Michael's still gaping, but he steps forward and gently removes the crutch from Alex's hand as he leans it up against the new keyboard they'd bought (and hasn't been packed away), sliding his fingers over Alex's stomach and chest, over the hair, and then around to his back.

He breathes out shakily, exhaling with a hitch the way Alex always gets him to do, and god, he loves it so much.

"What the hell do you mean, is something wrong? Have you seen yourself?" he accuses. "Fuck, you're so hot," he mutters, putting the posters down on the table so he can bury his face in Alex's neck to start kissing.