They fit, quiet honestly, inelegantly at best. It's partly the odd little spot they've chosen, close in by the table. It's partly the comparatively new need to get this many pairs of arms, of elbows, of tight clinging hands assembled in a small amount of space. It's warm and it's crowded and it's just a touch messy.

It's wonderful.

More than that, being clustered together like this drags caution far back from the fore. They're already here. William's lips have brushed against Horatio's hair; Archie's lips have pressed against William's pulse. Something's been fully admitted. Some piece of holding back has been completely abandoned.

Time, surely, to throw caution at least briefly to the wind.

Some plans needed long incubation. The best ones, Horatio had found, came from throwing oneself into a purpose--blindly, completely, without the faintest thought for caution and self-preservation. He doesn't have an actual plan when Archie leans closer to kiss his cheek. Admittedly, he also doesn't actually have one when his fingers scramble around to catch properly at Archie's lapel to keep him close. Horatio can't be entirely sure it even counts as a plan to squirm just enough to offer Archie a proper kiss, over-exuberant with nerves, body refusing to unstick from William's side.