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Martin first realized how desperately he wanted to kiss Jon in the aftermath of what was apparently his second kidnapping. He'd gingerly helped clean and rebandage Jon's wounds, touched Jon's skin as little as possible, and made them both tea as they sat in the quiet, dim break room. Looking over the brim of his mug, he'd been struck with the feeling, that he'd like to kiss it all better for Jon.
He hadn't been unaware of his feelings before that, of course, but it was something akin to being hit by a truck, and he'd choked on his tea.
Jon's subsequent frown and murmured, "Okay?" had done unfair things to Martin's heart.
But Jon was thoroughly traumatized, couldn't handle skin contact at all—Martin had accidentally touched a finger when passing over tea, and he'd almost completely broken down. So Martin tied his feelings in a series of complicated knots and dropped them into the sea—they were far from relevant right now.
Then, the phone calls. So many phone calls while Jon was in America, nearly every night, and the intimacy had grown. What started as relatively stilted, mostly on-topic phone calls had given way to casual, friendly conversation, and then soft mutterings of, "I miss you."
So Martin had made up his mind. He wouldn't push, of course, but with the potential end of the world from clowns and mannequins looming over their heads, he'd decided there was no point in holding back his feelings, in at least saying aloud the growing affection in his ribs—affection he had started to hope was returned.
Looking at Jon now, Martin's holding onto every piece of remaining courage he has. Jon's smile is soft and a bit sleepy, but his eyes are shining as they sit down for tea, as though this is routine.
Jon is telling a story about his flight back, something about a seat partner who didn't believe in sharing arm rests, and Martin is grinning. The words don't matter, not really, just that Jon is here, telling this story, and that Martin can see he's alive and whole and not kidnapped again.
Christ, Martin loves him.
Martin chokes on his tea, reminiscent of that night weeks ago, when the intensity of his desire to comfort Jon had lighted itself upon him.
"Martin?" Jon asks, eyebrows furrowing and one hand reaching out for Martin. "Are you all right?"
Still coughing a bit, Martin nods frantically, trying to clear his throat. He stumbles over his words a few times, but somehow manages to convince Jon that he's not dying from his own tea. (That would've been embarrassing.)
Whatever else Jon was going to have said, his face curves into a fond smile, and the lines around his mouth crinkle as he says, "I missed you."
Giving one more cough, this one mostly to cover his embarrassment, Martin repeats softly, "I missed you, too."
"O-oh," Jon says, eyes widening in surprise a bit, but he looks delighted. "R-really?"
Martin laughs, he can't help it. "Of course, Jon," Martin replies, still smiling. He could leave it here, let the moment pass, but Jon's eyes—happy, surprised, a little sad—spur him on, and Martin yanks on the bundle of courage he'd amassed. "I'm mad about you, you know."
Jon seems to have no idea what to say to this, and Martin can feel himself getting redder and redder as the seconds tick by.
He's considering retracting his words—well, not exactly, but trying to smooth them over and then make as graceful an exit as possible—when Jon stands abruptly.
Martin realizes the enormity of his fuck-up and begins to apologize, but the words die on his tongue when Jon stops in front of Martin's chair. Jon places his hands atop Martin's shoulders and then he's kissing Martin, and Martin finds he doesn't care one wit about an apology.