Not even the fog of bliss can keep Crichton down when he hears Arthur start to choke. No. Uh uh. No way. He is not letting his boyfriend die like this, God help them.

He sits up and reaches out saying, "Whoa, Arthur. I'm sorry... I..." Wait. Arthur's laughing. (Which means he's breathing, whew.) Crichton lets out a relieved chuff of air and lets himself fall back on his elbows, starting to laugh himself--until he sees Arthur lick his lips like that.

Oh.

Damn that's hot.

Before he really even knows what he's doing, he's sitting up and leaning in, putting a hand to the back of Arthur's head and drawing him in for a sloppy, salty kiss. How about that, indeed?