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The night Garibaldi made cannelloni, he wasn't expecting to kiss Stephen. He hadn't kissed a man since going sober. He blamed it on the memories of his father and the lack of a good red wine with dinner.
He really should've blamed it on Stephen's lips and ability. Garibaldi hadn't been prepared for that kind of precision, for the gentle licks that got his mouth to open. For Stephen's strong hand on his shoulder.
But he was still alone, staring at his Daffy Duck poster and wondering, just wondering, if they were both going to pretend that nothing happened in the morning.