"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."
Tate sits for a moment, pensive and thinking it over - there's so much fucking potential here. So many uses for this, if they handle it right. He's going to have to pry into Kavinsky's head again to see how he feels about rebellion once more, because this could be key on getting an upper hand. He needs to make use of this while he can, as well as... well, enjoy creature comforts.
"Okay. Cool." He nods his head. Start small, start with - the things he misses. "I'd like to have a few things to remind me of by siblings, it'd... it'd just be nice."
Kavinsky nods. He has so few things from home - it hasn't occurred to him to try to bring anything here. There's only a handful of things he misses, most of them people.
He's thought about trying. Nothing has stopped him yet.
He nurses his beer as he finally drops onto the couch next to Tate.
"Yeah, just-- describe them. Let's try this picture first, okay? We'll go from there."
"There are a couple different ones, but..." Simplest is best, he reckons. He looks at Kavinsky while he settles on the couch and doesn't move away, much rather slinking a little closer with his interest still piqued.
"One of me and my sister, Addie." The one from school he actually liked, that he has no idea his mother kept on her kitchen counter for the years after he died. "The - stupid bullshit kinda sibling photo you'd take at school, with a fake background of a tree."
He realizes he doesn't really remember it in crystal clarity, which is probably good. "She's older than me, but shorter. Do you want me to describe her more, specifically?"
"As many details as you can give me. The more the better."
Kavinsky sets his beer down to focus on eating while he listens. He shifts to face Tate, propping himself against the arm of the couch. His other leg stretches out, making space to invite Tate closer since he's scooting in like that.
He can picture the background, the pose. If Addie's shorter, he bets Tate has his arm around her or something. Maybe leaning into her a little. Dopey school picture smiles. Maybe genuine fondness since it sounds like Tate was close to her.
Tate hesitates for a moment, trying to think of this less as describing a photo but more Addie herself. His brows pinch together and he runs his finger around his beer, toying with condensation and turning his eyes downcast with thought.
"Addie - Adelaide, she's one of the nicest people I've ever known. Smart, funny... She was born with Downs Syndrome and I think my mother always resented that." He pinches his expression, thinking of Constance. "Treated her like shit sometimes, you know? But Addie and I were close. We'd always talk, always."
He misses her more than he thought, and sighs. "I'm sure she's happy somewhere, right now. That's all that matters."
The detail about Downs helps. The rest is nice but-- less helpful. He can imagine the face smiling, at least, rather than being sullen. Maybe she's leaning into Tate. Maybe she was excited to be a big sister.
Kavinsky sinks back a little more, pointedly ignoring memories of his own family trying to swirl up in his head.
"What color hair? Eyes? Did she like to wear dresses or was she the jeans-and-a-t-shirt type?"
"Brown. With bangs, always wore headbands." He makes a gesture over his own hair, vaguely trying to recall details he once took for granted. Did she part her hair to one side or down the middle? "And dresses, she loved sundresses - cardigans, sweaters on top? Nothing casual."
He snorts, almost bitter. "Nothing about our house was casual."
Except, perhaps, him. But it's established Tate's a bit of a rebel to his mother's insufferable reign over the house. He starts chewing on his thumb nail, then looks back to Kavinsky. "Enough?"
Kavinsky nods, storing the information away. "Okay," he says after a long moment. "Okay, I can work from that. Do you want the picture or the easy stuff first?"
It doesn't really matter, he thinks, it will just help him decide how to plan this shit out. Every now and again he worries he might somehow tap out the energy he feeds off here, but it hasn't happened yet. It hasn't even flickered, despite he and Ronan dreaming as much as they have.
"Surprise me?" Tate asks with a meager shrug, finishing off his beer.
He taps his finger against his knee, coming back to what Kavinsky said. How some things he's providing because - he should, as a dom. Because he wants to, as a person. But Tate's still not used to just... accepting things. But he's coming around to it, albeit slowly. The two of them collided well for people who've grieved losing someone else and sought to fill the part of them that aches.
"Last chance on getting paid back with a favor. Going once..."
Kavinsky rolls his eyes. "You know I'm not gonna pass it up, right?" he says as he curls forward, getting into Tate's space. He leans in to kiss him. "And I'll take it if the effort is more than I think it's gonna be."
He eases back again. "C'mon, I'm gonna get started. Bed's easier especially if I'm gonna pile up shit."
With a quiet grunt, Kavinsky rolls off the couch and heads into his bedroom. He leaves the door open most nights, on the off chance that Tate wants company. He pauses at the nightstand, sorting through a couple of baggies of brightly colored pills.
Tate kisses him back, leaning into it before tilting back his head and watching Kavinsky get to his feet. He follows after a beat, dropping his shit to the table and swiping another cookie before haunting like a shadow behind him toward the bedroom as he unwraps and bites down into this third? fortune of the night. Kavinsky's room is familiar and while Tate does like having his own space - he has come here to invade Kavinsky's, from time to time.
Like now, when he flops down on one side of the bed and watches him with his head tilted to the side and hair a golden halo around his head. "Fortune says trusting in dominant forces will lead to good things," he murmurs with amusement. City's never been lowkey on their emphasis for the roles but.
"Ready when you are." He says, sitting up to be a little more alert. He's excited about this - getting something from Kavinsky nobody else can replicate for him. That selfish hum in his chest is raised but he feels warm, happy and content for it.
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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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"Okay. Cool." He nods his head. Start small, start with - the things he misses. "I'd like to have a few things to remind me of by siblings, it'd... it'd just be nice."
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He's thought about trying. Nothing has stopped him yet.
He nurses his beer as he finally drops onto the couch next to Tate.
"Yeah, just-- describe them. Let's try this picture first, okay? We'll go from there."
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"One of me and my sister, Addie." The one from school he actually liked, that he has no idea his mother kept on her kitchen counter for the years after he died. "The - stupid bullshit kinda sibling photo you'd take at school, with a fake background of a tree."
He realizes he doesn't really remember it in crystal clarity, which is probably good. "She's older than me, but shorter. Do you want me to describe her more, specifically?"
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Kavinsky sets his beer down to focus on eating while he listens. He shifts to face Tate, propping himself against the arm of the couch. His other leg stretches out, making space to invite Tate closer since he's scooting in like that.
He can picture the background, the pose. If Addie's shorter, he bets Tate has his arm around her or something. Maybe leaning into her a little. Dopey school picture smiles. Maybe genuine fondness since it sounds like Tate was close to her.
"What's she look like?"
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"Addie - Adelaide, she's one of the nicest people I've ever known. Smart, funny... She was born with Downs Syndrome and I think my mother always resented that." He pinches his expression, thinking of Constance. "Treated her like shit sometimes, you know? But Addie and I were close. We'd always talk, always."
He misses her more than he thought, and sighs. "I'm sure she's happy somewhere, right now. That's all that matters."
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Kavinsky sinks back a little more, pointedly ignoring memories of his own family trying to swirl up in his head.
"What color hair? Eyes? Did she like to wear dresses or was she the jeans-and-a-t-shirt type?"
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He snorts, almost bitter. "Nothing about our house was casual."
Except, perhaps, him. But it's established Tate's a bit of a rebel to his mother's insufferable reign over the house. He starts chewing on his thumb nail, then looks back to Kavinsky. "Enough?"
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It doesn't really matter, he thinks, it will just help him decide how to plan this shit out. Every now and again he worries he might somehow tap out the energy he feeds off here, but it hasn't happened yet. It hasn't even flickered, despite he and Ronan dreaming as much as they have.
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He taps his finger against his knee, coming back to what Kavinsky said. How some things he's providing because - he should, as a dom. Because he wants to, as a person. But Tate's still not used to just... accepting things. But he's coming around to it, albeit slowly. The two of them collided well for people who've grieved losing someone else and sought to fill the part of them that aches.
"Last chance on getting paid back with a favor. Going once..."
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He eases back again. "C'mon, I'm gonna get started. Bed's easier especially if I'm gonna pile up shit."
With a quiet grunt, Kavinsky rolls off the couch and heads into his bedroom. He leaves the door open most nights, on the off chance that Tate wants company. He pauses at the nightstand, sorting through a couple of baggies of brightly colored pills.
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Like now, when he flops down on one side of the bed and watches him with his head tilted to the side and hair a golden halo around his head. "Fortune says trusting in dominant forces will lead to good things," he murmurs with amusement. City's never been lowkey on their emphasis for the roles but.
"Ready when you are." He says, sitting up to be a little more alert. He's excited about this - getting something from Kavinsky nobody else can replicate for him. That selfish hum in his chest is raised but he feels warm, happy and content for it.
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