Arching up against, pressing up towards, wrapped completely around Marijuana, Heroin shrugged and the shirt flew away in a tangle of fabric to hit the far wall, buttons sounding a dull protest as they knocked against chair legs. He curled his fingers into Mari’s hair again, pulled him up for a moment, for a kiss that was light and slow, slower, slowly tasting and savoring everything Heroin’d missed in his husband. Almost idly – almost – he rubbed his foot down Marijuana’s calf, toes curled as they skimmed back up warm skin and across the back of his knee; Heroin wondered if the pedicure had survived even as his foot slid higher, traced a ling along the inside of Mari’s thigh until Heroin could catch the hem of his husband’s boxers between his toes and tug it up an inch at a time. “Got me,” he murmured, kissed Marijuana again and hooked his fingers under the hem of Mari’s shirt and tugged it up, pulled it off as the kiss broke and threw it off, away, vaguely in the direction his own shirt had flown. And damn, he looked good; better, all that bared skin and Heroin had missed all of it – so different from the curves of the last few days. His nails scraped over Mari’s chest, through the outline of the blue diamond on his heart and leaving faint lines down to his hips which Heroin gripped, thumbs disappearing underneath the waistband of his lover’s boxers. “Love you,” he whispered to the crook of Mari’s neck, “love you so much,” Heroin gasped to his husband’s Adam’s apple, “love you more than anything,” Heroin confessed to Mari’s collarbone as pale hands slipped and tugged his boxers down.