Michael doesn’t think much about Wolfgang moving his hand; maybe they wanted him to touch their back instead, to hold them. He runs his thumb over the ridges of their vertebrae, likes that solid feeling. When they press their face to his, he kisses their cheek, then their jaw, and then their neck. He’s never had his mouth anywhere below their face before and he’s unsure of himself, worried they won’t like it—but it feels good to him, having the strongest point of their pulse under his lips, and he was right: the faint taste of salt is on their skin.
His other hand finds their thigh, which he’d managed to forget was bare. He sighs when he touches it. All of their contact is skin on skin. Maybe he should take his shirt off so they’re equal. He’s not sure yet. He doesn’t know if that’s what Wolfgang wants.