Paul slides his hand to Kaworu's back, remembering the notched pearls of his spine, and he traces them from his neck to the small of his back. The draping of Kaworu's leg coaxes another hum from him, almost a question.

He'd thought there was a chance it was the spice that kindled the low heat in his belly, that made him so fervently anticipatory of the idea of drawing them flush together, but in the aching sober morning he's barely more temperate.

There are good reasons not to dip his fingers under the hem of Kaworu's shirt again, to glide upward along the path he just slipped down, but they're hard to recall through rising sensory static.