Jon lets out a breath, a quiet, waterlogged sound, torn somewhere between a laugh and a short, shaky sigh. His fingers curl into Martin's shirt, desperate to anchor himself. He couldn't begin to pin a word onto the emotions that threatened to bowl him over; he's breathless, stunned, overwhelmed, delighted, guilt-ridden, relieved...

But, above all else, he is so terribly, gut-wrenchingly happy.

No words are able to be mustered, try as he might. How could anyone manage to say anything, so moved to the core, after the day that they've had? There's volumes enough that come from his hold tightening that slightest bit further at each word, the settling of his chin and contentedness to say so close, and even the small shaking of his shoulders on every short, shuddering breath.