They have done a lot of kissing, since that first kiss outside the Speakeasy. They have kissed in public, and gotten very good at catching in each other's glances when a kiss would be most appropriate. When it would look the best. They have kissed in private, as well, because it is important that their romance be as believable as possible; because if it should appear that Carlos the Scientist is not in love with Cecil Palmer, that his confession in the Arena was meaningless, then they may not bring him back the next time he dies. This is a price that Cecil is willing to pay to keep Carlos in the Capitol.
This kiss, however, does not feel like any kind of a price. It does not feel like an obligation. It does not feel planned, or decided upon. It-- it simply feels like it is happening.
Cecil is very, very happy that it is happening.
He has done his best not to be happy about anything that happens between himself and Carlos in recent days. He has done his best to relegate happiness to other things, because what they have - what they really have - is not something to be happy about. But right now-- with this kiss-- well. It's different. He's a little drunk; his heart is beating in his throat; Carlos' mouth is warm and soft on his; and it's just different.
It feels natural when it breaks, too. Not like they have decided that this is an adequate length of time for a kiss between two people who are in love to go on. Not like they are trying not to look like they are waiting for it to end. Just-- they come together, and Cecil's fingertips slide a little more into Carlos' hair, over his ear, and time moves on at its normal speed, and a good number of seconds elapse, and they come apart.
Cecil looks into Carlos' face, still only inches from his, and wonders-- and cannot ask-- if he was the only one to whom that did not feel sufficiently affected.
"I think," he says, "That-- that maybe, no one is going to bother us. For a little while." It comes out too soft and with insufficient flippancy and sounds not enough like what he intends it to be. It sounds like he doesn't care about what he's saying at all. It sounds like what he is saying and what he wants to be saying are two completely different things.
His fingers are still brushing Carlos' face. He hardly notices.
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This kiss, however, does not feel like any kind of a price. It does not feel like an obligation. It does not feel planned, or decided upon. It-- it simply feels like it is happening.
Cecil is very, very happy that it is happening.
He has done his best not to be happy about anything that happens between himself and Carlos in recent days. He has done his best to relegate happiness to other things, because what they have - what they really have - is not something to be happy about. But right now-- with this kiss-- well. It's different. He's a little drunk; his heart is beating in his throat; Carlos' mouth is warm and soft on his; and it's just different.
It feels natural when it breaks, too. Not like they have decided that this is an adequate length of time for a kiss between two people who are in love to go on. Not like they are trying not to look like they are waiting for it to end. Just-- they come together, and Cecil's fingertips slide a little more into Carlos' hair, over his ear, and time moves on at its normal speed, and a good number of seconds elapse, and they come apart.
Cecil looks into Carlos' face, still only inches from his, and wonders-- and cannot ask-- if he was the only one to whom that did not feel sufficiently affected.
"I think," he says, "That-- that maybe, no one is going to bother us. For a little while." It comes out too soft and with insufficient flippancy and sounds not enough like what he intends it to be. It sounds like he doesn't care about what he's saying at all. It sounds like what he is saying and what he wants to be saying are two completely different things.
His fingers are still brushing Carlos' face. He hardly notices.