He should go, he thinks. He should stop this. He should run. Running is how he has always dealt with this: when things get too personal Carlos makes excuses, he backtracks, he leaves.

But what if he didn't? What if, this time, he stayed?

Carlos feels guilt curling in his stomach: he knows this has turned personal, and he knows that any argument against leaving is going to be rationalizing something he knows is a terrible idea. And yet -- with Cecil's hand in his hair and voice in his ears, with people around them just waiting to catch Carlos alone, with the whole pretense already in place -- it seems like there are so many reasons to stay.

His eyes drop to Cecil's mouth.

So many reasons.

If I leave now, I'll have to think of an excuse, he says to himself as he sets his drink down on the low table next to the couch, doing it without looking, not taking his eyes off of Cecil Palmer. It would have to be important enough to make leaving look believable, he thinks, as his hand slides to rest against Cecil's shoulder, low in front, almost his chest. It might look suspicious, crosses his mind as he leans in closer again, almost close enough for their foreheads to touch.

"I can't say for sure that they won't try anyway," he says quietly, under his breath. "That is, eventually. If we look like we're not busy." If his voice is too soft, it's because Cecil is too close to talk more loudly. If his pupils are dilated, it's because the room is dark. If his heart is racing, it's out of fear of discovery. And if he pushes Cecil back a few inches, slowly, with his hand and his forehead and his whole body, well --

-- okay, maybe he doesn't have an excuse for that.

It'll look really normal.