Kavinsky grins, utterly unrepentant in the face of Derek's... lack of blatant antagonizing. Hell, Derek almost sounds like he's making light of everything; K likes it. He lifts his eyebrows and slides his cigarette case out of his pocket and gives it a shake before he pops it open. He picks out something and tucks it between his lips.
"Nick asked me to provide shit, so I did. Any trouble after that isn't on me," he says after getting the cigarette lit. The smoke smells like spices; Kavinsky likes the way it makes his tongue and lips tingle.
"Why were you really looking for me? I'm always trouble."
"Tempting," Derek mumbles, clearly not tempted. "I do like shutting you up. You probably can't talk with your mouth full."
If Derek were still a Dom, he'd have bought his own car by now. He'd been using the car he built for Stiles back when he was here, but he doesn't like driving on his own anymore - all it takes is one vindictive SIN guard to take it away from him. Being on foot right now makes the walk of shame back to his house all the more walk of shame-y.
Kavinsky asks why he was really looking for him, and Derek shrugs, folding his arms across his chest.
"I like Reggie. I didn't want you ruining his party. Seems like something you would've done."
Kavinsky rolls his eyes. "I don't fuck over parties," he answers. "Especially not ones I have a hand in."
He wanted an excuse to let loose as much as anyone else, and so he had as much reason to make sure the party was a success. Besides, the last thing he needs is to piss of Nick right now. Not when things feel good despite everything.
Even if Nick keeps running his mouth and saying impossible shit.
He flicks the ash off his cigarette and grins over at Derek.
Yeah, well. Derek doubts that, but he's too drained and his body is still buzzing from post-orgasm relaxation to pick a fight or call Kavinsky a liar. He frowns but says nothing, dragging his feet over the pavement as he walks.
"You do give passable head. Semi-passable."
First compliment he's ever given Kavinsky, but. It's clear even before he keeps talking that he's gonna downplay it.
"Granted, I've been drunk, passed out or high on aphrodisiacs every time we've hooked up, so you might be fucking awful. You're probably fucking awful."
He makes a little gesture with his hand, spinning his finger in a circle as if to reference Duplicity. This place is fucked up. Woo.
"So what it sounds like you're saying is that, for science, you need a blow job just to compare."
Kavinsky grins and exhales smoke on his laugh. Every time has been good, though, whatever Derek fucking says about it. They've been good for him and given the reactions he's gotten, he's pretty sure they were good for Derek, too.
"Since just comparing notes probably won't do it for you."
Never let it be said that Kavinsky shunned the scientific method. He's willing to hit an alley to prove his hypothesis right now.
There's an unhealthy, toxic, uncontrolled part of Derek hidden under all the genuine anger he has for Kavinsky that is physically attracted to the guy in a way he isn't with anyone else. With Kavinsky, when they fuck, he gets to let loose a little. Gets to embrace the feral, violent animal side of him that just wants to lose control and assert its dominance as an apex predator. The part of him that wants to be a killer, even after everything he learned from his mom, is the same part of him that wants to fuck Kavinsky against an alley wall here and now, when he's too sober to justify making a choice like that.
"Nah. Still hate you. Still want you dead."
He turns Kavinsky down, but he adjusts how he walks, a little, putting weight on a different foot to hide any stirring in his cock. He rubs the back of his neck, keeping his eyes dead ahead. Derek doesn't have any real reason to ask if Kavinsky was as busy as he says he was, but - curiosity's a horrible thing.
"You say that like those things have ever stopped anyone."
They call it a hatefuck for a reason, Derek. Whatever effect the conversation is having on Kavinsky, he doesn't bother trying to hide it. The part of him that likes Derek Hale is the part that can't walk away from a good time that might kill him. When they fuck it's feral and there's no room for anything else beyond bruises and bite marks. If the rough side is all he gets, that's what he'll take. The chemistry is off the charts, regardless of how Derek feels about him. And chemistry is Kavinsky's specialty.
His gaze flicks over to Derek when his gait changes just so.
Derek rolls his eyes, as if that's enough to say that yeah, it might not have stopped anyone, but it's gonna stop him. Kavinsky drops Nick's name, which, fine, he doesn't give a shit, but Reggie catches his attention.
"Reggie was busy."
There's another part of Derek that doesn't come out very often - the conceited, arrogant, immature jock who just wants to brag about his successes and talk up his conquests. Reggie was busy is code for I probably got there first, like there's some competitive streak in him that wants to outrun Kavinsky in whatever race he thinks they're in.
If Reggie wasn't busy, that would've been a sad fucking state of affairs. And if Derek is trying to make it a competition, Kavinsky won't take that particular bait. It doesn't matter when he got Reggie up against a wall - all that matters is that he did. He hadn't seen if Reggie had been tangled up with Derek before or after that.
The question catches him off guard.
"Yeah. With Nick." The handjob in the kitchen had been a spectacular, visceral thing. Before they were finished, Kavinsky had the taste of both of them on his tongue. The way he says it, though, suggests that might have been it.
Derek kind of wants to press for details, just to find out how Kavinsky fucks people he doesn't have to buy from the people zoo before it happens - and it's less that he stops wanting to do that and more that he just doesn't let himself do that. He gives Kavinsky a long, thoughtful stare, then just forces his attention back on the road ahead of them.
"I was hoping you had to walk home with blue balls. Disappointing."
“I never said when I got off,” he points out. It could’ve been at the beginning of the night for all Derek knows.
“You wanna fix that?”
He probably shouldn’t tempt fate like that: with bad luck Derek might actually leave him hanging. Kavinsky wouldn’t put that shit by him.
He spares a glance Derek’s way and bites back an appreciative sound. He looks good. Obviously he got laid - a good night for everyone - and the aesthetic just makes Kavinsky want more.
It's an easy answer. Derek looks at Kavinsky, eyebrows raised, slowing to a stop. He gives Kavinsky a long, hard stare, and points his thumb at the house they just happened to be passing.
"Yeah. I wanna fuck you. I wanna pin you to that family's living room window and fuck you over and over again. I want to make you come so hard and so often that you pass out. I wanna make you feel so good that you're actually fucking brought to tears."
He doesn't sound sarcastic. It's-- pretty obvious that he's being serious, actually, though there's nothing particularly flirtatious about how he's saying it. Derek slips his hands into his pockets, and then just... keeps walking.
"I'm not going to, though. I'd rather you just know what could've happened here if I thought you were worth all the time and the shame and the guilt and the anger."
Kavinsky's heart jumps and heat sinks through him; Derek isn't fucking with him and the laudry list of desire he rolls out is everything Kavinsky wants.
So, of course there's a catch.
His jaw ticks when Derek keeps walking and basically chalks the whole thing up to but I won't. He rolls his eyes and catches up.
"What the fuck, man?" he scowls. "What the hell do you have to be ashamed and guilty about? Jesus."
Derek didn't have to work that hard to possibly ensure he's walking home with blue balls. If Derek falls through, maybe he'll wake up Ransom or text Tate to see if he's still around. Or Adam. If he calls, Adam won't be a disappointment.
This is probably a pretty bad impulse, but Kavinsky gets angry, and that just eggs Derek on a little more. He grins, clearly enjoying himself, happy to watch Kavinsky snap and squirm.
"Would've been good, too. You would've been a fucking wreck."
Derek walks backwards, now, ahead of Kavinsky and holding eye contact. He's a hypocrite - Nick gave him beer, got him a little buzzed, and that should've been enough to get him off Kavinsky's tail, enough to stop him from searching around the party convinced he'd find Kavinsky if he just looked hard enough. It's almost like Derek just wanted to see him tonight, for whatever fucked up reason.
"I mean, you've been fucked by a lot of guys, but one night with me when I'm completely alert? Completely sober? Christ, Joey."
Derek grabs the front of his henley, pulling it from his chest like he's getting hot.
"No other guy would be enough for you. Not after I'm done with you. You'd still sleep around, still whore yourself out, but you'd never really get off again. You'd live a life of - constant, depressing dissatisfaction."
Derek's enjoying himself. Kavinsky would've been doing the same thing and he knows it, so he can't even be that mad. Just annoyed that this is being dangled in front of his face. Derek wants it, he wants it, so what is the fucking problem?
Joey.
It means nothing, he knows that, but it still hits him in the chest. His jaw ticks. Derek doesn't get to have that. It's the one thing Kavinsky still has that means anything and he's using it like it's nothing.
"Then I guess I'll go the rest of my life just thinking everyone's a better fuck than you instead of pining away, searching for my Moby Dick." He's fucking funny. "What a fucking travesty."
It's funny - Derek's tried to make Kavinsky mad before, no stranger to getting in his face with gritted teeth and making his threats, but it's never really worked. The fact that he's getting under his skin now, when he's buzzed and relaxed and warm, saying Joey solely on impulse without knowing the weight behind the name - well, maybe that means something. Maybe it doesn't.
Either way, Derek's still not looking to start a fight. He keeps looking at Kavinsky, admiring the effect he's had on him, still floating in the afterglow of the party too much to take the clench in his jaw seriously. He exhales, walking slower, imitating Kavinsky, just for the slightly drunken fun of it.
"You sure you're sober? I don't remember you having a sense of humor."
He wants to throw a punch. It'd probably be a death wish, or at the very least an end-up-hospitalized wish. That's never stopped him before, the impulse to self-destruction as strong as any other. So what if Derek fucked him up? What difference would it make? None.
So why throw a punch when he can do something he'll like more?
Kavinsky adjusts his pace as Derek slows down. He flicks what's left of his cigarette into the gutter. Then he lunges, one hand catching the front of Derek's shirt and the other wrapping around the back of his neck. He's not actually looking to start a fight either, not a real one.
"A real fucking travesty."
Kavinsky leans in to kiss Derek, to catch his lip with teeth. If he gets shoved off, it was worth it. If he gets a concussion, still worth it.
Derek's not surprised when Kavinsky lunges at him, beyond the initial fight or flight startling that makes his body tense up defensively. He knew, going into this, that something would have to break - it always does, when they're together. There's always a fight, always a threat. Kavinsky charges him and Derek doesn't move out of the way, only digs his heel into the concrete and braces for impact.
The kiss is sharp and a little painful, and Derek doesn't push Kavinsky away at first, the thrill of it happening cancelling out the anger that bubbles up in his chest at the smell of Kavinsky's cologne and the sense reminder of being bought after the zoo - but he doesn't feed back into it, either. He lets the kiss happen until it stops on its own, and when Derek takes a step back, eyes narrowed, he's not sure what to do next.
He's not angry. Despite all the reasons to be angry, he's not. He's silent, and he's thinking, and he's staring at Kavinsky while he makes decision after decision in his head. It's a tense, tense pause, where one wrong move might be enough to startle him off, and it's hard to know what he's thinking - until he very, very slowly speaks, one hand on Kavinsky's chest.
Kavinsky isn't surprised to get nothing back. Disappointed, but not surprised. Derek doesn't flat out shove him off or deck him and that's practically permission as far as he's concerned. But then he's got a hand on his chest that puts some distance between them; Kavinsky leans into it slightly, like he needs Derek to know that he'll do it again if he gets the chance. The tension twists up between them and Kavinsky doesn't know which direction it will snap in.
What Derek says catches him off-guard again and it piques his intense curiosity. He narrows hie eyes.
"About what?"
Talking is, maybe, the very last fucking thing he wants to do right now, but now he needs to know what the hell Derek wants. Especially when he's practically tip-toeing around wanting to ask the questions in the first place.
It's not a bad kind of nothing, really. They've just done this song and dance so many times now - the goading, the fighting. Derek's physical attraction to Kavinsky is real, sure, but he fucking hates the guy, and if this is going to go where he knows it's going to go - he just needs to hear something that'll help him justify it when he's thinking with something other than his dick and Nick's beer.
"A few things."
He's not holding a hand on Kavinsky to keep him solely at a distance. He doesn't want him to leave while he asks this. Derek wets his lips, curling his fingers in kavinsky's shirt.
"Do you feel bad at all? About -"
Christ, where does he start. The drugs. Hurting people, hurting Tate. Buying Derek at the zoo. Derek's holding eye contact, barely blinking. Kavinsky told him once that he doesn't feel bad about selling drugs, because what people do with that shit is their own business, and he hated that answer back then, so he's not sure why he's trying to drill into the same vein.
"Anything. Is that something you're capable of feeling? Guilt. Anxiety over the shit you've done."
Kavinsky gives Derek a dead stare. This is not a discussion he wants to have ever, but particularly not on a fucking sidewalk at some daybreak hour of the morning. He regrets flicking away his cigarette now.
Anxiety, guilt. These are things Kavinsky spends a lot of time and energy working to avoid. There are some things he will never feel bad about, but that's not what Derek is asking. He said anything. And the answer is yes.
"I'm fucking capable of it. Why is this relevant?"
Derek's hand moves fast. Kavinsky's getting antsy and Derek's not willing to let him go without getting what he wants from this. He lets go of Kavinsky's shirt and brings his fingers to his throat, pressing his palm to his pulse and just - feeling his heartbeat through the nerves in his palm. He doesn't squeeze down, doesn't try to hurt.
"Because if I'm going to fuck you today - if I'm going to fuck you after today - I need you to give me something to help me live with myself."
There's a pause. Not a long one.
"When's the last time you apologized to someone? Earnestly. When's the last time you cried?"
"Fuck you," he growls even with a hand against his throat. His heart is pounding but it has nothing to do with lying. It's anxiety. The rush of fight or flight that always flings Kavinsky into fight. He fucks to get away from all this shit, not to remember it.
And Derek is not asking for anything easy. Kavinsky's dark eyes are fierce and all his sharp edges are threatening to cut him from the inside out. The last time he apologized?
"Prokopenko," he answers, voice tight. It answers both questions, even if it's not entirely accurate. He's cried more recently than that. And he'd promptly drunk himself into a stupor so he'd stop.
Derek doesn't want Kavinsky angry. They can be angry someewhere else - a hotel room, Kavinsky's place. For now, Derek's digging, and it's less about hooking up and wanting to live with himself and more just... curiosity. Things have fallen in just the right way for Derek to want to really, genuinely learn about Kavinsky this morning, even if that feeling does come from the same morbid fascination people have when they dissect something venomous. He's trying to understand Kavinsky in too hostile of a way, maybe, but -
But the afterglow of a good night, the soft lighting of the morning, the weariness in his bones and the lack of any immediate threat to his safety is just enough to make Derek want to do this the way he's doing it. He drops his hand, slowly, from Kavinsky's throat. It's not the first time he's heard that name, but it's the first time he's drilled down on it.
He stares at Derek, incredulous, when he asks about Proko. He doesn't want to rehash one of the most fucked up experiences of his life on a goddamn sidewalk with Derek Hale looking at him like that.
He is way too fucking sober for this. Too awake.
"You gonna share some trauma to keep us even?" he snaps. Why can't they just fuck? It's so easy, and it feels amazing, and they're good together even if Derek hates him. In the aftermath of the party, the faint throb of the bass still in his bones, K's not sure he can handle dredging up Prokopenko.
It might've been better if Derek kept a grip on his throat. It might've been better to fuck him and then interrogate him while he's sated and pliant. Kavinsky doesn't know if he wants to lash out or get lost. So he doesn't move.
"He was my best friend. What the fuck do you want?"
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Kavinsky grins, utterly unrepentant in the face of Derek's... lack of blatant antagonizing. Hell, Derek almost sounds like he's making light of everything; K likes it. He lifts his eyebrows and slides his cigarette case out of his pocket and gives it a shake before he pops it open. He picks out something and tucks it between his lips.
"Nick asked me to provide shit, so I did. Any trouble after that isn't on me," he says after getting the cigarette lit. The smoke smells like spices; Kavinsky likes the way it makes his tongue and lips tingle.
"Why were you really looking for me? I'm always trouble."
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If Derek were still a Dom, he'd have bought his own car by now. He'd been using the car he built for Stiles back when he was here, but he doesn't like driving on his own anymore - all it takes is one vindictive SIN guard to take it away from him. Being on foot right now makes the walk of shame back to his house all the more walk of shame-y.
Kavinsky asks why he was really looking for him, and Derek shrugs, folding his arms across his chest.
"I like Reggie. I didn't want you ruining his party. Seems like something you would've done."
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He wanted an excuse to let loose as much as anyone else, and so he had as much reason to make sure the party was a success. Besides, the last thing he needs is to piss of Nick right now. Not when things feel good despite everything.
Even if Nick keeps running his mouth and saying impossible shit.
He flicks the ash off his cigarette and grins over at Derek.
"You know what I can do with my mouthful."
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"You do give passable head. Semi-passable."
First compliment he's ever given Kavinsky, but. It's clear even before he keeps talking that he's gonna downplay it.
"Granted, I've been drunk, passed out or high on aphrodisiacs every time we've hooked up, so you might be fucking awful. You're probably fucking awful."
He makes a little gesture with his hand, spinning his finger in a circle as if to reference Duplicity. This place is fucked up. Woo.
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Kavinsky grins and exhales smoke on his laugh. Every time has been good, though, whatever Derek fucking says about it. They've been good for him and given the reactions he's gotten, he's pretty sure they were good for Derek, too.
"Since just comparing notes probably won't do it for you."
Never let it be said that Kavinsky shunned the scientific method. He's willing to hit an alley to prove his hypothesis right now.
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"Nah. Still hate you. Still want you dead."
He turns Kavinsky down, but he adjusts how he walks, a little, putting weight on a different foot to hide any stirring in his cock. He rubs the back of his neck, keeping his eyes dead ahead. Derek doesn't have any real reason to ask if Kavinsky was as busy as he says he was, but - curiosity's a horrible thing.
"Who'd you blow back there?"
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They call it a hatefuck for a reason, Derek. Whatever effect the conversation is having on Kavinsky, he doesn't bother trying to hide it. The part of him that likes Derek Hale is the part that can't walk away from a good time that might kill him. When they fuck it's feral and there's no room for anything else beyond bruises and bite marks. If the rough side is all he gets, that's what he'll take. The chemistry is off the charts, regardless of how Derek feels about him. And chemistry is Kavinsky's specialty.
His gaze flicks over to Derek when his gait changes just so.
"Nick," he answers. "And the birthday boy."
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"Reggie was busy."
There's another part of Derek that doesn't come out very often - the conceited, arrogant, immature jock who just wants to brag about his successes and talk up his conquests. Reggie was busy is code for I probably got there first, like there's some competitive streak in him that wants to outrun Kavinsky in whatever race he thinks they're in.
"Did you get to come?"
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If Reggie wasn't busy, that would've been a sad fucking state of affairs. And if Derek is trying to make it a competition, Kavinsky won't take that particular bait. It doesn't matter when he got Reggie up against a wall - all that matters is that he did. He hadn't seen if Reggie had been tangled up with Derek before or after that.
The question catches him off guard.
"Yeah. With Nick." The handjob in the kitchen had been a spectacular, visceral thing. Before they were finished, Kavinsky had the taste of both of them on his tongue. The way he says it, though, suggests that might have been it.
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"I was hoping you had to walk home with blue balls. Disappointing."
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“I never said when I got off,” he points out. It could’ve been at the beginning of the night for all Derek knows.
“You wanna fix that?”
He probably shouldn’t tempt fate like that: with bad luck Derek might actually leave him hanging. Kavinsky wouldn’t put that shit by him.
He spares a glance Derek’s way and bites back an appreciative sound. He looks good. Obviously he got laid - a good night for everyone - and the aesthetic just makes Kavinsky want more.
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It's an easy answer. Derek looks at Kavinsky, eyebrows raised, slowing to a stop. He gives Kavinsky a long, hard stare, and points his thumb at the house they just happened to be passing.
"Yeah. I wanna fuck you. I wanna pin you to that family's living room window and fuck you over and over again. I want to make you come so hard and so often that you pass out. I wanna make you feel so good that you're actually fucking brought to tears."
He doesn't sound sarcastic. It's-- pretty obvious that he's being serious, actually, though there's nothing particularly flirtatious about how he's saying it. Derek slips his hands into his pockets, and then just... keeps walking.
"I'm not going to, though. I'd rather you just know what could've happened here if I thought you were worth all the time and the shame and the guilt and the anger."
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So, of course there's a catch.
His jaw ticks when Derek keeps walking and basically chalks the whole thing up to but I won't. He rolls his eyes and catches up.
"What the fuck, man?" he scowls. "What the hell do you have to be ashamed and guilty about? Jesus."
Derek didn't have to work that hard to possibly ensure he's walking home with blue balls. If Derek falls through, maybe he'll wake up Ransom or text Tate to see if he's still around. Or Adam. If he calls, Adam won't be a disappointment.
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"Would've been good, too. You would've been a fucking wreck."
Derek walks backwards, now, ahead of Kavinsky and holding eye contact. He's a hypocrite - Nick gave him beer, got him a little buzzed, and that should've been enough to get him off Kavinsky's tail, enough to stop him from searching around the party convinced he'd find Kavinsky if he just looked hard enough. It's almost like Derek just wanted to see him tonight, for whatever fucked up reason.
"I mean, you've been fucked by a lot of guys, but one night with me when I'm completely alert? Completely sober? Christ, Joey."
Derek grabs the front of his henley, pulling it from his chest like he's getting hot.
"No other guy would be enough for you. Not after I'm done with you. You'd still sleep around, still whore yourself out, but you'd never really get off again. You'd live a life of - constant, depressing dissatisfaction."
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Joey.
It means nothing, he knows that, but it still hits him in the chest. His jaw ticks. Derek doesn't get to have that. It's the one thing Kavinsky still has that means anything and he's using it like it's nothing.
"Then I guess I'll go the rest of my life just thinking everyone's a better fuck than you instead of pining away, searching for my Moby Dick." He's fucking funny. "What a fucking travesty."
Joey.
God, fuck him.
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It's funny - Derek's tried to make Kavinsky mad before, no stranger to getting in his face with gritted teeth and making his threats, but it's never really worked. The fact that he's getting under his skin now, when he's buzzed and relaxed and warm, saying Joey solely on impulse without knowing the weight behind the name - well, maybe that means something. Maybe it doesn't.
Either way, Derek's still not looking to start a fight. He keeps looking at Kavinsky, admiring the effect he's had on him, still floating in the afterglow of the party too much to take the clench in his jaw seriously. He exhales, walking slower, imitating Kavinsky, just for the slightly drunken fun of it.
"What a fucking travesty."
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He wants to throw a punch. It'd probably be a death wish, or at the very least an end-up-hospitalized wish. That's never stopped him before, the impulse to self-destruction as strong as any other. So what if Derek fucked him up? What difference would it make? None.
So why throw a punch when he can do something he'll like more?
Kavinsky adjusts his pace as Derek slows down. He flicks what's left of his cigarette into the gutter. Then he lunges, one hand catching the front of Derek's shirt and the other wrapping around the back of his neck. He's not actually looking to start a fight either, not a real one.
"A real fucking travesty."
Kavinsky leans in to kiss Derek, to catch his lip with teeth. If he gets shoved off, it was worth it. If he gets a concussion, still worth it.
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The kiss is sharp and a little painful, and Derek doesn't push Kavinsky away at first, the thrill of it happening cancelling out the anger that bubbles up in his chest at the smell of Kavinsky's cologne and the sense reminder of being bought after the zoo - but he doesn't feed back into it, either. He lets the kiss happen until it stops on its own, and when Derek takes a step back, eyes narrowed, he's not sure what to do next.
He's not angry. Despite all the reasons to be angry, he's not. He's silent, and he's thinking, and he's staring at Kavinsky while he makes decision after decision in his head. It's a tense, tense pause, where one wrong move might be enough to startle him off, and it's hard to know what he's thinking - until he very, very slowly speaks, one hand on Kavinsky's chest.
"I need you... to answer some questions for me."
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What Derek says catches him off-guard again and it piques his intense curiosity. He narrows hie eyes.
"About what?"
Talking is, maybe, the very last fucking thing he wants to do right now, but now he needs to know what the hell Derek wants. Especially when he's practically tip-toeing around wanting to ask the questions in the first place.
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"A few things."
He's not holding a hand on Kavinsky to keep him solely at a distance. He doesn't want him to leave while he asks this. Derek wets his lips, curling his fingers in kavinsky's shirt.
"Do you feel bad at all? About -"
Christ, where does he start. The drugs. Hurting people, hurting Tate. Buying Derek at the zoo. Derek's holding eye contact, barely blinking. Kavinsky told him once that he doesn't feel bad about selling drugs, because what people do with that shit is their own business, and he hated that answer back then, so he's not sure why he's trying to drill into the same vein.
"Anything. Is that something you're capable of feeling? Guilt. Anxiety over the shit you've done."
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Anxiety, guilt. These are things Kavinsky spends a lot of time and energy working to avoid. There are some things he will never feel bad about, but that's not what Derek is asking. He said anything. And the answer is yes.
"I'm fucking capable of it. Why is this relevant?"
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"Because if I'm going to fuck you today - if I'm going to fuck you after today - I need you to give me something to help me live with myself."
There's a pause. Not a long one.
"When's the last time you apologized to someone? Earnestly. When's the last time you cried?"
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And Derek is not asking for anything easy. Kavinsky's dark eyes are fierce and all his sharp edges are threatening to cut him from the inside out. The last time he apologized?
"Prokopenko," he answers, voice tight. It answers both questions, even if it's not entirely accurate. He's cried more recently than that. And he'd promptly drunk himself into a stupor so he'd stop.
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Derek doesn't want Kavinsky angry. They can be angry someewhere else - a hotel room, Kavinsky's place. For now, Derek's digging, and it's less about hooking up and wanting to live with himself and more just... curiosity. Things have fallen in just the right way for Derek to want to really, genuinely learn about Kavinsky this morning, even if that feeling does come from the same morbid fascination people have when they dissect something venomous. He's trying to understand Kavinsky in too hostile of a way, maybe, but -
But the afterglow of a good night, the soft lighting of the morning, the weariness in his bones and the lack of any immediate threat to his safety is just enough to make Derek want to do this the way he's doing it. He drops his hand, slowly, from Kavinsky's throat. It's not the first time he's heard that name, but it's the first time he's drilled down on it.
"Tell me about him. Prokopenko."
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He is way too fucking sober for this. Too awake.
"You gonna share some trauma to keep us even?" he snaps. Why can't they just fuck? It's so easy, and it feels amazing, and they're good together even if Derek hates him. In the aftermath of the party, the faint throb of the bass still in his bones, K's not sure he can handle dredging up Prokopenko.
It might've been better if Derek kept a grip on his throat. It might've been better to fuck him and then interrogate him while he's sated and pliant. Kavinsky doesn't know if he wants to lash out or get lost. So he doesn't move.
"He was my best friend. What the fuck do you want?"
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