There is a brief pause, during which the corners of John's mouth tick up the faintest fraction in anticipation. It might not be a shocking sentiment — it shouldn't be, really; that it ought to go without saying is the afternoon's thesis statement — but he still expects it to net an agreeable reaction. 'What kind' is the only real question, and he lets out a pleased little coo when Martin resumes kneading him with a vengeance and leans down to kiss his hair. And the kisses continue, Martin blazing a deliberate trail towards John's mouth, and any further attempts to be facetious collapse in favor of a bashful giggle. Even for the sake of lightening the mood, he can't pretend he was angling for anything, or that his delight is anything but sincere.

John barely needs to be coaxed to turn over. He follows Martin willingly, his hands lighting on Martin's arms and drifting up to his shoulders as he hums softly against his lips.