Jason sighs again, his shoulders gradually becoming less tense just from that one, sweet kiss alone. Peter places it on his jaw, and Jason feels it resonate all the way through his bones and deep into his heart, embedded like a tattoo. The warmth of it curls all throughout him like its own fire. Jason lets out a soft, pleased noise and nuzzles his head against Peter's lap in appreciation; he presses a kiss to his boyfriend's knee, thanking him without words as he starts to feel Peter's fingers in his hair.

He sighs, nearly mewls, again. He loves Peter's fingers in his hair, especially like this: all gentle and soothing, the touch of his own personal angel. Jason leans into the touch as best he can while also still pressing his face against Peter's lap. This, to him, is the definition of Paradise.

The sort of Paradise that will land him in Hell, according to his parents. Especially his dad, who'd littered their conversation with colorful language aplenty.

"Told me I was letting down the family with my selfishness," Jason says, voice softer now, though still fraught. "That he already told Father Flynn he could expect me for the track team at Notre Dame. And then he went right into a lecture about me turning soft, with a few of my favorite 'f' and 'q' words. Seems he's worried that me not wanting to run anymore is turning me into a Nancy boy." He chokes out hollow laughter that burns as it leaves his mouth.

"You know," he mumbles against Peter. "The usual, for him."