Martin doesn't know that he's used to this new, gentle, staggeringly different John, but he knows he'd like to be. He'd like very much for this to feel normal and natural and easy, as it's apparently meant to. It still feels weird, the sheepish answer, the patient pause, the warmth and care he puts into adjusting their position. He is tender and thoughtful and he uses words like let's and we, conversational and rhetorical and yet also more than that. For him, this is natural, no awkward fussing, no apologies and certainly no resentment. He wants to do this, to provide comfort and steadiness, because he wants Martin to be comfortable, to feel safe, and because he... what, just wants to be with him for its own sake?

It is overwhelming. If Martin thinks about it too long, looks at it too closely, he fears he may become appallingly pathetic about it all. He may start crying and not know how to stop. Not even his mum had much habit of holding him after a nightmare, and while none of his short-lived boyfriends ever had the occasion, this sort of unconditional affection was still nothing he'd ever dared to expect. Come on, then, John says, shy and inviting rather than presumptuous or impatient. Christ, it's too much.

Too much still pales in comparison to the unthinkable effort of rejecting it, and so Martin commits himself to John's open arms, gingerly laying himself alongside the long line of his body, closing his eyes as John's arms close around him. He breathes out slowly, breathes in the scent of him. This is not familiar, but it is good. It is safe.

"Thank you," he murmurs softly, his eyes still shut.