"Okay," he mumbles, breathless and grinning wider than he thinks he ever has in his life.
The hotel room they got was swanky as hell compared to the hole-in-the-wall places they usually went and the two of them sort of stuck out in the place, but it didn't matter. They were kind of drunk on the buzz of the night, of that kiss on that bridge looking out across the night skyline of Chicago.
There was a part of him that itched to reach over, just to touch for the sake of it, while Mick was getting their room set up for the night, but he resists. He doesn't want the balking it would bring from the clerk at the front desk. He resists from the front desk to the elevator, from the elevator down the hallway and from the hallway until they're in the room. But that's as long as he could wait. Door shut, bags on the floor somewhere, and Leonard snatches the edge of Mick's collar and tugs him toward him again, mouths meeting in a crushing kind of desparation.
There's something to be said about firsts, and the way they happen have a way of sinking down into your bones in a way you'll never forget. First kiss, first time, first love. Leonard wonders if all three are supposed to be the same, if this happens very often with people in general, or if this is another way he's just...off-the-mark from other people.
It's quiet, mostly dark except the small strips of light from the city lights peeking in through the curtains at the window on the far side of the room. Leonard thinks he might be just as drunk on all of this as Mick seems to be, maybe more so, even, because Mick had experience that Leonard didn't. He knew more of what to expect, but it was all a blind, new journey in this direction for Leonard.
He's curled up against Mick, head pillowed on his shoulder and he can't quite seem to stop touching him. Little things, the barest of little touches that don't demand attention, but are just for the sake of it, fingers tracing idle patterns into Mick's skin because he can, and he wants to, so he does. There are things he could say, and he briefly considers saying any number of them, but he doesn't want his voice to break this moment. He wants to live in it for as long as he can, and forget the rest of the world while he does.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2018-01-14 04:30 pm (UTC)The hotel room they got was swanky as hell compared to the hole-in-the-wall places they usually went and the two of them sort of stuck out in the place, but it didn't matter. They were kind of drunk on the buzz of the night, of that kiss on that bridge looking out across the night skyline of Chicago.
There was a part of him that itched to reach over, just to touch for the sake of it, while Mick was getting their room set up for the night, but he resists. He doesn't want the balking it would bring from the clerk at the front desk. He resists from the front desk to the elevator, from the elevator down the hallway and from the hallway until they're in the room. But that's as long as he could wait. Door shut, bags on the floor somewhere, and Leonard snatches the edge of Mick's collar and tugs him toward him again, mouths meeting in a crushing kind of desparation.
There's something to be said about firsts, and the way they happen have a way of sinking down into your bones in a way you'll never forget. First kiss, first time, first love. Leonard wonders if all three are supposed to be the same, if this happens very often with people in general, or if this is another way he's just...off-the-mark from other people.
It's quiet, mostly dark except the small strips of light from the city lights peeking in through the curtains at the window on the far side of the room. Leonard thinks he might be just as drunk on all of this as Mick seems to be, maybe more so, even, because Mick had experience that Leonard didn't. He knew more of what to expect, but it was all a blind, new journey in this direction for Leonard.
He's curled up against Mick, head pillowed on his shoulder and he can't quite seem to stop touching him. Little things, the barest of little touches that don't demand attention, but are just for the sake of it, fingers tracing idle patterns into Mick's skin because he can, and he wants to, so he does. There are things he could say, and he briefly considers saying any number of them, but he doesn't want his voice to break this moment. He wants to live in it for as long as he can, and forget the rest of the world while he does.