we don't have to skip out on everything we could go to a club or something. then bail for midnight i like the idea of starting the new year off quietly
we could just stay at home. hang on the roof after getting a bit drunk I don't want to be in any crowds at midnight. I think it'd be a little too much for me
He's on the edge of the bed, looking out the window whenever Tate makes it up. Half dressed and a little dazed, but lucid, with a bottle of beer (or something) dangling from his fingers. Kavinsky turns his head when he hears the door open and he flashes a little grin.
Take took his time, but he headed there - dropping his stuff on the landing of his room before moving up to Kavinsky's level of the house. It's still weird to be in a new space but considering he lived, died and haunted a mansion - the space feels oddly familiar, not so isolating. If anything, he likes how distant it can feel sometimes. That was, after all, how h felt safe sometimes - disappearing into the depths of the House to be alone.
"Hey," he says while stepping into the room - he walks closer to Kavinsky, eyeing him over. "Been dreaming?"
Kavinsky has had dreams but he's not been bringing much back with him the last few days except some new scratches. He takes a long drink from his bottle before he sets it on the nightstand. He likes having the house, likes the idea that they aren't being watched as closely here as they might have been in the Dom high rise. Maybe that will change, but for now it's a little bit of freedom.
The fact that it's kind of big and mostly empty just reminds him of the place they lived at in Henrietta. Just him and his mom, and she was more like a ghost most days.
"What do you mean by sorta?" Tate asks, clearly curious - his eyes rake over Kavinsky's figure before he sits down next to him on the bed.
He pulls out his cigarettes from his pockets, playing his thumb against a torn edge of the packet before flipping it open and shaking two out. He offers Kavinsky one, and if he takes it he'll then light it with a flick of his thumb on his lighter. He'll do the same to his own cigarette soon after.
He accepts it because he's not the kind of person that turns down vices that are handed to him. Kavinsky takes a slow drag. "Dreaming like regular people," he says absently. "Like--the kind you can't really control I guess."
Which is bullshit, he's been able to control his dreams for a long time. The best he's been able to do for the past week is come back with nothing rather than something full of claws and teeth. Or burning.
Tate listens and while he still has only the faintest of ideas how Kavinsky's relationship with dreaming works - he's always found it weirdly fascinating. He's been envious of it, too, but what can you do.
"Nightmares?" He asks, before shrugging. "Work's alright. They're planning a big party for New Years, but like I said - I like it quiet, so I won't be working it."
He takes a drag, setting his smokes and lighter next to him on the bed. "Wanna talk about your nightmares?"
"Yeah? But no. Just like. It feels like I can't quite make things happen the way I usually do. Like holding water or some shit."
He shrugs and listens. He's not surprised - he's sure there'll be parties all over the place. Kavinsky feels like he'll be content to watch them from the rooftop. He can think of some things to make their night good.
"Nightmares are what they always are," he says with another loose shrug before he takes another drag. He doesn't really talk about them, just admits that they happen. He rubs his thumb between his eyebrows. "Stupid shit."
Prokopenko dying. His father dying. His mother a ghost. Himself, alone. Just alone.
"Anything change lately?" He asks, trying to wonder what could impair Kavinsky's pretty supernatural ability. Seems like it's a bad sign if he can't control it. He still remembers what they set fire to in that dumpster not too long ago.
"I don't have any advice for stopping them. I'm still dealing with getting used to dreams again too, even after a year." He murmurs. "You want another beer?"
Rather than answering, Kavinsky tucks his cigarette between his lips and reaches to pull Tate closer to him. He fucking hates sleeping alone and this kind of shit puts him in a mood anyway. He manages to remember to take the cigarette out of his mouth before he kisses Tate's neck.
"There's no stopping them. I mean, I can fuckin' drug myself into a stupor." Which he can definitely do. But that potentially means even less control.
Tate holds his cigarette away when Kavinsky dips close, feeling his lips against his neck - craning it to give him a little extra space. His hand touches Kavinsky's elbow and - moments like this are nice. Quiet, secluded from the world. Tate's able to let his defenses down, to be intimate and open with how he craves touch and appreciates it.
"Nothing helps?" He asks, even though the answers been laid out. "There's gotta be something you could try. Someone who could help."
"Lobotomy might do it. Or it might just fuck up everything more." He doesn't know how that'd work, if he'd just lose his ability to dream or if suddenly he wouldn't be able to control it at all. Or care. Kavinsky sighs and presses his mouth to Tate's neck again, just kind of staying like that.
Was there anyone that could help?
"Adam, maybe," he says after a long moment. "Nick. Not sure if their help is what I want, though."
"Last thing you need is to owe more shit to Adam," Tate mutters - still perhaps a bit prickly over the last thing that went down with that regard. Adam's got magic and talent, sure, but he was pretty fine keeping Kavinsky under his thumb. He doesn't know about Nick, really.
"I can keep my ear to the ground, see if there are other options."
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we don't have to skip out on everything
we could go to a club or something. then bail for midnight
i like the idea of starting the new year off quietly
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tumenalia fucked my shit up
quiet might be nice
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january also marks one year since i arrived here
i think that means something
graduating out of the program or some shit?
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fuck it's been a fucking year
what the fuck
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it's weird right
i think it's just for show
i don't think much changes.
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doesn't matter right this second
what do you wanna do for a quiet night man?
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I don't want to be in any crowds at midnight. I think it'd be a little too much for me
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[K's neither here nor there on crowds, but if Tate wants to spend the night with him, he's down. More than he wants to be.]
hey come upstairs whenever you're home
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He's on the edge of the bed, looking out the window whenever Tate makes it up. Half dressed and a little dazed, but lucid, with a bottle of beer (or something) dangling from his fingers. Kavinsky turns his head when he hears the door open and he flashes a little grin.
"Hey, gorgeous."
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"Hey," he says while stepping into the room - he walks closer to Kavinsky, eyeing him over. "Been dreaming?"
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Kavinsky has had dreams but he's not been bringing much back with him the last few days except some new scratches. He takes a long drink from his bottle before he sets it on the nightstand. He likes having the house, likes the idea that they aren't being watched as closely here as they might have been in the Dom high rise. Maybe that will change, but for now it's a little bit of freedom.
The fact that it's kind of big and mostly empty just reminds him of the place they lived at in Henrietta. Just him and his mom, and she was more like a ghost most days.
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He pulls out his cigarettes from his pockets, playing his thumb against a torn edge of the packet before flipping it open and shaking two out. He offers Kavinsky one, and if he takes it he'll then light it with a flick of his thumb on his lighter. He'll do the same to his own cigarette soon after.
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Which is bullshit, he's been able to control his dreams for a long time. The best he's been able to do for the past week is come back with nothing rather than something full of claws and teeth. Or burning.
"How's work n' shit?"
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"Nightmares?" He asks, before shrugging. "Work's alright. They're planning a big party for New Years, but like I said - I like it quiet, so I won't be working it."
He takes a drag, setting his smokes and lighter next to him on the bed. "Wanna talk about your nightmares?"
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He shrugs and listens. He's not surprised - he's sure there'll be parties all over the place. Kavinsky feels like he'll be content to watch them from the rooftop. He can think of some things to make their night good.
"Nightmares are what they always are," he says with another loose shrug before he takes another drag. He doesn't really talk about them, just admits that they happen. He rubs his thumb between his eyebrows. "Stupid shit."
Prokopenko dying. His father dying. His mother a ghost. Himself, alone. Just alone.
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"I don't have any advice for stopping them. I'm still dealing with getting used to dreams again too, even after a year." He murmurs. "You want another beer?"
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"There's no stopping them. I mean, I can fuckin' drug myself into a stupor." Which he can definitely do. But that potentially means even less control.
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"Nothing helps?" He asks, even though the answers been laid out. "There's gotta be something you could try. Someone who could help."
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Was there anyone that could help?
"Adam, maybe," he says after a long moment. "Nick. Not sure if their help is what I want, though."
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"I can keep my ear to the ground, see if there are other options."