The way his shoulders aren't shaking from tears this time, the sound of his chuckle, the ease with which he presses his forehead against Elio's shoulder, Elio still caressing the back of his head, strands of hair tickling his knuckles. Beautiful. So, Elio lets him, allows him to hang onto him, to breathe him in, be as close to him as he'd like. In turn, he is basking in Lucifer's nearness, the way they seem to compliment each other right now, how they're somehow evenly matched, he can't describe it better than that. Something about puzzles. Something about pieces, fitting.
As the other man draws back, Elio stops wondering about it, though. It's not important, it might be important eventually, but right now they're just the two of them in Elio's small studio apartment, his couch/bed and Lucifer, wide-eyed, touching the side of his face with his fingers, cheekbone, cheek, jaw and then, oh. He traces Elio's lips, corner of mouth to corner of mouth, fingertips making Elio's skin tingle. He remembers Oliver, suddenly, at Monet's berm, doing the same thing, tracing his lips before kissing him, to give him the satisfaction, have it over with, that obsession.
Please don't. Please don't let it be anything like that.
But when Lucifer leans in and kisses him, it's nothing like that time at Monet's berm.
Lucifer doesn't keep his distance, neither does he enforce it, the pressure of his lips growing from light to slightly harder, obviously asking for more - and Elio breathes in harshly through his nose, parting his lips to invite him in, to have the full taste of him in his mouth. Slowly, carefully, he reaches up with both hands, cupping the other man's face from either side and brushing his thumbs over the hard edge of his jaw, finding stubble, finding smooth skin. The tension seems to have dissipated. Elio's glad. Like that, he kisses him back.
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The way his shoulders aren't shaking from tears this time, the sound of his chuckle, the ease with which he presses his forehead against Elio's shoulder, Elio still caressing the back of his head, strands of hair tickling his knuckles. Beautiful. So, Elio lets him, allows him to hang onto him, to breathe him in, be as close to him as he'd like. In turn, he is basking in Lucifer's nearness, the way they seem to compliment each other right now, how they're somehow evenly matched, he can't describe it better than that. Something about puzzles. Something about pieces, fitting.
As the other man draws back, Elio stops wondering about it, though. It's not important, it might be important eventually, but right now they're just the two of them in Elio's small studio apartment, his couch/bed and Lucifer, wide-eyed, touching the side of his face with his fingers, cheekbone, cheek, jaw and then, oh. He traces Elio's lips, corner of mouth to corner of mouth, fingertips making Elio's skin tingle. He remembers Oliver, suddenly, at Monet's berm, doing the same thing, tracing his lips before kissing him, to give him the satisfaction, have it over with, that obsession.
Please don't. Please don't let it be anything like that.
But when Lucifer leans in and kisses him, it's nothing like that time at Monet's berm.
Lucifer doesn't keep his distance, neither does he enforce it, the pressure of his lips growing from light to slightly harder, obviously asking for more - and Elio breathes in harshly through his nose, parting his lips to invite him in, to have the full taste of him in his mouth. Slowly, carefully, he reaches up with both hands, cupping the other man's face from either side and brushing his thumbs over the hard edge of his jaw, finding stubble, finding smooth skin. The tension seems to have dissipated. Elio's glad. Like that, he kisses him back.
Maybe, just maybe they can share this, too. ]