Any further babbling dies on his tongue, replaced only with a breathless little "Oh," as John practically collapses into his arms, close and intimate. Martin would be completely frozen if it didn't feel so immediately natural and necessary to welcome him. By rights there should be nothing natural about it. He doesn't remember the last time anyone touched him like this. In terms of this kind of intimacy, this level of care and desire, no one ever has. It should be overwhelming; it should be terrifying. It is, a bit. But he doesn't want to let go. His heart beats faster John adjusts, leaning on his shoulder, fingers curling into his shirt. He's not sure if he would have said he was in love with John, or how that would even happen, or what it would feel like; but it's happened now. It has happened, and he can't even question himself or deny it in a panic, because John is just here in his arms, desperate to... to be held. And Martin wants — Christ, he just wants, like a great building wave of wanting he did not see coming and is in no way prepared to weather.

John's last remark catches Martin wholly off guard, startling him from his thoughts, and he laughs, soft and awkward but delighted, too. "I won't tell anyone if you won't," tumbles out of him before he can properly assess it; the sort of thoughtless babbling that would normally get him in trouble. But now it feels like... maybe flirting? Is he flirting? Would it even be a problem if he was?

Maybe he ought to pull away, but he can't, not with John clinging on like that — rather, he doesn't want to. Instead, he lets his hand pass up and down John's back, a tentative offer of comfort. "Anyway, I don't think it's stupid," he admits. "I... I don't think anyone's ever, erm... felt this strongly about me."

Which is a bit pathetic, and he's quick to add in a quiet, sheepish tone, "It's nice."