I think kissing you and taking my shirt off are mutually exclusive activities, Ratchet tries to say, but he finds it impossible with someone else's tongue in his mouth so he gives up, leaning up into York and working the thin fabric of his shirt up his torso while trying not to elbow York anywhere particularly tender. He pushes him back entirely for just a moment to strip the shirt off over his head and flop back down before he reaches out to curl his hands against the hem of York's, tugging lightly.

"You too?" he asks, still out of breath and his skin criss-crossed by a varied collection of now-visible scars.