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John struggles to contain himself, tears dammed behind his palms and his throat hitching with something that he still can't classify, not quite a sob and not quite a laugh. This is ridiculous. All he meant to do was make Martin feel better; he hadn't thought to guard against being cut off at the knees by a few wistful little questions. Now he's the one going to pieces, and Christ, Martin shouldn't have to deal with this. What the hell must he be making of it all?

He can hardly bear to look at Martin, but he also can't justify ignoring him, so John lowers his hands just enough to peek through his fingers, blinking his tears away in time to catch Martin swiping helplessly at his own. Oh, god, they're both wrecks. A fresh jab of guilt mingles with a sort of hysterical resignation — so much for either of them getting out of this with their dignity or composure intact — and he has just enough time to wonder if simply hiding beneath the covers would make matters worse, or if things have devolved enough that he's incapable of embarrassing himself further to any significant degree, before Martin opens his arms in invitation.

It's a complete shock, and it's irresistible. John barely registers the blushing addendum, already sinking into Martin's arms and pulling himself close, his chin tucked over his shoulder. Martin feels just like he always has, warm and soft and safe, and despite everything that is decidedly not the same, it's still an immediate relief to feel Martin's arms closing around him.

"I'm sorry," John says, sniffling a bit. "I just..." what, just loves him so much he can barely talk about it without having a bloody meltdown? He puffs out an exasperated breath, then shifts a little, tucking in his chin so he can rest his forehead on Martin's shoulder, instead. "This is so stupid," he concludes, his fingers curling thoughtlessly into the fabric of Martin's shirt.