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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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Kavinsky let Jack's finger fall from his mouth and instead kissed his palm, his wrist, and made a slow way up his arm. It was lazy and warm and probably overly familiar. His heart hurt from how much he enjoyed being here, quiet and slow and gentle. He tucked his face against Jack's collarbone when he reached it and took a second to compose himself.

Jack just curls up against him for a moment, revelling in the warmth, the press of Kavinsky's bare skin against his.

If Kavinsky let himself, he thought he could sleep. He didn't think he'd dream, not right now, but he could rest his eyes and enjoy this moment, enjoy this warmth, this boy curled next to him like any of this was more than just fun. Kavinsky trailed his fingers lightly against Jack's belly. He'd never been allowed to linger with anyone but Newt and Al. He'd never wanted to. But, God, he wanted to linger. There didn't have to be anything else tonight, if he got this.

Jack lets himself drift a little. He'd cleared being out for the whole night with Poison - there's no reason why he can't sleep a little. He makes a soft sound, curled up around Kavinsky, keeping him drawn close.

Kavinsky drifted a little as well, though it seemed a lighter dozing than Jack's. He spent a lot of time looking at Jack, his face gently slack with relaxation, trying to figure things out.

He wakes with a start, no idea how long he's been sleeping, finds Kavinsky already looking at him. He gives him a hazy little sleep-mussed smile.

"What?"

"Nothin'," Kavinsky murmured, pillowing his head a little on Jack's shoulder now that he was awake. He laid still, hand curled against Jack's chest gently, quiet for a moment. "Just couldn't sleep."

"Well," says Jack, gently stroking the back of Kavinsky's hand, following the lines of his fingers. "I'm awake now."

The touch was so sweet, so coaxing, and Kavinsky shut his eyes for a moment. He pressed his mouth to Jack's warm skin, worked up from his collarbone to his neck, to his jaw. He pressed his body against him. "What're you up for?"

"Anything you want," says Jack, and he means it. He ducks his head, presses a brief, warm kiss against Kavinsky's forehead. "Your fantasy, my command."

Kavinsky laughed softly. He tilted his head up and kissed Jack, soft and slow, just lazily enjoying that for a second. Jack didn't mean that, not entirely, and Kavinsky knew that. He'd agreed to this with the knowledge that it was just sex, and some fantasies Kavinsky had weren't like that anymore.

He slid onto Jack's lap, stretching out on top of him, and kissed him a little deeper.

It's a good kiss, warm and wet and tender, and Jack makes a soft noise, curling his arms around Kavinsky's waist to hold him close, their bodies pressed together.

It was just that for a moment, slow and lazy and deep. He lifted his hands and tangled them in Jack's hair, holding onto him, just kissing. It sang in his chest. He wanted this, this, this. It was a thing he could not have, should not want. But he did. He contented himself with the kiss, with Jack's arms around him.

Its easy to forget what they are to each other, in that moment. Jack never forgets Poison - he's there, a constant pulse, a warmth - but he gets lost in being with Kavinsky, in kissing like they're kissing, in the slip-slide of muscles under the palms of his hands.

Slowly, with growing heat, Kavinsky started to grind. The languid kisses turned a little more filthy, a little more desperate. He flexed his fingers in Jack's hair, let out the smallest, tiniest noise from his throat. "Sit up a bit. Sit up against the headboard? God, Jack..."

It's all a little bit frantic. He squirms to comply with the request, propping himself up against the headboard with Kavinsky still in his lap before he leans forward to take another kiss.

Once they were sitting up, Kavinsky wrapped his arms around Jack, meeting the kiss. His fingers were back in Jack's hair again, rubbing gently at his scalp. His hips rolled and pressed against his. Just this was enough, he told himself, he knew; he wanted so much more.

Kavinsky's all but writing them and it's so intense, so hot, that Jack can barely catch his breath. His fingers stroke up against Kavinsky's spine.

"You feel so good," he mumbles, between kisses.

Kavinsky let out a soft, breathless sort of laugh, shivering from the trail of Jack's fingers. He pressed in closer, until he was too close to press in any more. "You too. God. God, Jack..."

He keeps his arms wrapped tight around Kavinsky's waist, keeping him in close.

"What do you want?" he asks, kissing down his throat.

"Just this," Kavinsky murmured against Jack's hair as he moved down to his neck. He let out a laugh, soft, effusive. "Been a while since I just made out and humped like a teenager, ya know? 's nice."

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