Cesar's eyes widen, and he's distantly wondering how drunk he actually is, because his thoughts are swirling and every other scrap of attention is focused on the wet feel of lips pressing down on his fingers, and a soft scrape of tongue. He has his fingers in L's mouth. Salt, salsa--saliva.

His face feels burning hot, and he tugs at his collar with his free hand, as though wishing it were cooler in the room. Several long seconds pass, and he draws his fingers out, and he looks like he's about to taste them, too--but no, after a moment he wipes them on his pants leg, looking a little dazed. He can't believe that just happened. Did it really? Was that going too far?

He rubs the back of his neck with his dry hand, blushing harder than ever. Just play it off, Sanchez-Ortiz. Embarrassment only sticks if you let it.

{Well?}