The only thing better than kissing, Shen Qingqiu has decided, is being kissed, and being pulled closer, and being in Sagramore's lap. His hands have dropped to Sagramore's chest, and he's just—tracing out the shape of him, squeezing appreciatively, touching, touching, touching. He's lost the part of this where he talks, but maybe that's okay—he's allowed to touch, now, allowed to trace every line of the body he's noticed when Sagramore hugged him, tight, at the bar; when Sagramore held him when he cried. He breaks the kiss to laugh, a little, a huff of air against Sagramore's jaw, and bump his cheek with his nose. He likes him so much, when he's gay.