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This was not a date. Kavinsky and Jack had agreed that they were not dating, and so this was not a date. It was this: Kavinsky worrying if he was coming on too strong with an outfit that was all tight jeans and loose shirt; Jack picking him up in his car; them laughing with the top down even though it was getting too cold for that; a club, and Kavinsky teasing Jack that he still needed to use a fake ID, and Jack teasing Kavinsky that one of his boys would need to use a fake ID for a whole extra year.

The club was noisy and dim and full of people. Kavinsky didn't think he'd really gone out in ages; he was normally working on weekends, when he would want to go out, and work and school occupied Newt, and Al, and Peter.

"Isn't it a school night?" he asked Jack, next to his ear so he didn't shout himself hoarse in the first ten minutes they were there. He gave Jack's arm a squeeze. "I'm gonna get a drink. What do you want?"

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"Beer," says Jack, flashing a grin. "I'm driving, but I can totally have one, right?" His eyes linger, a little, on Kavinsky's ass in tight, tight jeans. Jack's dressed in a heathery plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows, jeans, boots.

His hand settles in the small of Kavinsky's back.

"Man, I am the opposite of a person you wanna ask about responsible drinking and driving," Kavinsky confessed with a subtle wince. You didn't get where Kavinsky had been back in Henrietta with moderation and consideration for your mortality. Now, things were better, were easier.

Jack's had felt warm through the thin, worn fabric of Kavinsky's shirt. He smiled at him, reaching back to hold his wrist as he headed to the bar and get them drinks: beer for Jack, tequila for himself.

Jack slips Kavinsky's grip, but only so he can take his hand instead, slotting their fingers together as they move through the bar. He's finding it hard to keep his hands to himself, now that he's got permission not to.

The subtle shift in their touch warmed through Kavinsky, and he tried his best to not look stupid and smitten about it. He gave Jack's hand a little squeeze, doing his best to shift so they were standing closer together than they needed to be. The ability to do this--the permissions for it--sung in his chest, a warm vibration. It was nice to not have to worry.

"Here," Kavinsky said, handing off the beer to Jack once they got their drinks. He left a tip on the bar, then turned to look at the crowd. "Not a bad night."

"Doesn't look like it."

Honestly, he doesn't have that much interest in being in the club tonight - there are other things he'd much rather be doing with Kavinsky right then. Still, he forces himself calm, takes a sip of his beer, his free hand still tangled with Kavinsky's.

Kavinsky knew that look, fast and subtle as it was. He drank his tequila down fast and put the glass on the bar behind them. The benefit of not having driven was that he could drink, but he suspected that might be a line to dance with Jack.

He let Jack have a few sips of his beer before he extracted the glass from him to take a sip. "How's your shitty beer?"

"Not as shitty as it could be," says Jack, rolling his eyes as Kavinsky takes his beer and sips it. "I am not getting into my car after I've been drinking tequila, okay? You can drink whatever you like."

"Hey man, I never said you had to have any tequila," Kavinsky pointed out. He grinned and took another sip of the beer, then handed it back to Jack. "And I'm trying to be conscientious about my alcohol consumption, okay? Look at me, all responsible and shit. Enthusiastic and mostly sober for when you stick your dick in me."

"Bet you've been thinking about it all day," says Jack, and he's still not used to it, the way their conversation has changed slightly in focus, but that doesn't mean he hates it. "Any requests?" He raises his eyebrows as he takes a sip of his beer.

Kavinsky beamed, cheeky, at the idea he'd been premeditating their night together. Maybe he had. It wouldn't have been the first time. He and Newt had discussed what the limits were for the evening, and he was happily settled with all their decisions.

"Dancing," Kavinsky said, smart ass about it. "And I'd like to spend a lot of the night on my knees."

"I am pretty sure that I can facilitate both of those things," says Jack, curling his arm around Kavinsky's neck and swaying in closer so that their chests brush against each other. "Where are we going back to?"

They stood there at the bar, wrapped around each other, and Kavinsky had to conceptualize where they could go. The only downside to this arrangement was they did not have their own, private spaces. Kavinsky could not bring Jack back to the house, because he would not do that to his boys, to the home he'd built. Jack could not take him back to his apartment, because he was moving in with Poison, and that was complicated.

He laughed. "I'm gonna have to buy a fuckin' love nest or something," he said, half serious. "It's not a bad night, weather-wise? We could, I dunno. Drive out somewhere? Or a hotel again."

It felt illicit, like that. Like they had something to be ashamed of.

"Hotel," says Jack, nodding. He almost wishes he'd kept his own apartment, but he hadn't, and there was no going back on that now. "I want to take my time and I can't do that outdoors."

Kavinsky was definitely going to have to look into a small apartment, maybe, if things were sustainable. It wasn't like he was hurting for money. He could do something like that, if Newt was okay with it.

He turned and kissed Jack, brief, because he could. He hadn't said he couldn't, at least. This was a limit Kavinsky was uncertain about, but willing to test.

"You've got me until you need to head home," he promised. "Take as long as you need."

"I can stay out all night," says Jack, leaning in and taking another kiss. "I think Poison might be at Krem's anyway." he doesn't know what they're doing. He isn't going to ask.

Kavinsky arched a brow, just a little, but he settled for yet another kiss rather than asking how that was going, how Jack was feeling about it. As far as Kavinsky knew, it wasn't really his business. On the other hand, he and Jack were still friends, and he wanted to be able to be a safe place for Jack to vent to.

"C'mon," he said instead. He smiled against Jack's mouth and squeezed his side briefly. "I'll buy you another beer later. Let's dance."

Dancing sounds good right then, and Jack wraps his arm around Kavinsky's shoulders for a moment holding him close.

"C'mon, then," he says. "Let's see what you're made of, baby."

Kavinsky grinned at Jack, pulling him toward the dance floor. "You know exactly what I'm made of, baby. You've seen me dance."

This was different, but not really. They slid out into the crush of the crowd, and Kavinsky pulled Jack close to him, winding his arms around him as the throb of the music pulsed into them.

"Not often enough," says Jack, feeling a little giddy even though he's only had one beer, pushing against Kavinsky, into his arms as they dance.

They fell into it. The music swarmed around them, and Kavinsky tangled his arms around Jack as Jack tangled his arms around him. It was easy to get lost in this--the anonymity of the club, the closeness of another body, the promise of what was to come. Kavinsky let his body fall into the sort of rhythm he might use when he was dancing for cash, a flowing, filthy sort of sway of his hips.

God, Jack wishes he could fuck him there and then because everything about how Kavinsky is moving right then is an invitation, a promise. Jack kisses Kavinsky's jaw his hands slipping lower to squeeze his ass as they dance.

Kavinsky purred a sigh as Jack's lips found sensitive skin, as his hands roved. He pressed himself in close as he could get and hooked his fingers in Jack's belt loops, until they were pressed impossibly together. The barest suggestion, he thought, would get him to do whatever Jack wanted.

"God, you feel so good," says Jack, pressing the words into Kavinsky's ear as they dance. He kisses against Kavinsky's ear, ducks to brush his lips against the side of his neck.

The sigh this time was louder, more insistent, as Jack's mouth moved across Kavinsky's skin. A shiver ran down his spine as well. He couldn't help but agree; Jack felt pretty fucking spectacular as well. He slipped a hand between them as they both kept moving and grinding, and gently cupped the front of Jack's jeans so he could rub, light but insistent.

"Why are we here again?" asks Jack, laughing a little as he grinds forward into Kavinsky's hands. Suddenly, he's painfully uninterested in dancing.