Hadrian almost expects the magic to fade, when they slow down the kiss again. They almost expect Tavi to pull away, an irrational part of their mind afraid that this will be over long before they’re ready for it to be. So many people have let Hadrian down in their life, so many people have walked away before Hadrian was done with them, when they would have rather held on tight and always felt the warmth and the glow of their company. They don’t know what they’d do if Tavi tried to walk away now, if they had to watch Tavi leave them before they were ready to say goodbye. But Tavi doesn’t flounder when Hadrian hesitates, doesn’t fumble in response to the silent question asked in the brief moment of slowness.
Tavi doesn’t hesitate. He kisses them back instead, he takes the lead and cups their face, kisses them a little deeper. And it’s wonderful, it’s so good that it almost hurts. It makes them feel like the most special thing in the world, because Tavi wants them, really wants them. That much is clear in the passion of the kiss, the way they can’t seem to hold back from each other, the way he kisses them deeper and with a hunger that wasn’t expected. A soft sound, pleased and happy, escapes from Hadrian when Tavi rests a hand on their hip and pulls them a little bit closer. They almost get lost in it, in the intensity of the moment, how right it feels to touch Tavi and feel his hands against their skin in return, how right it feels for their bodies to be pressed together in this moment.
They have this strange feeling that it’s all the better because they waited. Because they know more about Tavi now, because they they like more of Tavi now. Because they can see themself wanting Tavi in their life for a very long time, which is frankly a terrifying concept. Hadrian can see themself doing this a thousand times, can see themself wanting to follow Tavi home night after night and curl up on that couch, let Tavi play them every song that he has on his shelves. They would listen so carefully, they would soak up every note of music and every word, and it would make them feel bigger inside than they ever had before. Maybe they would bare their soul to Tavi, tell him about every painting and every man they ever loved. Maybe they would just press close and kiss Tavi again, desperate to recapture the magic and the wonder of this moment, the intense feeling of rightness and belonging that washes over them. They try not to linger on that aching want, to get too far ahead of themself. They shouldn’t get their hopes up, they know that, not just because Tavi kisses them with an overwhelming intensity, as if its all he’ll ever want to do from here on out.
They have this strange feeling that they would follow wherever Tavi led. They feel like they’re on fire with how much they want him, like it might swallow them alive. They would do anything just to keep this feeling, just to get more of him, just to feel his lips against theirs for every moment that they’re allowed it. They have this strange feeling like Tavi could ruin them if he tried, like he could take them apart atom by atom and they would be grateful for it in the end, because it would mean that he had touched every last inch of them. Tavi takes a step backwards and guides Hadrian along with him, but they would have followed blindly even if he was just trying to get away from them. They settle so easily against him, as if they belong right there, encompassed by him in every way that matters. His hands find their way into Hadrian’s hair, and it should spark fear, it should bring up unpleasant memories –– but it doesn’t. All they feel here is safe, perfectly kept in Tavi’s arms, as if nothing bad could touch them here.
The kiss breaks, but Tavi’s lips don’t leave them. They let out a soft sound, feel themselves shiver just a little bit when Tavi presses a kiss to their jaw, trailing them open mouthed along Hadrian’s skin. They curl fingers into his shirt, holding on, because it’s unfair that they’re this attracted to him, that he’s beginning to take them apart so easily. They let their eyes slide closed for a moment as well, lost in the sensation of it all, in the way that Tavi feels against them. They press a little closer when they feel the ghosting of those perfectly calloused fingers against their stomach, a step away from sliding under the fabric of their shirt and touching them. God, they want him to touch them so badly. They hold back the whine they feel, hold back the almost-need to ask for it with a decidedly desperate tone in their voice. It’s almost impossible to believe the way that they’re caught up in him now, after so long of not being allowed to want him, not being allowed to touch him. The waves of wanting crash over them, and it feels as if they could drown in the weight of it all.
Tavi’s voice is like a lifeline, but it fans the flames even further, makes Hadrian feel needier and more desperate with every iteration of their name that escapes his lips. They let out a sigh, and they kiss Tavi back with even more intensity than they thought was possible, desperate and decidedly messy. “Tavi,” They breathe, finally, against his lips. An answering prayer, an open-hearted question. It sounds breathless and needy even to their own ears, but they don’t mind that so much. Tavi will just have to get used to it, if he intends to do this more than once, because Hadrian feels like they’re falling apart under his hands.
He had shown some kind of restraint, when he grazed those fingers over the slip of skin that could be accessed when Hadrian’s shirt rode up just a little bit. Hadrian doesn’t share in the virtue of it. They want more, they want to feel Tavi under their own hands, they want to know how it feels to touch him. So they capture Tavi in another kiss, hot and messy, and they slide their hands under his shirt, sliding over his stomach and his sides as they press closer into the embrace of it, wanting the memorise the feeling for later. And they’re almost frustrated with the position they’re in, as good as it is. They want more, they want to be able to slide their hands around and caress them over Tavi’s back. They want Tavi on top of them, somehow, crowding them in even more than he already has, making them feel even safer and even more perfectly won in his arms. They don’t break away from the kiss, not for long, not for more than a second, long enough to whisper a soft: “Please,” against his lips as they move. They’re glad, then, that they took the time to look around the room so carefully, because they feel half blind with the wanting even as they pull Tavi away from the cabinet and back toward the couch, ready to fall on to it and continue what they’re doing somewhere more comfortable.
There’s something that feels almost miraculous about it, about the way Hadrian responds so easily to his touch, to his kiss, about the way he can feel them shiver under his hands, about the soft sounds that escape their mouth when it’s free from his own, the shuddering little breaths they let out, the way they cling onto him with a kind of desperation that tugs at something deep and low in him. It’s so, so easy, when they’re like this, to forget—to forget that this is just a distraction, something they offered because they’ve both had terrible weeks, both been through hell the past few days, because both of them are trying to find their way back to themselves a little bit, and it happens to be easiest just to fall into each other as they try to do it, to fill the space and bridge the gap; it’s so, so easy, when they’re like this, to fall half in love with the idea of them, to want and want and want, to find his mind drifting to the idea that he’d like to catalogue every little sound they make, to memorize their every little reaction, everything they like best, to see if he can dig deep enough to know exactly where to put his lips and his hands and his legs until they can’t stop making those noises, a little litany of those perfect, soft moans, the needy whimper from earlier, the way they say his name.
God, it feels magical. With no dose of irony to the thought whatsoever. They let go of his shirt and slip their hands beneath it and his skin alights with their touch, hot and burning, like every sensation in his body is focused entirely on the trail their hands leave behind, the rest of his skin, untouched, aching and wanting for their touch. He can’t remember ever wanting something so much, and maybe it’s context, or maybe it’s the hormones flooding his brain and body and wiping everything else out so that his entire world in this moment feels like Hadrian, Hadrian, Hadrian, but it fills him up, their touch, and the wanting of it, so full he feels like he can’t bear it, has to press achingly closer for a moment, like he’s trying to press their bodies flush against one another like it will relieve the pressure of every inch of his skin begging to be touched by them.
Please, they whisper, and the sound of it hits them hard, so quiet, muffled against his lips, and yet so crystal clear and so loud, like it’s the only sound in the world. He realizes, belatedly, that the music has stopped, but he doesn’t care; he thinks maybe the only sound he’ll ever need to hear again is Hadrian saying please, Hadrian asking him, Hadrian wanting him, the way it sounds raw and split open, the way it echoes around them, the way it makes him want to give them anything and everything they could ask him for, and maybe even more than that. Like they could say please and he would do anything to give them what they want, no matter what it was.
A few months ago, if this had happened, he might have thought that was magic, too, might have thought that please was a spell, that this was what Tania had warned him about, that Hadrian was so beautiful and enchanting he wouldn’t hesitate to ruin his life for them. But it’s not that, it isn’t. He can tell. And maybe at this point he wouldn’t care even if it was, but even still it’s not. It’s just that it’s Hadrian, Hadrian who he likes so much, who it feels so easy somehow to be around, Hadrian who he years to make smile and laugh, so bright and warm, at any time. This isn’t different, than they way he had seen Hadrian smile the first time he’d brought them coffee, and started doing it three or four times a week. It’s just Hadrian, whose vitality and passion catches something in his chest and makes him feel grateful to get to be near them at all. They want him to move to the couch, tug him in that direction, and so he moves to the couch.
The quick break from the kiss that this whole maneuver necessitates should feel agonizing, should feel like the end of the world, but he lets himself take it as an opportunity, as they fall back onto the couch and he moves on top of them, straddling their hips, an opportunity to shrug off his hoodie and drop it to the ground, to grab the back of the collar of his t-shirt and yank that off, too, wanting nothing in the way of the feeling of their soft fingers against his chest, his sides, his back, knowing they want to touch him and wanting it just as badly, wanting to feel the fire that spreads across his chest, warm and bright and dangerous, every time their fingers brush his skin.
He wants to lean down over them, kiss them again, but now that they’re here, beneath him, he wants to take a moment, too, to appreciate the view—the way their hair is a little mussed, a little out of place, the wanting look on their face as they look up at him. Hadrian is beautiful, there’s no question about that, something picture-perfect about every feature, like they’re a painting, every color bright and alive with a hundred swirls of paint, every feature carefully and precisely placed: their golden hair; their delicate lips, parted just so; the pastel blue of their bright eyes, pupils wide. He catches one of their hands in his own, closes his eyes for a moment as he presses a kiss to their palm, their wrist, all but drowning in the feeling of their hand against his face, almost desperate for it, before letting go so that they can do whatever they want with it, touch him wherever and however they want to.
And with his other hand, he moves his focus back to their own shirt, the sheer material, the far too many buttons of it. It’s such a nice shirt, so clearly expensive and well loved; he feels like he ought to be delicate with it, careful and a little reverent, like he ought to stop what he’s doing and hang it up somewhere when he finally takes it off of them, before they can go any further. He slips his fingers under the hem of it, trails them across Hadrian’s stomach where it is now exposed, over to the sharp line of their hip. His hands aren’t quite trembling, but he needs to take a moment to smooth them across Hadrian’s skin, to give into the aching want of touching them, to satisfy the nerve endings in his palms with a taste of what he’ll be able to touch and feel, before they still enough that he can approach the buttons, raise his hands to their collar and undo them one by one with as much careful precision as he can muster, each one granting him another sliver of their soft, pale skin.
