"I'm definitely strange," Krem agreed, giving a bit of a nod, not giving up on his little shower of kisses. He liked that warm, fond note in Thomas's voice, liked being the cause of it, liked his strangeness being a part of that in some way--not because he was strange, and not in spite of his strangeness, but simply because he was him and he happened to be strange.

Krem hummed a little and lifted his hands to Thomas's cheeks, smudging his thumbs against the arch of his cheekbones, then kissing him more decisively. Contentedly, he murmured through the kiss a meek, "I love you, Thomas."

It seemed important, to say it then and not just when they were in the midst of something overt and sexual. When things were tender and private, but not laden.