doesn't exactly relish it, he does welcome, with some private relief, the sense of composure that follows that conclusion. It wouldn't even be that hard, really. One could easily interpret the offer as more patronizing than adorable.

"So this is a favor to me," he says, distantly impressed by how cool his tone manages to sound. "I'm the one who's meant to want this, am I? It has nothing at all to do with how pathetically desperate you are to be touched?"

Christ, this might be a bit much. He watches Martin closely, as much to make sure he hasn't laid it on too thick as to make sure he's kept them both from cracking up.