He wouldn't ordinarily have touched her — those hands undeserving of touching her skin, of being anywhere near Allison — except he'd already wasted enough time floating in awkward indecision, and Number One isn't supposed to back down from a challenge. Isn't ever supposed to flinch away from climbing the mountain set in front of him. So he leans into it, even while his contact is limited to just his mouth and the one hand bracing himself against her, and the other hand still hovers uselessly, unable to bring himself to touch her further.
Because this, it's overwhelming, it's already enough, it's more than he ever thought he'd have. Allison's melting into him and there's a small involuntary noise in the back of her throat, automatic like a grunt during a fight or a small whine of pain when they haul each other off a battlefield, except, except, except. It's something else entirely.
(Surely this is enough. Whatever hoops they've had to jump through, maybe the magic is satisfied by now?)
But he's not. Satisfied. Now that the metaphorical doors are being flung open wide, Luther's jamming his shoulder against it and can't let it close so soon; not when there's finally a chance, an opportunity. And maybe they shouldn't still be kissing like this, sequestered away in a hallway at the party (like so, so many hallways and corners they'd taken refuge in as kids: the times they had almost, when his hand had fluttered over hers at a table in the library; or his head had tilted as he looked at her on the rooftop and he had thought maybe; or Number Three had sat primly on the edge of her bed and looked at him daringly, and he'd started moving in towards her, before the slam of a door and Vanya walking in). But she's not stopping, and therefore he's not stopping, can't stop, everything boils down to where the points of their body are meeting: oh god, her fingers are splayed against his neck, digging into his hair—
And he's too painfully conscious of the exact spot where his skin transitions, where it changes from the still-softness of his throat and the back of his neck and becomes rough and coarse (again: he should've worn a turtleneck). She's too close to it. But Allison's presence, temporarily, just for once, drives out that skittish fear — because she is still kissing him.
If there were words, things he needed to say to her about this, they're gone now: blasted away, his mind scoured empty like a barren wasteland, nothing else but her. I could not / Speak, and my eyes failed, he thinks, dizzily.
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Because this, it's overwhelming, it's already enough, it's more than he ever thought he'd have. Allison's melting into him and there's a small involuntary noise in the back of her throat, automatic like a grunt during a fight or a small whine of pain when they haul each other off a battlefield, except, except, except. It's something else entirely.
(Surely this is enough. Whatever hoops they've had to jump through, maybe the magic is satisfied by now?)
But he's not. Satisfied. Now that the metaphorical doors are being flung open wide, Luther's jamming his shoulder against it and can't let it close so soon; not when there's finally a chance, an opportunity. And maybe they shouldn't still be kissing like this, sequestered away in a hallway at the party (like so, so many hallways and corners they'd taken refuge in as kids: the times they had almost, when his hand had fluttered over hers at a table in the library; or his head had tilted as he looked at her on the rooftop and he had thought maybe; or Number Three had sat primly on the edge of her bed and looked at him daringly, and he'd started moving in towards her, before the slam of a door and Vanya walking in). But she's not stopping, and therefore he's not stopping, can't stop, everything boils down to where the points of their body are meeting: oh god, her fingers are splayed against his neck, digging into his hair—
And he's too painfully conscious of the exact spot where his skin transitions, where it changes from the still-softness of his throat and the back of his neck and becomes rough and coarse (again: he should've worn a turtleneck). She's too close to it. But Allison's presence, temporarily, just for once, drives out that skittish fear — because she is still kissing him.
If there were words, things he needed to say to her about this, they're gone now: blasted away, his mind scoured empty like a barren wasteland, nothing else but her. I could not / Speak, and my eyes failed, he thinks, dizzily.