They crash into each other like the sea into the shore and Loki's hands grab onto Paul, fisting in his shirt at the collar and the small of his back without a moments thought about the perfect grease on those perfect hands or the way that it immediately made him smell like his lover. It was proof that Paul had touched him. That Paul let himself be touched. Loki felt they could both use some of that. Some selfishness.

Loki's mouth plys open at the first hint, tongue eager to wrestle with Paul's, to taste and be tasted. It didn't matter that their teeth clinked a little here and there as he pushes him back. He couldn't tell if they'd hit surface or if he'd just stopped but he manages to unfist his hands briefly and long enough to tear his winter jacket off to be abandoned on the floor. His hands shift, scrambling down to get up under Paul's shirt, greedy for a feel of him before they're moving towards his jeans, fingers a little stumbling but insistent.

This was how he had wanted to say goodbye to Paul, wanted to be the way he said hello or 'hey pass me the remote'. They weren't starry eyed kids anymore, (if they were ever starry eyed, which Loki doubts), this wasn't hormones and exploration or playacting house when they got the chance. His everything needed the quiet man, now, tomorrow, next week. The rest of his life if he could manage.