You're Up Awfully Late {Septiplier}

Just for the Night

Jack gives a few good knocks to the familiar wood of Mark's door, a playful smile falling across his lips. The American opens the door, pulling the Irishman in by the collar of his shirt.

"I always knew you were a thief," Mark teases.

"I'm missing a shirt too!" Jack demands, freeing himself from Mark and plopping down on the couch. "And, as far as I'm concerned, this shirt is mine until the other is returned."

"I didn't know you were in charge of missing shirts," Mark rolls his eyes, crouching beside his monstrous suitcase. He unzips it, digging through the stuffed clothes. With a bit of searching, he pulls out the gray shirt, lobbing it at Jack. The green haired man jumps up to catch it, checking to insure it is correct.

"Now, give me my lucky flannel," Mark says.

Jack gives a hum, rubbing his stubbled chin as if thinking hard. Finally, he looks at the other man, shaking his head with a a sly grin.

"I think I'll just keep it," Jack decides. "For the emotional damage."

"I don't think so," Mark replies, stepping towards the younger.

Jack turns, making a break for the door. Mark dashes after him, catching the back of the flannel. Jack drops his gray shirt as Mark pulls him back, pinning him against the wall by his wrists.

"Give it back," Mark demands, voice playfully serious.

"I don't think so," Jack teases.

"I didn't want to do this," Mark sighs, a smirk on his face, "but you've forced me."

Mark releases Jack's wrists, tickling his sides. Jack squeals, slapping the older's hands away. Mark laughs, continuing to run his finger against his sides. The green haired man pushes Mark's hands away, ducking under his arm and running farther into the room.

Mark sprints after him, grabbing the other and tossing him onto the bed. Jack tries to scurry away, but Mark grabs him by his hips, pulling him back. Jack twists in his arms, turning onto his back, but Mark sits on his hips, pinning his arms down.

"Give me the flannel and no one gets hurt," Mark promises, trying to control the struggling Irishman.

Jack doesn't give in, wiggling like a fish out of water. Mark wedges Jack's hands beneath his knees, pressing them into the bed beside his hips. Hands free, Mark begins to unbutton the flannel. Jack settles, defeated, breathe heavy from the laughing.

When the shirt is completely undone, Mark slides it off his shoulder, to make it easier to pull off when Jack is released. Jack's breathe flatters a bit, not prepared for Mark's hands against his pale chest. Mark's eyes flash up to Jack's, and Mark's heart gives a nervous squeeze.

The Irishman's hair is a complete mess and his cheeks are dusted pink from the roughhousing. His chest is bare and blank, though Mark can remember how many bruises he left across his skin. The defined collarbones have always been a bit of a weakness of Mark, especially beneath porcelain skin. Even the light dust of hair, rising and falling with the Irishman's breathe, draws the American in.

Mark swallows hard, too aware at how desperately he wants to kiss the Irishman. His eyes flash up to the blue irises, and he finds adorable confusion on the younger's face.

Mark dips down, pressing his mouth to Jack's. Even though he is surprised, Jack reacts on instinct, his lips slipping against Mark's. But Jack turns away as soon as he realizes, struggling to get out from under Mark. He lets him go, stepping away. Jack scoots back on the bed, trapped in the room. Mark rubs the back of his neck, looking down at the floor in shame.

"Jack, I'm so-"

"Why?" Jack interrupts, accusing. "Why would you do that?"

Jack's heart is hammering in his chest, his lips tingling. He has to trap his tongue behind his teeth, dying to lick his lips, taste the last trace of Mark. It feels as if it has been so long since he has felt those lips, yet he remembers their shape perfectly.

"I'm sorry," Mark repeats, frowning deeply. "It was accident."

"Accidents don't happen twice, Mark!" Jack nearly shouts.

Mark flinches, and a shard of guilt slices through Jack's heart.

Jack calms considerably at the reaction. He's furious but not at Mark. He's livid at himself because he liked it. He wanted it. He still wants it. Even when he tries to think about Signe, he can't get his mind off of it. He can't understand it, but he can't get his thoughts away from the broad shouldered American in front of him.

"I didn't mean to yell," Jack explains quietly. "I'm sorry. I just, I don't understand."

Mark just shrugs, stubbing his toe into the carpet.

"Do you still think about it?" Jack asks softly.

The Irishman crawls forward on the bed, flannel still open to the cold hotel air. His knees on the edge of the bed, he sits back on his heels, eyes locked on the ashamed American.

"Do you?" Jack presses, head tilted a bit in curiosity.

He wants him to say yes, but he wishes he would say no. He wants Mark to wrap him up and kiss him breathless, but he wishes Mark would kick him out and tell him it's never happening again. He wants everything but nothing, and he can't make up his mind.

"Sometimes," Mark admits. He steps forward slowly, shortening the space between them. "Is that wrong?"

"Maybe," Jack answers.

Jack knows where this is going, can see exactly where they will be in a few minutes. Yet, he plays into it, watches Mark carefully, willing him closer.

"But maybe not?" Mark offers, stepping closer.

"But maybe not," Jack agrees.

Mark places a hand on Jack's cheek, the other sliding around the back of his neck. Eyes locked and breath mixing, Jack runs the tip of his tongue across his lips, and Mark breaks, pulling them together.