Title: Saint

Rating: M

Warnings: Excessive amounts of cursing. Sex. Slash.

Summary: Mark picks up the phone at just after 2 a.m. with a rough, rasped out, "What?" Jason just smiles.

Notes: Yet another lyric-inspired fic. This time it's: I love you in the same there's a chapel in a hospital. As I've said before, that to me means convenience -- "I love you because loving you is convenient." This fic morphed from that to "Sex is more convenient than love, so I just won't love you." EMO. Anyway, idk. I'm still not sure if I like it or not; uhmandarose says she does, though, so. Hope you do, too

Mark picks up the phone at just after 2 a.m. with a rough, rasped out, "What?"

Jason just smiles.

He flashes shiny white canines at the ceiling of his bedroom and says, "The people request your services, Saint. Men are dying in the streets and women cower with their children in the dark."

There's hardly a pause before Mark's barking out, "Don't call me that." In the background, sheets rustle and a belt buckle clinks. Something, maybe change, jingles softly.

"I'll call you whatever I want." Jason's voice is steady, lacking heat, but really, that's because it doesn't need any. It's not a threat--it's a statement of fact.

No response, just more shifting of clothes and the phone. Mark's probably pulling on a shirt.

"Yeah," he finally mutters, sounding resigned. He yawns shortly thereafter.

"Get your ass over here, holy boy." Despite the words, there's a certain fondness in Jason's tone now. It's a hell of a mood swing, but Mark doesn't comment on it, so.

Keys clack.

"Fifteen minutes," Mark says, and then the dial tone's singing in Jason's ear.

He laughs, tosses the phone into a nearby chair, and waits.

Mark's there in ten minutes, not fifteen, though that's not really surprising.

He's naked almost as soon as he struggles through Jason's open window and Jason's not far behind. Within minutes after that they're grappling at elbows and hips, teeth clacking and tongues sliding and jesus christ, it should be awful and awkward but it's really, really not.

They make it to Jason's tiny twin bed eventually (and that's only after Mark trips over one of Jason's stray shoes--he curses, kicks it smoothly across the room, and continues to do that thing with his tongue that makes Jason's stomach flip like a fucking acrobat).

The bed creaks ominously beneath them as they crash-land, and it drops and dips probably a little bit more than it should, but neither of them pay it any mind--it wouldn't be the first time, and it certainly won't be the last.

Jason somehow manages to wiggle his way to the top of the pile of gangly limbs and pins Mark down. He allows their eyes to lock, just for a moment--wide hazel swallowed almost completely by black, black pupils, reflecting his own shifting, sky blue eyes. And then those green-gold-something eyes flick away and Mark shifts, almost unconsciously. Jason lets the moment pass, and gets back to work.

He hums, licks his lips, and grinds down. Mark's whole body stiffens, he manages to curse about seven different things to hell, and then his hands find Jason's hips. They curl around the bony protrusions (Jason's always been on the skinny-without-trying side, the bastard) and proceed to leave lasting impressions. Around the time Mark's bruising Jason's hips, they find each other's eyes again, and manage to set a rhythm in motion.

Rhythm, of course, means that Mark's hissing between clenched teeth and thrusting upwards, while Jason's smirking--if shakily--down at him while moving far, far too slowly.

Frustrated, Mark allows one of his hands to drift up along Jason's pale side, and before he can think about it, he squeezes just below the ribs. Jason squeaks, actually fucking squeaks, and squirms away, completely distracted. Mark's the one smirking now as he shoves Jason off of him, smoothly flips him over, pins him down, and proceeds to kiss the protest out of him.

Most of their nights together are like this, to be honest. Always a fight to be on top, figuratively and definitely literally. Mark always going home with burning lips and bruised hips and a hole in his heart, and Jason settling back in his ruined sheets to stare at the ceiling and blink back tears that shouldn't be there.

It's not healthy; they're both very aware of this.

Doesn't really mean they'll stop, though.

Mark's taking an unusual amount of control tonight; he thrusts his hips down forcefully, nuzzles his nose down into Jason's neck, and as Jason's groaning and leaning into the touch, Mark bites. Hard.

Jason's movements have already been stutter-stopping, his breathing so fast it's nearly nonexistent, because at this point he's so fucking close it hurts--and that bite, well. To say it sends him over the edge is an understatement. Hogties him, dumps him in half a canoe, and tips him off the edge of fucking Niagara is more like it.

His hips jerk reflexively as he shudders through his orgasm, an arm pressed hard over his eyes. Mark is right behind him with a hand on himself and a long look at Jason's face as he comes. The other boy's pale face--usually smirking, closed-off, cold--is slack, mouth open as he pants, as if he doesn't have the will to school his expression into something more appropriate.

He probably doesn't, and that's what does it for Mark. A soft whine rises in the back of his throat, unbidden, as he finishes and allows himself to slump down, half on Jason and half off the bed. The other boy either doesn't have the strength or doesn't care enough to push him off. It works out, though, because now that the rush is leaving, Mark is sort of freezing, so he snuggles up even closer to Jason, and takes advantage of the closeness while he can.

He quite possibly dozes off. He's not really sure.

However, it feels like a long while before either of them really moves again. Probably only a few minutes, but even so, it's nice.

And then Jason's sitting up, leaning over Mark to press his face against his neck and breathe, "Hey."

"Nnnh," Mark huffs, not opening his eyes.

"C'mon, holy boy. Up and at 'em. Time to get the fuck outta Dodge." Jason's already sitting up, making use of the cheap box of tissues by his bed, pulling on boxer shorts that may or may not be his.

Mark mumbles something else and lifts his head, frowning in Jason's general direction. The other boy pauses, looks back, hesitantly meets his eyes. For a moment it seems like he might be about to say something else, anything else would be better, but then:

"Look, hey, no. Get up, clean up, and get the fuck out. None of that shit tonight, okay?" Jason snaps, tearing his eyes away and continuing to move around his room. He finds most of Mark's clothes and tosses them at him, standing stiffly nearby as Mark rises shakily and dresses himself.

He eventually manages to sort of shove his shoes on, and then he and Jason are standing face to face, Mark biting his sore bottom lip and Jason looking just to the left of those wide hazel eyes.

"Listen," says Mark softly, "we…I--"

"Saint." Jason cuts him off; his voice is slightly hoarse. "Go home."

Mark cocks his head, pretty eyes closing off, and then says evenly, "Yeah, okay."

It takes him about half a minute to scramble back out of Jason's window. About two minutes to reach his car, get in, and turn the engine over. Another minute and his taillights are two fading red dots in the distance.

Mark ends up going home with burning lips and bruised hips and yet another hole in his heart.

Jason settles back in his ruined sheets to stare at the ceiling and blink back tears that have every right to be there.


End notes: On the note of Jason's nicknames for Mark -- "saint" and "holy boy," etc. -- Saint Mark was the author of the second Gospel in the New Testament. He is the patron saint of Venice, where he is supposedly buried. Mark's parents are crazy religious. Also just sort of crazy. Jason mocks him for this. But he's a bastard, so it's okay.