"Christ, Illy," Kavinsky breathed. How he'd missed him. Things were terrible and fragile with this ghost of a boy out in the forest, back home. This was much better. "You look good, baby."

He kissed his neck, and then down his chest slowly. He pulled his hand out of his pants briefly, and tugged his jeans down aggressively. He bowed his head down between his legs even before they were pulled very far, and put his mouth to work on him with hopeless abandon, groaning.

He didn't give a shit that they were just on a cot in the middle of everything, fully in view. He knew, rolling the way he was, that Proko wouldn't give a shit either.