Lwj registers it and all its implications in a shaken-snowglobe blur: wwx had come straight from practice, wwx had ignored his text, wwx is right in front of him.
"God, don't make me regret this," wwx says desperately, and in perfect tandem they reach for each other.
"God, don't make me regret this," wwx says desperately, and in perfect tandem they reach for each other.
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Wwx presses insistently forward to chase the kiss while lwj hauls him through the doorway. As soon as they are clear of the door, lwj takes possession and pushes wwx up against it.
Lwj knows why and wants to drown, wants to fly, with the weight of being known.
Letting him, lwj conducts his own exploration with squeezes, measures presses of his palms down wwx's torso.
"Wait," gasps wwx, fingers now tangled in lwj's hair.
Lwj pulls back to look at him, the wrecked pink of his mouth and yes, those extra freckles, now flushed dark.