The press of Jason reaching behind Peter to lock the door and the accompanying sound extracts a Pavlovian response; Peter's jaw tightens and loosens with the same thrill of possibilities that's just surged through Jason. He thinks for the hundredth time, how could this be wrong? Maybe his thoughts aren't pure, but his love is, and the closer they are, the more Peter can feel the warm reflection of his own certainty in Jason.

Somewhere under all of the desire and adoration, that guilt and sense of detachment he will feel in the morning when their classmates have surrounded Jason and he will no longer touch Peter like this pulls at a thread. Peter cuts it before anything can unravel.

He feels his head thumps softly against the door again as Jason's touch warms him from the contact point out. He's fighting a juxtaposing shudder when he catches that same heat in Jason's eyes.

"I don't need your permission," Peter pushes back with pliant defiance, and then he's on his knees, feet pressed against the bottom of the door as if for extra protection from the outside world. There is nothing in the world that Peter wants more than to taste every gorgeous inch of his classmate, except maybe the validation of hearing Jason insist he press on. Perhaps this is why he takes his time unfastening the simple buttons on Jason's jeans and kills some more time mouthing softly along that perfect cut of his hips.