Jonathan Sims

He can feel Martin blushing, the two of them close enough for the increasing warmth radiating off of him to be noticeable. Which means Martin can probably feel him blushing, too. This is ridiculous, and John is halfway through composing a retraction (with some actual deliberation this time, as opposed to just letting himself spew forth whatever words his bloody hindbrain comes up with, unfiltered) when Martin actually agrees: first in the same indirect manner as the offer, but then with reassuring clarity.

"O-oh," John says in lieu of his half-composed mea culpa. "Good." He can do better; hell, the very least he can do is meet Martin where he is, and he adds a soft but sincere, "Me, too."

He stays put for a few moments, basking in the relief of their agreement before facing the next minor hurdle. Their current position is cozy enough for what it is, but neither of them are going to doze off like this. They'll have to do some rearranging, and a small part of him worries that adjusting themselves will allow a prohibitive amount of awkwardness to seep in through the cracks. Not that there's any alternative. He'll just have to muster enough confidence for both of them. Surely he can manage that — not least of all because it's something they've already done more times than he can count.

"Here," he murmurs, giving Martin's back a more rousing sort of rub, "let's get settled." He pivots to rearrange the pillows a bit, one hand still resting on Martin's shoulder. Then he wriggles beneath the covers, settling in until he's comfortably propped against the headboard. "There we are," he says bracingly, offering Martin a shy smile and opening his arms in invitation. "Come on, then."