He can see the way Maxwell's mask wobbles — not the literal mask hiding their face, but the roguish swagger they've put on as part of the costume. It flutters in him, the realization that he's having an effect on them. The desire to discover what else will get a reaction out of them.

Maxwell, it seems, has thought of the same game. They'll feel the way his stomach sucks in under their touch, and his chest stretches subtly to meet their fingers, surprise splitting open to excitement. The sheer fabric makes it easy to imagine their hand dragging heat over his bare skin. As if compelled by gravity, Wilhelm does, in fact, lean in. He's close enough that Maxwell's breath brushes his lips, like their words have a real weight. His eyelids flutter half-shut — and that's when Maxwell pulls away.

A frustrated noise tangles in his throat, turning into a laugh. He shakes his head as if to say you got me.

"Getting there," he answers, picking a turn and praying it leads to a perfect make-out spot.