That is not a sound that I have heard him make, and never have I seen such force in him, either. This is so strange to me, the way he pulls me against him, and I feel an answering fierceness rouse in myself at the feel of him against me, at the ferocity of his kiss. He kisses me not as a conqueror but as a challenger, and for all my physical flaws this is a battle I can rise to. My hand finds his back, presses him hard, and I can feel the strong muscles of his chest, the thump of his heart against mine.

We are both breathless when he draws away, a hard panting like we have laboured or fought. My hand falls from his back and I stare at him, and I cannot find words, but I must force myself to speak.

"I - do not understand," I say, and it is honesty, dragged up from inside me. I cannot think of my pride now. "I - that was - "

I shake my head, press my fingers to my eyes. "You make me babble like a fool." He is still so very close. I think my lip is bleeding, and touch it with a finger: it comes away red.

I am still breathless. I look at him a long moment, and put my hand upon his thigh again. Feel the long muscle there, the heat of him. "Allectus - "

The heat is rising in my own groin and chest and face. I will not allow myself to be a coward, though I think I would be less afraid to face a man on the field or in the arena than I am at this moment to face my own friend. I move my hand to his shoulder instead, draw him in, and kiss him once again.