"You're," Sean starts, and then stops. Standing in the living room of Elijah's flat, things seem much harder than they did back in the club. "You're still kind of messed up. Go to bed. I should go home, it's late, and—"

Elijah closes the space between them and cups Sean's full face in his hands, loving its handsome expanse, wondering how he could ever not process this feeling of complete and total need. "It doesn't matter."

"It—" Sean's chest swells.

"It doesn't. Matter." Elijah rubs the tips of his fingertips back and around Sean's ears, and then against his hair. The drug slips off him like water beads; with every passing second he feels more in control and less likely to fall over.

"Elijah." Sean's eyes close.

"Doesn't. Matter. What does matter," Elijah purrs, touching their bodies together softly, "is that I want you so badly that I can taste you when I close my eyes. What does matter, is that if I can't have your hands on me right now, I may pass the fuck out."

Sean leans in and touches their mouths together, his hands shaking so hard that he balls them up into fists at his side to stop the motion. Elijah opens his eyes, loving how perfectly level they are with Sean's, and feels all the pieces of the past six months fall carefully into place.