He buzzes with the memories of all the times they've ever been like this, in the hot and syrupy addle of his adrenaline- and aphrodisiac-soaked brain he's every Leon at once: the trainee, mud-streaked and bloody and triumphant; the partner, swaying his way into his lap with thinly-veiled intent, the corner of his mouth boyishly turned up when he tosses a roll of gauze over his shoulder; the thing with no name, face fuck-flushed and sweaty; the rookie-no-more, laying one hand over his fist around his knife, all grim duty and unstated grief. He intercepts Krauser's wrist, the point of the knife hovering over Krauser's heart, wavering as they fight over control.

Krauser's hard. Leon can feel it every time he bucks up — to throw Leon off or for more friction where it matters, he can't tell, and what difference does it make? — the thick shape of his cock makes this more than a fight. Makes the tight huff of Leon's effort as they grapple into a sound much needier than anything he's uttered in this place, goosebumps pinching up all over despite the crushing humidity.

Sweat rolls down his face, down damp trails towards the tip of his nose, his chin, he can taste the salt and then him, when Krauser twists his fist in the open collar of his shirt and drags him down, when Leon crushes his lips against his scarred mouth, turning the blade until it lies like cold and flat between them, its sharp tip scoring a shallow line up the swell of Krauser's pectoral on the way. His other hand fists into his platinum blond hair, tightens up when he pulls up his head, gasping through his open mouth.

He loses his grip on the thread that tells him this is a fight where he might not be walking away if he doesn't finish the job, finds his latching instead onto everything betrayal cost him.