Kavinsky's hand moved away from Proko's mouth, fingers carding through his hair. He shushed him again, gently, pressed his lips against his temple in a not-quite kiss. The immediacy of compliance sank heat into him. His shit was always fast, and always good, and this stuff was just as good as anything he'd had back in Henrietta.

Maybe things would have been different back in Henrietta if he'd had something like this. No point dwelling on the past. Not while they were here.

Their little space was quiet, Kavinsky's cot the only one occupied at the moment. He laid their, half on top of Prokopenko, and let him knead at his shirt for a moment. The warmth and familiarity ached in Kavinsky's bones. How he missed this boy, even with a happy life surrounding him.

"How we feelin', baby?"