Re: [Climbing: Patrick & Newt]
Patrick shoved him back, and Newt went quite without resistance. He fell back to his elbow and he reeled in his knee and his other hand, the one that'd fallen to sternum, then lifted to cheek. He smiled, a twitch of lips, like a penny in a fountain, that was perhaps more automatic than anything, and he watched Patrick through lank, damp fringe. He should say something. He knew that, but he found himself rather at a loss. The panic that scoured and scrabbled, seeking to out itself from the confines of poor Patrick, was obvious, and not only because it ran red. Patrick began to ready himself for descent, and Newt, well, he felt he'd gone too far with his comment, but he couldn't take it back now and it's not as if he'd been lying.
Then, the younger man looked at him. Newt had pushed to sitting up right, his palms on the floor. He'd flushed, as well, but, somehow Patrick managed to out-rouge him. Newt glanced up from his own knees, from where harness held onto thigh, to catch Patrick's gaze in query. "Yes?" It was all he had time to ask, as then Patrick was close to him once more, the heat of him like a charge on bare skin, and Newt closed his eyes just before the collision of the kiss. Someone with, perhaps, more self-preservation than he had would've noted that Patrick seemed ready to leave a second ago and would've taken the hint that perhaps this was, erm, pressing things. But, Newt wasn't that person. He felt that, since Patrick'd made the choice to come back, it was because he wanted to, and if it meant he, Newt, was shoved away in a few seconds again, so be it. There were worse things.
In the meantime, it meant he was able to kiss Patrick, and if that was pathetic, again, there were worse things. The kiss, when it came, was forceful, and Newt was entirely yielding. He was up, without hands to prop him, and they both went to Patrick's jaw, fingers warm, lithe, and splayed, callousness of palms hidden under leather, before, and if the kiss continued, shifting to latch around nape amid sweat-damp blond. Newt was, in a word, willing. Soft and supple, he gave to the kiss, and he parted his lips if Patrick led them there. He offered tongue and tension, licking into the kiss, tasting slightly chalky from touching his lips earlier. He didn't know if he should move, if he should lie back, or if he should do anything at all, so he rather let Patrick decide, if and when Patrick did.