A shudder passes through Scorpius. He's not drunk. James may be, but Scorpius is one hundred and ten percent sober. And that means everything he's feeling are things he'd feel any time James might want to kiss him. And apparently lift up his shirt to touch him.

Scorpius doesn't move away from the questing touch. He invites it, removing his hand briefly from James's hair to tug his shirt up and give James room. Scorpius is slim and still on the verge of gawky at times, more bone than muscle, more angles than curves. It will be nigh impossible to pretend he's a girl, so what James touches is purely masculine beneath his fingertips.