His first kiss happens as naturally as Elliot has always thought it should.
He has considered this many times, the setting and the moment and the necessity of another person, always with some vague body and vaguer features, more a placeholder than anything else. But there are many things that should have come naturally - friendship, happiness, comfort - that have always proven far more elusive than he always imagined, and the older he got, the less he trusted in the half-formed fantasies of childhood.
In the end he's not thinking about it at all. He's shoved Leo over on the piano bench, ignoring the half-choked protests from the other in favor of crushing them together onto the narrow space, and he's reaching out to brush his fingertips across the keys, idle contact without enough force to actually play the notes. His attention is on the pattern of his fingers on the keys, the shape of the half-formed music still fitting into his head, his focus so narrow he's almost unaware of Leo falling silent beside him, is fully oblivious to the other boy's sideways glance at him and at the movement of his hands.
He doesn't realize Leo is paying him attention until hands fit in under his, the fingers curved up into an elegant arch to strike out the keys Elliot's touch is too light to depress. Elliot startles, at first, the loud chime of the sound unexpected and shocking with the weight of the note, but reflex keeps his hands moving, shifting sideways and back across, and Leo is echoing him, his fingers playing out the pattern a breath behind Elliot's, so hard on the heels of the other's motion that it feels like telepathy, it feels like magic. The song forms itself around them, Elliot's notes and Leo's playing, and for just a minute Elliot's not a noble, and Leo's not an orphan, and they're neither of them different entities. It's all music, the notes curling around them until the piano bench is a perfect fit for the two of them, until the tangled synchronicity of their fingers feels ordinary instead of unbelievable.
Elliot doesn't draw his hands away with the last notes. His fingers linger, hovering against the keys, and when Leo draws out the last chord his hands press in against Elliot's, land warm and lingering against the other's skin.
Elliot looks sideways. Leo isn't looking at him; he's staring at their hands, instead, as if he's been locked in place by the lingering heat of Elliot's skin. With his head tipped down Elliot can see Leo's eyes in profile, the purple shadows of them drawing smoothly into the dark of his lashes, and he doesn't realize he hasn't taken a breath until his chest starts to ache for the want of air.
"Leo," he says, and he doesn't recognize his own voice for how weighted with shock it sounds. "God, your eyes are beautiful."
Leo looks up at that, his head turning sudden with shock. His hair falls back, and for a moment Elliot is transfixed by the full power of those eyes turned on him. He can't figure out why he never noticed before - has he just never seen them? is that even possible? - but his hands are going slack against Leo's, the keys sliding down too softly to strike a note, and Leo isn't pulling away, he's just blinking like he's really seeing Elliot for the first time, his usual sharp comments wholly absent for a moment.
Elliot doesn't think about it. His hand is lifting from the piano without any conscious decision, is pushing back Leo's hair with as much unconcern as he would push the curtain of a window back to reveal the sunrise. Leo blinks again, slow and shocked, and Elliot's fingers are against his skin, holding the shadow of his hair back from the radiant beauty of his eyes. That's all the warning Elliot offers, that lingering contact of his fingers at Leo's cheek; then he's leaning in, tilting his head aside to fit himself in against the other's lips, and he just sees Leo's eyelashes fluttering shut over that breathtaking color before his own eyes are closing and his mouth is fitting gentle against the other's.
The warmth is what he notices first. It unwinds slow through his body, washing him hot and breathless, and Leo is tipping his head too, shifting his mouth so their lips fit closer together. Elliot can feel the pace of Leo's breathing going faster, the harsh words usually at his lips seamlessly giving way to soft friction.
Elliot isn't sure how long they stay like that, lips laid flush against each other, before Leo lifts his hand to brush his fingers in against Elliot's hair. Elliot opens his mouth to that contact, as immediately as if it was some kind of cue, and for a moment Leo's tongue is against his, tentative and careful against the part of his lips.
Then Leo pulls back, lets his hand fall loose from Elliot's hair, and Elliot is left to blink himself back into himself. His mouth tastes like vanilla, sweet and almost-spicy at the back of his tongue, the foreign taste of Leo's lips clinging to his mouth as much as the heat of the contact clings to his blood.
Elliot feels that he should say something. "You taste amazing," seems a little too forward, "You play well" not enough. He stares at Leo's eyes, words dying unsaid on his tongue, and when he speaks it's unthought, unplanned, more reflex than anything else.
"You have beautiful eyes."
It's true, the best truth he can offer under the circumstances. For a moment Leo's expression holds blank and still; then his lips curve into a laugh, amusement more sincere than Elliot has ever seen spilling out over his features. It makes Elliot grin, bright and sheepish even as his cheeks start to burn with delayed reaction self-consciousness, as he ducks his head in a vain attempt to hide his features.
Out of all the experiences in his life, this is one worth remembering forever.