Adriel’s expression, barely held together as it was, would shatter beneath the weight of Bacchus' words. He’d hide it by chasing Bacchus' lips, kissing him with every ounce of fire still found in the torch he carried for him. If Bacchus moved to lay back flush on the floor, Adriel would follow, hands placed on the cold tile on either side of Bacchus' face to support his weight as he continued kissing him. Desperate, broken sounds would escape his mouth between caresses of lips, wounded whimpers half-swallowed and the audible struggle to withhold tears. Because Bacchus broke the rules. They weren't supposed to feel. They were only supposed to fuck. Bacchus didn't need him or want him, and what good was love if Bacchus didn't die inside the way Adriel did when they weren't together? But Bacchus had said it, had opened the door Adriel couldn't help but tumble through, his heart landing battered and bruised on the floor at Bacchus' feet. His lover knew him well, and even with the shift in their position, Adriel would gasp with each thrust, moan into their kisses, the kisses he refused to abandon. He'd pant against Bacchus' lips, confess his love and his fears hidden behind languages Bacchus didn't speak or understand, a quiet, rolling mantra of 'I love you' and 'I’m sorry' and 'I’ll stay. I’ll stay. I’ll stay.'