They turn into the stone arch of the alcove at the foot of their staircase, and Posner knows that he’s fucked.
“Look, Scrippsy,” Pos pleads, speaking too quickly in between intakes of breath “I don’t want to say anything — I’m honestly so shit at saying anything, we can talk and we can talk but I never,” — and he can’t bear it any longer, takes Don’s cheek in his hand, trying as ever to to make him understand, to draw him out with loaded looks he’s too afraid to hold and friendly touches that scald and blister — “I just. I can’t. I can’t be the one to — you fucking know —“ and God he’s pathetic. Gritted teeth and eyes screwed shut. But he hears a shuddering inhale and exhale and feels Scripps step in closer and grip at the sides of his jacket, not touching, just the tight-clenched knuckles of fists pressed hot against him, right underneath his ribs where he’s soft and oh — their eyes meet again.
“Pos,” Scripps gets out roughly, they’re so close now that Pos can hardly bear it, so he stares fixedly at his own thumb where it strokes across Don’s cheek. Once in comfort, once in encouragement, once in — “Pos, I … please,” Don cuts in, and the gentle, terrible urgency of it breathes across his face before he’s yanked closer still into a not-quite-hug; Don briefly nosing into his hair; Pos’s hand moving up his back to grip his shoulder from behind, his other shifting from Don’s cheek to lace through his hair.
They settle, they still, locked together, clinging. All it takes is a mutual shift from where their foreheads press together, a slight tilt and there it is. A kiss. Closed-mouthed and soft, it lasts forever, or for a single heated heartbeat — Pos can’t tell and doesn’t care, knows nothing but the pulsing, joyous disbelief that fills him up entirely, his blood chanting Now! Now! Him! Him! over and over until he’s giddy with it. Giddy because he knows that this is Scripps, his Scrippsy, still just as incredulous and careful and good, still infuriatingly handsome and too fucking tall. Giddy because he can kiss him now, apparently that’s the plane of reality he exists on, so he stretches up onto his tiptoes, uses shoulder and hair as points of leverage, and kisses Scripps again properly.
He makes it sweet, makes it slow, tries as hard as he can to make it devotional, adoring. Scripps lets out a ragged gasp, opening his mouth and kissing back, his hands get under Posner’s jacket at last and hold on properly, pushes him backwards so he’s pressed between the cool stone of the archway and the solid heat of Scripps’s chest. In his efforts to stretch upwards his hand must tighten too much in Scripps’s hair, ‘cause he jerks back, gasping, and Pos gets a good look at him. He’s shockingly beautiful; pink and panting and his eyes are more black than blue.
“I love you so fucking much,” Pos says, and it’s not really voluntary as it slips past his tingling lips but he doesn’t think there’s anything more urgent or true or right that has ever been said.
“You,” Scripps breathes out, now it’s his turn to gently stroke Posner’s curls back from his forehead and kiss him there, softly. “You’re...” And he’s achingly tender when he kisses his cheek, his nose, the corner of his mouth. “I love you too.”