Flint lets it happen. With their hands holding each other in place, he couldn't have pulled away anyway, and the moment's ceased to feel all that real. Closing his eyes shuts out the dancing lights but not the music, some synthesized pop hit that played on the radio before they were even born. Scout's lips are careful, but unambiguous in their intent. This isn't how he imagined this moment. He hadn't imagined this moment at all.

"Scout—" Flint leans back, catching his lower lip between his teeth to stop whatever words are coming next. He can feel it bubbling up in his head, all the reasons he shouldn't, he can't, you're drunk and I'll ruin this; but Scout is right there, and they might die anyway. His hand goes to Scout's cheek, and Flint kisses him again, not caring how obvious it is that he needs him too.