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Martin is also, not entirely at least, not suggesting they swap, but he doesn't currently have either the temerity or wakefulness to say so. The embarrassment of realizing he's just said that aloud is only barely matched by that of learning he's apparently mentioned this before — on multiple occasions, even. And even despite that embarrassment, he's far too comfortable, exhaustion catching back up with him too quick, for him to react much before a formless little grunt. John hasn't stopped; if anything he's redoubled his efforts, his fingers curling with tender familiarity. Christ, he knows what he's doing. What else does he know? What else do they do? How much have they done, what does John know, what does he like?

He's too sleepy for these questions to be much more than passing curiosities, fading quickly into the haze of his dreaming subconscious as it kicks back on. Gentler, this time. There's no danger here, only warmth and security. In a matter of moments, he's back asleep.

He doesn't remember his dreams on waking, the circumstances of waking too immediately distracting to allow any lingering fragment of unconscious. No nightmares, he knows that much. He feels like he's just slept better than he has in... who knows. Weeks, at least.

John's arms are still around him. He's passed out like that, hand having slipped from Martin's hair, but otherwise apparently comfortable enough to just stay like this all through the night. A little spike of anxiety runs through the overwhelming contentment that's suffused him all night; should he have let this happen? Was this all horribly untoward — should he pull away, set it right, apologize for overstepping or asking too much?

Probably not. Probably worrying too much, like he does, though it's as difficult to convince himself of that as ever. Easier to stay put simply because he doesn't want to disturb John, not yet.

He has never seen John look so peaceful. The intimacy of this is overwhelming, the warmth and the smell of him, the way they're just... tangled together like they've always belonged here. It is terrifying; it is also intoxicating. Martin finds himself just quietly gazing at John, the relaxed expression on his sleeping face; looking at what he can without moving, lying very still and letting the moment go on for as long as it will. He can't bear to break it, not when it still feels so precious, like the slightest wrong step will fracture it and he'll never get it back.