Eliot is pressing closer, pulling Quentin in to him with the reach of his long arms. There's nothing but sinking in to that, in to the half-embrace, knees slip-sliding against the sheets and the laptop tumbles down and rattles to the floor, the movie music reaching a crescendo of some kind.

Quentin doesn't care, there's too much right here, all of it new (but known) and so fucking hot. The rasp as stubble against his face when he tilts his head, the muscles against the palm of his hand when he moves it down to rest on Eliot's chest. It takes no time at all before Quentin is panting in to the kisses, his other hand sliding up to cup the back of Eliot's head.