On another night, they might have ascended the stairs. They know the merits of a bigger room, the bed situated within it. (But for fuck's sake, the bed's big enough not to put you on your knees—) But there is no reason to suggest it; John understands all the converging pieces of their present arrangement. They are where they wish to be. It matters that they are here, in John's room which has never seen a visitor in all his time occupying it. It matters that Flint is positioned so. It matters that John has sat where bidden, that he has bent to Flint so immediately.

His knuckle is still stinging as he pushes his thumb down over Flint's tongue.

He hasn't gone far, remains bracketed by John's thighs and hands. The unsteady pull of John's breathing is impossible to hide, even if he were so inclined. His boot knocks along Flint's calf, unconsciously seeking further purchase to wind them more securely together.

"Look at you," is unsteady too, composure fraying by degrees under Flint's ministrations. But for all the shallow rasp of these words, they are so colored by affection, with wanting, want so deep and made so plain as John hooks him closer by mouth and jaw. None of it is tempered in this moment. John's breath is shallow, obvious when he puts his teeth to the bristle of Flint's jaw.