Re: [Climbing: Patrick & Newt]
Patrick was making no decisions; the dude was not thinking. Or, rather, he was thinking, but his thoughts were a massive jumble, and he was not certain about any of them. The kiss was impulse, man, on the heels of Newt's 'yes?,' and the tension in the dude indicated he was at war with himself. He kissed Newt with the kind of fervor that belonged to high-schoolers, youth that had not yet learned to finesse romantic interactions. Dude kissed like sweat, like the muscles that burned beneath skin during the climb up the wall. This was exertion. This was not any kind of seduction. This was desperation, man. It was some kind of jumbled realization in the slant of Patrick's mouth over Newt's.
He braced his hands on either side of Newt, on the floor of the rock wall. He did not try to budge Newt's fingers from his cheeks. He pressed in with his body, curled over the other dude, still kneeling, and with no distance between them. It was hot, sweaty, and Patrick still flushed red. He stroked his tongue against Newt's, and, man, this was suggestion. This was not even exploration, and he was hard in the loose black pants he wore. This time, when he moaned against the chalkiness that was Newt's lips, he did not retreat. He raised his own hand to Newt's face, hand slipping with fingers spread up and over and beyond Newt's ear and into sweaty, ginger hair.
"Man," he finally said, the word spoken against Newt's mouth, "we must get out of here."