Rama tastes salty-sweet, Crozier meeting the kisses with reverence and soft awe. Each shuddering gasp answered with a quiet exhale of his own; he sighs as Rama presses their foreheads together.

He leans forward slightly, nose brushing against his cheek. His hand slides out from Rama’s drawers, mindful of how sensitive he must be because he feels the same, hand wrapping tightly around his back to hold him close. To keep him close. He’d hate for him to leave now, for this to end too soon, for them to go back to not being completely tangled up in each other.

“Rama.” He holds him, trembling and sore ribs and all, wanting him more and again (though his body says absolutely not, not for some time). He feels intoxicated by him, wanting every part for himself, strength and vulnerability and joy and pain, all the parts that make him the wonderful man he adores. He wants it for himself, selfishly, forever if possible.

He tips his head up and kisses him softly. “You’re a beautiful man when you fall apart, Rama,” he says quietly, slightly slurring his words as the adrenaline begins to fade.