“I know you do, love,” he said, smiling, trying to guide Alex out of this high-pressure zone, from the teetering edge of emotion, and back towards himself, back towards them. “But you can’t save everyone. No matter how hard you try. The important part is that you do try.”

He was constantly trying, Memo knew. It had to be exhausting, trying to protect everyone, everything under the sun, like a giant, patriarchal bird posing over his nest, sleepless and unyielding. But growing ever older. And soft, too. Alex was so soft. It was incredibly endearing.

“Well, dinner,” he allowed, gently leading Alex by the hands back towards the bedroom, “and also my selfish desire to cuddle some more?” He let his voice cant upwards, in hopeful suggestion. A polite question. And yet.

And yet he wanted to feel Alex around him again, like when they’d been sleeping. The gentle press of his back against Alex’s chest. The feeling of being eclipsed, like a private, lunar miracle. It would be so much easier to process these emotions lying down, together, now that his fight or flight response was not jackhammering in his skull.

“It’s fine, that’s why microwave exi--,” he said, at the same time as Alex, before breaking off into laughter. Same brain.

He let Alex go to clear off space on the bed, making sure they didn’t knock over any dishes or the tray, before clambering back onto the bed, crossing the blankets to take up Alex’s original spot away from the door.

“Of course,” Memo said, settling cross-legged on the blankets, “I made it for you.”

He found the bottle of vodka that Alex had abandoned and picked it up, frowning a bit at its lightness. It was also, much to his disappointment, unflavored. It made his head hurt just thinking about it.

Alex’s rumbling stomach knocked him out of his thoughts. “Are you ever not hungry?” he asked with a grin, voice earnest and endearing. He twisted the top off the bottle pinched his nose shut, and endeavored a taste.

He didn’t get much farther than the very tip of his tongue before he abort mission’ed. “Ugh, nope. God, it’s like rubbing alcohol. How do you do it?”

He heaved a breath, trying to get the horrendous taste out of his mouth. “No, love, of course not,” he said, still cringing. And then, again, squeezing his eyes shut and offering the bottle back to Alex, “no, love, of course not.”

He’d slung back his fair share of nasty shit, in the day. Always with chaser, usually. He was a big pansy when it came to taste and flavor, which was odd, given his affinity for onion. Or maybe not. Maybe it left his tastebuds rather raw.

But, no, Memo liked sweetness. Cloyingly sweet. He also had a surprisingly low alcohol tolerance and probably could be drunk under the table by an infant.

“Is that how you prefer it?” he asked, face still a half-wince. “Just… just straight?”

Yeck.

“That is--,” Memo stopped himself, thinking of a better way to say probably the most disgusting thing I’ve heard in my life, and ended up with, “probably the bravest thing I’ve heard in my life.”

He could, when threatened, drink just about anything. He had done so, many times in the past, to get through… encounters. Experiences. It was easier to float out of your own head when you were drunk. Easier to ignore the pain, the risks.

But he didn’t enjoy it.

“Oh, I’m--,” easy, he was going to say, but then Alex took a pull off the same bottle and started turning red and just looked too damn cute; he didn’t know if it was the influx of emotions for the evening or what, but when Alex moved the bottle away from his face Memo leaned forward (making sure not to knock over any of the plates or the tray) and, braced on one wrist, gently brushed his lips against Alex’s, not caring that he was going to taste astringent-sharp.

His nose brushed against Alex’s cheek. “You’re very cute when you blush.”

He makes a tiny aborted noise of surprise when he feels Alex’s hands on his face because up until now it’s been him, mostly, doing all of the touching, the initiating. And it’s been tortuous, to feel like the only one who is burning up with all these emotions and all this love and all this need. And he gets, he totally understands, that Alex’s experiences have been different and once bitten, twice shy, and all that, but he’s--

--totally unprepared for the fervor with which Alex kisses back, totally unexpected and totally welcome. Guillermo at least has the werewithal to stack dishes and plates and shove them aside before his eyes fall closed and he all-but-crawls into Alex’s lap, embarrassingly warm and needy as his knees hit the bed on the outside of Alex’s thighs.

Alex tastes clean, like vodka, and warm and soft and everything.

He tilts his head, one hand coming up to hover over the curve of Alex’s cheek, the other pressed into his own thigh to stop it from wandering or doing something stupid. He wants to touch, wants to feel, wants to push and move, and-- he parts his lips with an absolutely humiliating moan because yes, this is what he’s wanted, this is what he’s needed, for weeks, now, holy shit.

He’s falling forward as Alex goes back, onto the pillows, entirely too warm and hungry. And it’s embarrassing, a bit, to be sooo worked up after a makeout sesh that’s lasted all of forty-five seconds.

But god, he’s needy. He’s wanted this since, like, their first date; and Alex is actually, actively kissing him back, not just laying there and letting it happen, which seems like a good indicator that he’s into this, too, right? Memo relaxes a little, hand previously pressed to his thigh coming up to slip fingers into Alex’s hair, let the softness flow through his fingers; the other hand brushes the backs of his knuckles against Alex’s cheek, fingertips over the edge of his jaw, the white span of his throat.