Forgetting how dirty his hands were - and perhaps Sephiroth wouldn’t care, given the mess he’s made between them - Zechs reached for his hair to grasp behind his head. Keep him close. Catch his breath for but a moment.

It takes a moment for him to focus on more than the warmth against him, the chemicals singing through his veins, the fact he’s still being held and pressed against the wall. The fact that … it didn’t seem that the other man seemed to be softening much, if at all.

“What was in that drink …?” Zechs asked, his voice sounding a bit hoarse. A note of awe, though, and not wariness.