Elliot is all sorts of cute.

He has this way of doing things with such great concentration that Leo can't help but watch, rapt and entirely focused as well – and it's all in the way his brow furrows, the way his mouth twists into a little frown, the way his jaw clenches when he's frustrated or the way his eyes light up when he's thrilled.

Elliot is always this way when he's composing and now is no exception.

Leo would ask what he's working on, exactly, but he doesn't want to interrupt. It's for that reason that he simply sits and listens for a bit – to the plucking of piano keys, the twang of a slightly off chord that Leo finds kind of cute and charmingly beautiful all the same, because Elliot's reaction is cute and charming when he growls and scribbles upon his manuscript a number of hasty corrections.

These are the kinds of faces that Leo wishes he could always remember – not the way Elliot looked when he was angry with him and not some stupid piano, not the way the other boy looked when he was dead on the floor.

No, he wants to remember instead the way Elliot would smile, even if it was a sort of half-smile, partly irritated, when Leo finally did rise and interrupt him. He wants to remember the touch of the noble's hands brushing his face, tangling into his hair, gentle and careful and warm as he's kissed so openly and lovingly that it makes his heart ache.

He wants to remember everything about Elliot that isn't death. He wants to remember everything that is Elliot alive and loving him.

Easier said than done, on most days, but Leo clings to that memory – clings to everything that is Elliot, clings to whatever wisp of his lover that he absolutely can, even when it will never be enough.