His hand brushes their bare shoulder and he opens his eyes again. They’re close, still warm, the scent of salt seeming even stronger now that it’s isolated in the apartment. Like he could lick Wolfgang and taste it.
“No. You needed me, right, so it’s okay.” Michael takes off the sunglasses and tosses them on the crowded coffee table. Everything becomes less golden and very slightly brighter. He blinks a couple times, then places his hand near Wolfgang’s neck—almost low enough to be called their chest, but just shy of it—and leans toward them, until their faces are nearly touching. His head tilts like he’ll kiss them.
“Can we maybe not watch the Muppets right now?” he says.