Kavinsky manages to remember to put the order in so that it will arrive about on time. He also makes sure to be lucid enough to answer the door and pay when the food arrives.
He misses the stupid bird and the noises she'd make when people came to the door.
He's unloading boxes of food onto the kitchen counter when he hears the door open again and he moves to get a better view to make sure it's Tate.
Tate's on time, give or take, sliding inside with the sound of his keys set down by the door while he shrugs off his jacket. He's hungry for a change, which is probably a good thing - coke binges have shaved him down to just shy of being gaunt. He catches sight of Kavinsky and nods, rolling up his sleeve as he slides into the kitchen to help sort out the boxes, met with the nice scent of sweet and sour pork. Yep, definitely hungry.
"Hey," he says, reaching for a fortune cookie but sticking close to Kavinsky. He's pulling off the wrapper and taking a bite, pulling the slip of paper out from between his teeth and crunching down. Only then, mouth full, does he slip in to peck at Kavinsky's mouth. Almost, you know, like he realizes he should do something in greeting. He has, after all, had the gall to ask for a bunch of new shit. He needs to seem grateful, and not just think with his albeit hungry gut.
"I'm fucking starving." He adds on, as if to explain himself crunching down the rest of his cookie.
Kavinsky watches Tate attack a cookie - there's literally a bag that's full of them. He's weirdly pleased to see that he's hungry, to hear that he is. Maybe it's the Slav in him. The kiss, sort of an afterthought, made him smirk.
"Eat up, man. There's a fuckton of cookies."
He leans on the counter as he picks up a box and a set of chopsticks. Lemongrass garlic pork.
Tate's eating a second cookie when he's asked the question, so he drops the second slip of paper next to the first on the counter. Then he reaches forward to nudge at Kavinsky's elbow when he's got a piece of pork in his chopsticks, leaning forward with his lips parted - being a good leech for the first bite. Feed him, plebe.
"Classics? Nirvana, Depeche Mode, Pearl Jam and Soundgarden. I have a.. a list." He says, chewing on his mouthful of cookie (and hopefully pork,) before digging into his back pocket. A crumpled and folded sheet of lined paper has a list of early 90s and late 80s punk, alt and grunge bands on it on one side. Books on the other.
"There's some authors, some book titles I remember... anything off it's cool." He shrugs. "No pressure."
Kavinsky can't help the little smirk that quirks his mouth as Tate leans in with an open mouth. He's intent as he watches, making eye contact as soon as Tate looks up and holding it as he puts the piece of work into his mouth.
"Good shit," he says of the bands. He knows all of them, it won't be hard to get what he wants - to get what Tate wants. He accepts the piece of paper, scanning the titles.
"No pressure?" he laughs and rolls his eyes. "Hopefully I don't die trying to get you some Kurt Cobain."
"Gotta admit, it'd be on point with the aesthetic." He says with a snort, abandoning the cookies to find something more substantial in another of the boxes. He's not exactly the greatest with a pair of chopsticks so he uses a fork, but digs into a box of noodles. What's more 90s grunge than dying young?
"Supply run," he answers, absently poking around at his food. "Some custom shit and some regulars to keep stocked up."
He doesn't talk about following Ronan or anyone else in Gansey's gang. He doesn't talk about keeping a passing eye on Reggie Mantle or Derek Hale. He eats more of his pork.
"Made some deliveries, slept a bunch." Really glamorous. Kavinsky misses the adrenaline spikes he had back in Henrietta. He needs his fucking car. Maybe he'll get one for Reggie, too, just to have someone to play with.
Maybe he'll dream one for Ronan and just leave it for him.
Tate makes a thoughtful noise, eating another mouthful of noodles before leaving his container on the edge of the counter. He turns to the fridge, opening it to survey his options; he nods his head when reaching for a beer, silently asking if Kavinsky wants him to pull one for him too.
"Sounds like an eventful fucking day," he says, one-handedly cracking open his beer and sipping a bit of overflow. "I wanted to get high earlier but didn't, so that's part of my plans for tonight. When isn't it, though."
"Someone's gotta make sure you can live in luxury," he quips, nodding when Tate offers a beer. He leans forward to take it when Tate passes it his way. Kavinsky uses the edge of the counter to open it.
"What's your flavor tonight? You're supposed to be keeping my unconscious ass company, remember," he says with a point.
"Hey, I could plan to do celebratory lines off your ass once you're back with me." He says, raising his brows - a little defensive, but not by much. He's been itching just to take the edge off this feeling he has - or really, just all of his feelings together.
"Which, again? If you kick it, is gonna make it awkward for me to do the lines I'll still totally do off your corpse."
Kavinsky snorts a laugh. "At least my ass gets one more party," he quips. He sips his beer, staring off into the distance for a second before he shakes off whatever feeling that was.
"I'll make sure to come back for you, sweetheart. Can't leave you stranded."
He thinks of dead boys and dead bodies and looks at Tate again, recalling that conversation cut short by denial.
Tate jabs his fork into Kavinsky's pork to steal a second helping, popping it into his mouth with quirked brows as if to say 'you better'. He takes another long swig of beer and then pokes through some of the other boxes, tasting what strikes his fancy before his appetite takes its usual nosedive.
"What do we call what you do - besides... what you do," Tate makes a point of asking again. "Magic? I fucking hate that category of shit covering so much here, but there really isn't much more to call it."
"I don't call it magic," he says. Well, he does when he's being a shit head, but not to himself. Kavinsky keeps eating, thinking of how to answer; thinking of how much he wants to answer.
He shrugs.
"It's just what I do, man. I don't know. I've never called it anything."
"Hm," Tate just thinks that over - he can buy it, really. Not a lot of words to describe the supernatural the way they feel, personally, so. He raises his brows and takes another long drink of his beer.
"Hey, at least you found a way to profit from it." There are a lot of shittier powers in the world, he's sure. Kavinsky's set up a decent thing here, with it - wouldn't be so cozy without it. Hell, he wouldn't even be here if Kavinsky didn't sell him that first dose.
Tate snorts, hooking two of his fingers into the bag holding the rest of the fortune cookies and plucking them off the counter. He brings his noodles and beer with him toward the living room, nodding his head - they might as well settle in, yeah?
"So tell me, for shit that's not so common - what do you need to know to make it happen? What are the rules? What can't you make?" He's asking simply out of curiosity, dark eyes wide and imploring as he seats himself on the couch after kicking off his sneakers.
Tate's - intrigued. It's exciting, whatever this is, because it bridges the gap from this world cut off from his and the one he grew up in. He could ask for - anything and suddenly have the potential to have it again. It's hard to think, at first, beyond books and cassette tapes, vinyl and trinkets. He could hold photographs of people he cherishes again, or have something to remember Violet by.
He eats a few more bites before leaning forward and parking his food on the table, taking his beer and resting it against his shin, legs crossed as he sits on the sofa cushions. "Like, even faces? If I told you about a person you could make that happen? Photos, or... whatever. Trial and error 'til it's perfect?"
"Yeah, sometimes I have to try a few times to get it right. Especially if it's something detailed. It's-- yeah, some shit takes practice."
Somewhere outside of Henrietta is a field full of white Mitsubishi Evos, each one imperfect. He practiced, honed his craft, got as good as he is today through will power and persistence.
There's nothing he can't make.
"That's why I want you with me when I'm getting the picture you want. Might take a few tries, but if you gimme enough detail, I'll get it."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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you can keep watch if you want. pretty boring but you can hit my chest or whatever and bring me back.
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do all of that
(what do u even call it?)
do it when i'm around ok
i don't wanna come home 2 ur corpse on the good bedding
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i can try to get some stuff quick, the books and whatever. picture from you room might take real sleep.
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if we order in chinese, i'll stay around too
[CASUAL HINTS BUT,, Y'KNOW]
around six?
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extra fortune cookies though
i like the taste of them from that one place.
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Kavinsky manages to remember to put the order in so that it will arrive about on time. He also makes sure to be lucid enough to answer the door and pay when the food arrives.
He misses the stupid bird and the noises she'd make when people came to the door.
He's unloading boxes of food onto the kitchen counter when he hears the door open again and he moves to get a better view to make sure it's Tate.
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"Hey," he says, reaching for a fortune cookie but sticking close to Kavinsky. He's pulling off the wrapper and taking a bite, pulling the slip of paper out from between his teeth and crunching down. Only then, mouth full, does he slip in to peck at Kavinsky's mouth. Almost, you know, like he realizes he should do something in greeting. He has, after all, had the gall to ask for a bunch of new shit. He needs to seem grateful, and not just think with his albeit hungry gut.
"I'm fucking starving." He adds on, as if to explain himself crunching down the rest of his cookie.
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"Eat up, man. There's a fuckton of cookies."
He leans on the counter as he picks up a box and a set of chopsticks. Lemongrass garlic pork.
"So what kind of albums am I getting you?"
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"Classics? Nirvana, Depeche Mode, Pearl Jam and Soundgarden. I have a.. a list." He says, chewing on his mouthful of cookie (and hopefully pork,) before digging into his back pocket. A crumpled and folded sheet of lined paper has a list of early 90s and late 80s punk, alt and grunge bands on it on one side. Books on the other.
"There's some authors, some book titles I remember... anything off it's cool." He shrugs. "No pressure."
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"Good shit," he says of the bands. He knows all of them, it won't be hard to get what he wants - to get what Tate wants. He accepts the piece of paper, scanning the titles.
"No pressure?" he laughs and rolls his eyes. "Hopefully I don't die trying to get you some Kurt Cobain."
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"So what shit did you do today?"
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He doesn't talk about following Ronan or anyone else in Gansey's gang. He doesn't talk about keeping a passing eye on Reggie Mantle or Derek Hale. He eats more of his pork.
"Made some deliveries, slept a bunch." Really glamorous. Kavinsky misses the adrenaline spikes he had back in Henrietta. He needs his fucking car. Maybe he'll get one for Reggie, too, just to have someone to play with.
Maybe he'll dream one for Ronan and just leave it for him.
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"Sounds like an eventful fucking day," he says, one-handedly cracking open his beer and sipping a bit of overflow. "I wanted to get high earlier but didn't, so that's part of my plans for tonight. When isn't it, though."
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"What's your flavor tonight? You're supposed to be keeping my unconscious ass company, remember," he says with a point.
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"Which, again? If you kick it, is gonna make it awkward for me to do the lines I'll still totally do off your corpse."
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"I'll make sure to come back for you, sweetheart. Can't leave you stranded."
He thinks of dead boys and dead bodies and looks at Tate again, recalling that conversation cut short by denial.
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"What do we call what you do - besides... what you do," Tate makes a point of asking again. "Magic? I fucking hate that category of shit covering so much here, but there really isn't much more to call it."
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He shrugs.
"It's just what I do, man. I don't know. I've never called it anything."
Just dreaming.
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"Hey, at least you found a way to profit from it." There are a lot of shittier powers in the world, he's sure. Kavinsky's set up a decent thing here, with it - wouldn't be so cozy without it. Hell, he wouldn't even be here if Kavinsky didn't sell him that first dose.
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He's not like Nick and Magnus. He doesn't need ingredients or incantations and he's not some immortal being with access to whatever power they use.
He looks down at his food, realizing he should eat more. He hasn't for most of the day: a bad habit.
"Gotta keep my ass in Gucci," he quips as his smirk reappears. "And yours in cocaine and bird books."
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"So tell me, for shit that's not so common - what do you need to know to make it happen? What are the rules? What can't you make?" He's asking simply out of curiosity, dark eyes wide and imploring as he seats himself on the couch after kicking off his sneakers.
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"As many details as you can give me," he answers. The way Tate looks at him makes something in him shiver pleasantly. "There's nothing I can't make."
But a forgery is only as good as the details.
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He eats a few more bites before leaning forward and parking his food on the table, taking his beer and resting it against his shin, legs crossed as he sits on the sofa cushions. "Like, even faces? If I told you about a person you could make that happen? Photos, or... whatever. Trial and error 'til it's perfect?"
no subject
Somewhere outside of Henrietta is a field full of white Mitsubishi Evos, each one imperfect. He practiced, honed his craft, got as good as he is today through will power and persistence.
There's nothing he can't make.
"That's why I want you with me when I'm getting the picture you want. Might take a few tries, but if you gimme enough detail, I'll get it."
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