You're Up Awfully Late {Septiplier}

Just for the Rift

Eyes opening slowly, a wide yawn stretches the Irishman's lips, his eyes fluttering open. Snuggled between Mark and the comforter, he almost drifts back to sleep. He rubs his eyes, trying to wake himself enough to read the numbers on the clock.

Mark's gentle fingers slip from Jack's waist, finding his green locks. He strokes the short, dyed hair slowly, immediately relaxing the smaller man in his arms. Jack can't keep his eyes open at the attention, leaning into the gentle pets. His mind fogs, though he tries to remind himself that he should leave before morning.

"Mark..." Jack nearly groans, voice rough with sleep and strain.

The American tilts Jack's chin to catch his lips, a tender kiss turning into fiery passion. Jack can only compose his thoughts when Mark pulls away for air, too tired to focus on both breathing and kissing.

"Mark, I have to go," Jack insists, though he drops back down for another kiss.

"No, no, no," Mark decides between quick pecks. "You gotta stay here with me. Please?"

"We can't get caught again," Jack reminds him, though his words fall insincere as he runs his fingertips across Mark's chest, wanting so badly to pepper his skin with kisses.

"It gets so cold when you leave me," Mark insists, fingernails gently scrapping the younger's back. Jack gives a pleased hum, breathing deeply.

"How am I ever supposed to sleep in the freezing cold all alone?" Mark asks, a hand drifting to the back of Jack's neck, gently guiding their lips back together.

"I have to," Jack decides, releasing a breath to compose himself. "I'll stop by before we leave, okay?"

"Let's just take the day off tomorrow," Mark suggests, silky smooth voice pure pleasure to the Irishman's ears. "We can cuddle all day, and order room service when we are hungry. We never have to leave this bed."

Though Jack must admit Mark's offer is enticing, he give a playful roll of his eyes, untangling himself from his lover. He steps into the cold hotel air, encouraged tenfold to find his clothes. He pulls them on with only the shine of the moonlight as Mark turns to his side, watching the younger with a small smile.

"You're so beautiful," Mark mentions, eyes tracing his form. "God, looking at you makes my heart hurt. How can one person be so gorgeous? Pretty sure your level of attractiveness is illegal."

Jack gives a small chuckle, his cheeks turning hot. "Pretty sure chest pains are a sign of a heart attack, Mark."

"Smart too," Mark smiles.

Jack glances over to the American, completely understanding the ache of his heart. The raven is wrapped in the blankets, though chest and arms bathed in the moonlight. He looks stunning: even in barely any light, even in the middle of the night, even after their day. He always looks so handsome: his broad shoulders to dark brown eyes, from his bouncy laugh to his deep voice, from his undying support to his unbending compassion.

"I'll be back before you know it," Jack assures, giving his lover a quick kiss, afraid lingering would keep him there.

"I already know it," Mark pouts.

Jack shakes his head, opening the door. Greeted by the harsh light, he squints as he takes his step out, closing the door behind him. With a wide yawn, he drags himself to the stairs, pushing open the door with a shove.

"Jack!" a voice calls, startling the Irishman.

Jack's eyes snap up. Of all people, he finds Ken a flight above him, trotting down. He wakes with a spike of fear, trying to put together lies for the American. But his mind is nearly frozen with shock.

"Ken!" Jack replies.

How could this happen again? Does Ken wait in this stairwell, watching the doors in anticipation of the Irishman? Is it a twist of fate? A cruel trick played by Lady Luck? Jack does not know. Cannot begin to think so far in the bright lights of the stairs, so soon from waking.

"You're up awfully late," Ken chuckles, stopping across from his friend.

"Mark and I just got back from dinner," the younger lies smoothly, his mouth moving without a plan in his brain.

"You better not be hung over tomorrow," the black haired man teases, leaning against the railing.

"I doubt I will be," Jack assures. "I'm Irish, after all. Why are you up?"

"Don't make me tell you the sob story again," Ken offers, embarrassment tugging his lips straight.

Jack laughs, because it buys him a bit of time. Time to notice that Ken doesn't have his wallet with him. Nor his phone. Nor any pockets in his loose fitting pajama pants. But he does have something on shoulder, visible for only a second when he pushes himself from the rail to stand only on his own two feet. A stain- dark, purple, a bit faded but too prominent to be more than a day old. Jack can't stare long; Ken's collar falls across the mark.

"You really should be getting more sleep," Ken comments easily, relaxed considering the tempers flaring earlier.

"Oh, don't be such a hypocrite," Jack retorts, returning his attention to the conversation at hand.

"I'm practicing," Ken insists. "From what I hear, babies sleep a total of one minute their first year of life."

"I've heard the same," Jack warns, giving a wide yawn. It's fake, from the inhale of air to the stretch of his lips. How could anyway think about sleep in the white, blinding lights of a hotel? But, Ken isn't looking hard enough to catch it. Or close enough to care.

"I should get to bed," Jack decides.

Ken gives a nod, waving Jack on. "Get some shut eye. It's going to be an even longer day tomorrow. You have your own panel, right?"

The Irishman nods.

"Nervous?"

"Yeah," he admits. "But I think I'll be okay. Hopefully."

"We're cheering for you," he assures, sincerity in the brown of his eyes. "Now get to bed."

"Same to you, Kenneth," Jack teases, trotting up the stairs: wishing he could forget that little mark on Ken's shoulder, wondering if Ken could see any on his.