It takes no time at all before Quentin finds himself straddling Eliot's lap, with Eliot's hands urging him on and the thing is... this is fine. Better than fine. This is like the best way to turn his mind off and bring everything physical in to sharper focus.

So, he kisses back, mouth open and working, trying to keep up with everything that's rushing through his head - every daydream and idle fantasy about Eliot, and Eliot's hands and Eliot's face. He's not grinding down so much as just melting in to Eliot's chest, pushing them closer together with every labored breath until Eliot pulls away to look him over.

Quentin flushes (and hates it), with his shirt pulled up and his hair sticking to his sweaty face, and no. He really doesn't want to see what Eliot sees when he looks at him and ends up just panting wetly until Eliot takes mercy on him and kisses him again.

He's still not over the fact that this should be weird, and yet it isn't. How perfect Eliot fits against him and how his hands just seem to know the feeling of Eliot's skin once he gets a hand up under his shirt after popping a few buttons open.

"Eliot- El-" in between kisses. Kissing Eliot's mouth and his neck, nibbling his way up to kiss the silky soft skin under his ear.