"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.
Kavinsky rolls his eyes, a little smirk tugging his mouth when he hears the fortune. Not subtle. He keeps a baggie with violent green pills and one with violently blue ones and sits on the edge of the bed. He considers, thinking how best to about this.
Some easy shit first. In and out.
He picks up a bottle of beer that's been sitting on his nightstand since at least the night before and downs a green pill. It hurls him into sleep and he drops back onto the bed bonelessly. It's just as Tate's seen before: a bit of quick breathing, then nothing, then a sharp gasp and a jolt as he forced back into consciousness.
Tate watches Kavinsky do - whatever he is. He drops back into some trance like state and it astonishes him. He's reaching across to make sure the beer bottle doesn't topple over, flinching only in the slightest when Kavinsky reanimates into life. He expected it, but even still. Weird shit to look down and see vinyl there, but the intake of breath and the change of his posture is an easy read: Tate's lowkey excited, impressed like a kid unboxing something on Christmas.
"Better not be scratched," he murmurs with a crooked smile.
Kavinsky rolls his eyes. If he could move, he'd chuck the stack.
"Don't be a shithead," he slurs softly, still dazed as he comes back. The pill might wake him up, but he can't force his body to catch up with the jarring experience of being slammed in and out of deep sleep.
Tate leans to take the records, easing them off of Kavinsky - blinking down at him for a moment. There's something now too familiar about that dazed look, like they've been in this situation so often that Tate's just at ease with it. Doesn't help Kavinsky's continued highs tends to make him floating through consciousness just his constant state of being.
"They look good to me," he says after flipping through - lingering on a couple choice records he's more than happy to see again. "You need to sit up?"
Kavinsky shakes his head a little. "Need another pill," he says. He manages to get the baggie open but it takes a little longer to get the fucking thing to his mouth. Powering through lingering sleep paralysis is a bitch.
He swallows it dry and the process repeats itself. By the time it his his stomach, he's out, hurled back into dreaming. What else did Tate want? Books. Titles flicker through his memory and the books are there to meet him: all he has to do is grab them. They aren't all the ones off Tate's list, he didn't study it hard enough to remember some of the more random titles, but he's got the ones that he can associate easily with Tate and one or two that stood out. Whole, complete copies of things he's never read.
He's out a little longer this time; he stops breathing for almost a minute before the hypnic jerk happens, forcing his body to wake up. His breath shivers hard as he exhales and he's staring blankly at the ceiling for a long moment when he comes back, arms locked around a load of books that weren't there a moment ago.
Tate watches, after moving the records off to the side by the foot of the bed. When Kavinsky seems to do worse in the second round, he's already reaching out to touch him before he snaps awake. Tate's fingers still skim over him and he's less concerned about taking the books as he is getting them off of Kavinsky, brushing them to the side to lay his hand against Kavinsky's sternum.
"Yeah I'm fine. It's just a lot of shit at once. Not small shit." He can do scores of pills, dozens upon dozens of little things. It's easy. He can do big things, too, but he usually sticks to just one at a time. It takes more than just thinking of them to bring them into being: it takes will power to get them right.
Besides, the pills hit him weird sometimes. He remembers playing this game with Ronan, this stupid in-and-out rush, bringing back things to show off to each other.
He can't move; his fingers twitch a little as Tate moves books and touches his chest. Kavinsky looks up at him.
Tate stares at him for a beat before reaching for his pills, curling his fingers around them to pull them away as well. Then he reaches to rest his hand against Kavinsky's side, brows raised.
"No more then, this is - more than enough for now." He says, intent on keeping these little green pills away from Kavinsky. "Thank you, though."
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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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Some easy shit first. In and out.
He picks up a bottle of beer that's been sitting on his nightstand since at least the night before and downs a green pill. It hurls him into sleep and he drops back onto the bed bonelessly. It's just as Tate's seen before: a bit of quick breathing, then nothing, then a sharp gasp and a jolt as he forced back into consciousness.
Clutching a stack of vinyls.
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"Better not be scratched," he murmurs with a crooked smile.
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"Don't be a shithead," he slurs softly, still dazed as he comes back. The pill might wake him up, but he can't force his body to catch up with the jarring experience of being slammed in and out of deep sleep.
"Take 'em off me, man. Make sure I got 'em all."
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"They look good to me," he says after flipping through - lingering on a couple choice records he's more than happy to see again. "You need to sit up?"
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He swallows it dry and the process repeats itself. By the time it his his stomach, he's out, hurled back into dreaming. What else did Tate want? Books. Titles flicker through his memory and the books are there to meet him: all he has to do is grab them. They aren't all the ones off Tate's list, he didn't study it hard enough to remember some of the more random titles, but he's got the ones that he can associate easily with Tate and one or two that stood out. Whole, complete copies of things he's never read.
He's out a little longer this time; he stops breathing for almost a minute before the hypnic jerk happens, forcing his body to wake up. His breath shivers hard as he exhales and he's staring blankly at the ceiling for a long moment when he comes back, arms locked around a load of books that weren't there a moment ago.
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"Hey," he asks, voice low. "You okay?"
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Besides, the pills hit him weird sometimes. He remembers playing this game with Ronan, this stupid in-and-out rush, bringing back things to show off to each other.
He can't move; his fingers twitch a little as Tate moves books and touches his chest. Kavinsky looks up at him.
"Nothing's ever free."
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"No more then, this is - more than enough for now." He says, intent on keeping these little green pills away from Kavinsky. "Thank you, though."
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