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?"
Kavinsky is defensive, and Derek doesn't actually blame him for that. He's pushed him into a corner here, seemingly out of nowhere, the low simmering combustion of their relationship together meeting this weird, sudden boiling point for no reason other than today being the day it decided to happen. Kavinsky gets angry and Derek just... watches.
If he doesn't want to talk, he doesn't have to talk. Derek's not going to ask him for details again. At the same time, though, he's not giving him an out - Kate, Julia, Ennis, Peter, Deucalion, Chris, they all fucked him up back home, but they all had their reasons. Things Derek could empathize with, once the dust had settled and he had to rationalise out everything they did. He wants Kavinsky to give him his reasons.
Kavinsky's as bad as the worst of them. Derek wants to know why. Maybe it's the beer, but the way that Derek's looking at Kavinsky now... it's actually pretty sympathetic. For the first time, he's starting to see how predictably quick he is to anger, and Christ, if that isn't relatable.
Derek keeps his mouth shut, but he still isn't leaving. He's just watching Kavinsky, silently yet toothless Lt prompting him to talk.
"Just fucking walk," he mutters, because he can't stand still right now and he doesn't want to walk away from Derek, either. "Please." He wants something Derek can give him, and he wants it more now that this conversation has taken a really weird fucking tun. Maybe he'll feel less trapped if he's moving.
"He was my best friend," he says again. "He's dead."
Why the fuck did Derek need to know any of this? Why did it matter? How often has he wanted Prokopenko here since he showed up in this fucking place? Any of his boys, but especially him.
If Derek were more cruel than he is, there would be a part of him filing this information away to use as ammunition the next time his time with Kavinsky does turn into a fight. As he is, though, he's just - listening, trying to decide if he believes him but not willing to say that he doesn't.
Derek starts walking, heading further into the city as people start to stir awake and cars start to line the street, sporadic and solitary. He knows what it's like to be see someone's death, knows what it's like to be the cause of it, and if Kavinsky turned to drugs after that, let his brain rot, lost his empathy, well - it wouldn't be an excuse, but it would certainly be an explanation.
"Why the fuck are you--" Kavinsky cuts himself off, jaw tight. He laughs. "You owe me one hell of a fuck, Hale."
This isn't fucking worth it. No one's dick game is so good that he wants to rehash this before getting it. He's quiet for almost a block.
"Why should I fucking tell you any of this? You got your answer."
He's capable of guilt, anxiety, regret. He feels all of them, though maybe not when Derek would have wanted him to. He takes his cigarette case out again, fidgets with it as he tries to decide what he wants. Pills. Powder. Something that just dissolves on his tongue. Anything to take him out of this moment since he isn't pinned against a wall somewhere with a cock in his mouth or his ass.
Kavinsky has no reason to tell him any of this, no, and if he's blowing him off, Derek's not going to push. He stays quiet, too, until they're moving closer and closer to the commercial district in the Up. More and more people are around, now, and Derek could take that as a sign to stop talking, but he just moves closer to Kavinsky, instead, keeping his voice down for some semblance of privacy.
"I've thought about killing you for a fucking year, now. Figured it would solve a lot of problems if you stayed dead. Put less people at risk, keep them safe. Keep Tate safe. Thought it would be justice for some of the things you've done - things I know about, things I don't."
He pauses, darts his tongue between his lips, lets his thoughts settle before he turns them into words.
"I still feel that way. I don't understand why nobody sees you the way I do."
He stops walking, hand on Kavinsky's arm. They just happen to be at a hotel, now - the same hotel Kavinsky got Derek drunk, so fucking long ago. They could go inside. Get a room. Talk this out there. Do more. Or they could leave - Kavinsky could stay angry, Derek could choose the integrity of his questions over the urge to hatefuck Kavinsky into the wall the way they both want him to. He stands in front of the building, staring at Kavinsky.
"But I'm not who I was a year ago. That kind of hate isn't sustainable for me anymore. After the blizzard, I just decided - something needs to be done. I either need to learn about you, figure you out, or I need to put you in the ground. It can't keep going like this."
He snorts when Derek mentions keeping Tate safe. Yeah, Kavinsky is totally the only thing that is fucking up Tate's life. Tate, in no way, is his own worst enemy. Jesus, he can't believe Derek's still wrapped around his fucking fingers.
Kavinsky stops when Derek does, vaguely aware that they're outside a hotel. The hotel. Derek's been thinking about killing him for a year and Kavinsky almost says, do it. What the fuck is stopping him from trying? Why is he still fucking alive?
He looks at the hotel, mind working as Derek keeps talking.
"Come on."
K moves toward the building, using Derek's grip on his arm to tug him along. They might as well get a fucking room if Derek wants to interrogate him. Kavinsky pays for it because he's the Dom and he kind of has to. He assumes Derek's contracted if he's spending so much time in the Up. He decides not to think of the shortlist of who he could be contracted to.
Kavinsky doesn't need to hold Derek's arm to drag him along. Whether or not he's intending to take this somewhere he knows god damn well he shouldn't take it, Derek at least wants to keep this conversation going, and having it somewhere private and relatively safe seems smarter than talking on the street or going back to Kavinsky's place in the down.
He gets led inside, pressing his lips together and saying nothing when Kavinsky pays for the room, the status that was stripped from him still infuriating to think about, even now. Derek doesn't resist when Kavinsky guides him to the room upstairs, saying nothing on the elevator ride, doing nothing to address the fucking stares he gets from Doms these days. They get into the room, calm and quiet and tidy, and Derek's the one who shuts the door behind them, heading inside.
There's a bad. Olive-green sheets, kind of tacky. Derek wets his lips and looks at Kavinsky, just - deciding, still. Thinking.
"Let's make a deal. I know you work on deals."
Information in exchange for action. It's a dangerous position to put himself into, but christ, he doesn't know how else to talk to Kavinsky. Doesn't know how to make this happen without one of them pulling a knife or a gun or a claw on the other.
"You give me something I want - and I give you something you want. If you don't want to answer, or if I don't want to do something, then... fine. Neither of us have to do it."
When they get up to the room, Kavinsky pushes his fingers through his hair, still feeling restless and trapped. He laughs at the deal presented to him.
“Oh, is this a business transaction now?”
He could argue that whatever he gives Derek is going to cost him more that whatever Derek gives him. But it might work better than a knife or gun or claw because all that would get Derek is a sharp do it. At least this way there a possibility of exchange. All Kavinsky wants is to stop thinking. Stop caring.
Derek wants Kavinsky to think and care. He wants Kavinsky to prove to him, on whatever level, that he's more than the vile, abusive piece of shit Derek sees him as. He wants Kavinsky to be more than just rotten to the core, even though he has no real reason to believe otherwise. Derek doesn't want to fucking kill a teenager.
"Tell me about your friend."
It's an easy start, he thinks. A low all. Derek stands, hands in his pockets, staring at Kavinsky. He's not angry. He's serious, but - relaxed. Tired.
"Doesn't have to be how he died. Just tell me who he was."
Kavinsky starts looking through the minibar and lines up whatever bottles he finds in there along the top of it.
Maybe he should be put down. Gansey thought it. Adam probably thought it. He wants to think that Ronan didn't, but maybe he did, too. Derek certainly seems to.
He regards the bottles like he's trying to decide which to down first.
"My best friend. First person I really talked to after Mom hauled us out to the middle of nowhere fucking Virginia to put me in a prep school."
It had been one of the few lucid decisions she ever made, and she made it after what happened with Kavinsky's father. Maybe the distance had been good, maybe it was fate or some shit that he was brought to a place in the world with another dreamer. He doesn't know. But it's where he found Prokopenko.
Derek doesn't want Kavinsky to drink through this, but he's not going to stop him if he tries. He doesn't hide the disappointment in the way he looks at him from the middle of the room, arms across his chest as he paces, but he keeps his comments to himself. Getting Kavinsky to stay sober is an uphill battle at the best of times.
"Kind of hard imagining you as a follower."
A stalker, maybe, sure, but - doesn't sound like that's what this was.
"Yeah, well. I was." He glances over his shoulder and rolls his eyes when he sees the disappointment on Derek's face. "You want me to do this sober? Fucking sadist."
It's cruel. Most of what he's taken that night is starting to wear off and he hasn't gotten home yet to top off. He doesn't want to keep remembering this. Kavinsky leaves the alcohol where it is - visible, within reach - but doesn't crack open any of the bottles yet. With an annoyed flourish, he tosses his cigarette case onto a table.
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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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If he doesn't want to talk, he doesn't have to talk. Derek's not going to ask him for details again. At the same time, though, he's not giving him an out - Kate, Julia, Ennis, Peter, Deucalion, Chris, they all fucked him up back home, but they all had their reasons. Things Derek could empathize with, once the dust had settled and he had to rationalise out everything they did. He wants Kavinsky to give him his reasons.
Kavinsky's as bad as the worst of them. Derek wants to know why. Maybe it's the beer, but the way that Derek's looking at Kavinsky now... it's actually pretty sympathetic. For the first time, he's starting to see how predictably quick he is to anger, and Christ, if that isn't relatable.
Derek keeps his mouth shut, but he still isn't leaving. He's just watching Kavinsky, silently yet toothless Lt prompting him to talk.
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"He was my best friend," he says again. "He's dead."
Why the fuck did Derek need to know any of this? Why did it matter? How often has he wanted Prokopenko here since he showed up in this fucking place? Any of his boys, but especially him.
"I saw him die."
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Derek starts walking, heading further into the city as people start to stir awake and cars start to line the street, sporadic and solitary. He knows what it's like to be see someone's death, knows what it's like to be the cause of it, and if Kavinsky turned to drugs after that, let his brain rot, lost his empathy, well - it wouldn't be an excuse, but it would certainly be an explanation.
"What happened, exactly?"
How did he die.
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This isn't fucking worth it. No one's dick game is so good that he wants to rehash this before getting it. He's quiet for almost a block.
"Why should I fucking tell you any of this? You got your answer."
He's capable of guilt, anxiety, regret. He feels all of them, though maybe not when Derek would have wanted him to. He takes his cigarette case out again, fidgets with it as he tries to decide what he wants. Pills. Powder. Something that just dissolves on his tongue. Anything to take him out of this moment since he isn't pinned against a wall somewhere with a cock in his mouth or his ass.
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"I've thought about killing you for a fucking year, now. Figured it would solve a lot of problems if you stayed dead. Put less people at risk, keep them safe. Keep Tate safe. Thought it would be justice for some of the things you've done - things I know about, things I don't."
He pauses, darts his tongue between his lips, lets his thoughts settle before he turns them into words.
"I still feel that way. I don't understand why nobody sees you the way I do."
He stops walking, hand on Kavinsky's arm. They just happen to be at a hotel, now - the same hotel Kavinsky got Derek drunk, so fucking long ago. They could go inside. Get a room. Talk this out there. Do more. Or they could leave - Kavinsky could stay angry, Derek could choose the integrity of his questions over the urge to hatefuck Kavinsky into the wall the way they both want him to. He stands in front of the building, staring at Kavinsky.
"But I'm not who I was a year ago. That kind of hate isn't sustainable for me anymore. After the blizzard, I just decided - something needs to be done. I either need to learn about you, figure you out, or I need to put you in the ground. It can't keep going like this."
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Kavinsky stops when Derek does, vaguely aware that they're outside a hotel. The hotel. Derek's been thinking about killing him for a year and Kavinsky almost says, do it. What the fuck is stopping him from trying? Why is he still fucking alive?
He looks at the hotel, mind working as Derek keeps talking.
"Come on."
K moves toward the building, using Derek's grip on his arm to tug him along. They might as well get a fucking room if Derek wants to interrogate him. Kavinsky pays for it because he's the Dom and he kind of has to. He assumes Derek's contracted if he's spending so much time in the Up. He decides not to think of the shortlist of who he could be contracted to.
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He gets led inside, pressing his lips together and saying nothing when Kavinsky pays for the room, the status that was stripped from him still infuriating to think about, even now. Derek doesn't resist when Kavinsky guides him to the room upstairs, saying nothing on the elevator ride, doing nothing to address the fucking stares he gets from Doms these days. They get into the room, calm and quiet and tidy, and Derek's the one who shuts the door behind them, heading inside.
There's a bad. Olive-green sheets, kind of tacky. Derek wets his lips and looks at Kavinsky, just - deciding, still. Thinking.
"Let's make a deal. I know you work on deals."
Information in exchange for action. It's a dangerous position to put himself into, but christ, he doesn't know how else to talk to Kavinsky. Doesn't know how to make this happen without one of them pulling a knife or a gun or a claw on the other.
"You give me something I want - and I give you something you want. If you don't want to answer, or if I don't want to do something, then... fine. Neither of us have to do it."
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When they get up to the room, Kavinsky pushes his fingers through his hair, still feeling restless and trapped. He laughs at the deal presented to him.
“Oh, is this a business transaction now?”
He could argue that whatever he gives Derek is going to cost him more that whatever Derek gives him. But it might work better than a knife or gun or claw because all that would get Derek is a sharp do it. At least this way there a possibility of exchange. All Kavinsky wants is to stop thinking. Stop caring.
“Fuck you. Fine, what do you want?”
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"Tell me about your friend."
It's an easy start, he thinks. A low all. Derek stands, hands in his pockets, staring at Kavinsky. He's not angry. He's serious, but - relaxed. Tired.
"Doesn't have to be how he died. Just tell me who he was."
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Maybe he should be put down. Gansey thought it. Adam probably thought it. He wants to think that Ronan didn't, but maybe he did, too. Derek certainly seems to.
He regards the bottles like he's trying to decide which to down first.
"My best friend. First person I really talked to after Mom hauled us out to the middle of nowhere fucking Virginia to put me in a prep school."
It had been one of the few lucid decisions she ever made, and she made it after what happened with Kavinsky's father. Maybe the distance had been good, maybe it was fate or some shit that he was brought to a place in the world with another dreamer. He doesn't know. But it's where he found Prokopenko.
"I followed him everywhere."
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"Kind of hard imagining you as a follower."
A stalker, maybe, sure, but - doesn't sound like that's what this was.
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It's cruel. Most of what he's taken that night is starting to wear off and he hasn't gotten home yet to top off. He doesn't want to keep remembering this. Kavinsky leaves the alcohol where it is - visible, within reach - but doesn't crack open any of the bottles yet. With an annoyed flourish, he tosses his cigarette case onto a table.
"Right up until he died."
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