"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."
"I'm getting you the picture," he insists even as Tate takes his baggie away. He manages to move, heavy and a little uncoordinated, so he can get closer to his pillows. He's got that pins-and-needles feeling in his arms and fingers.
"Gimme one of the blue ones. Sends me off easier and doesn't knock me awake. Picture might take a while."
"You look like shit, it can wait." Tate mutters, crawling up the bed alongside Kavinsky - still unsure if he should touch him or not, he tries to help him get comfortable against the pillows, pulling one closer to his head.
He touches his hand to Kavinsky's forehead, like he expects a fever. "What else makes blue different than green? Tell me the catch."
"The blue ones just help me fall asleep. Slow. Not like the green ones. I dunno how long I'll be out with those," he admits. Sometimes he takes them after he's been going for a few days, just so he can drift off like a normal person.
He lolls his head to look at Tate.
"Or you can just stay here with me and hope I fall asleep the normal way."
"Wouldn't be the first time," Tate murmurs looking down at Kavinsky and remembering not too long ago, when he was putting Kavinsky to bed in this same apartment. Tate settles farther down on his side, laying next to Kavinsky and looking him over - he's not about to give the pills back, but. Staying he can do.
"How are your arms?" He asks, thumbing over the back of Kavinsky's hand - checking in on the status of his paralysis.
"They're fine," he insists with a faint smile. Tate's being downright tender and Kavinsky isn't entirely sure how to feel about it. He likes it, but can he trust it?
He tips his head toward Tate, looking at the space between them as the other boy's thumb brushes his hand. Kavinsky wiggles his fingers a bit like that might prove something. He is tired. There's that, at least.
Tate's stroking of Kavinsky's hand halts when he's asked that question, and he looks up abruptly as if it were a splash of cold water right in his face. Not what he was expecting for a bed time story, so his gaze is uncertain when he looks into Kavinsky's eyes and pinches his brows together.
"Because she was a cunt." He answers, voice - sharper. "Why?"
"Just asking," he answers, soft in the face of sudden sharpness. His fingers brush Tate's like he's trying to soothe him. Maybe not the best topic to start on but Kavinsky's filters are all gone.
He was thinking of his own mother, of the shift between New Jersey and Virginia, when she started getting nosy and all up in his business. He's aware, vaguely, that maybe she just had time all of a sudden: time to be a mom, and she was trying to catch up. But it just felt like an invasion. So he made it stop.
"Been doing this since I was a kid. I don't know if they ever noticed."
Tate's sharpness sticks in his chest but doesn't keep pouring out, because Kavinsky derails it by talking about himself. Tate relaxes, listening, sinking to rest his head down against the crook of his belt arm on the bed. His other hand stays near Kavinsky's, just barely touching.
"I don't know why my mother was ever a mother to begin with," he murmurs - knowing full well that her kids were probably a strong reason why. Not what she planned, not what she expected and not what she wanted. Even him. Tate's lips firmly set together.
"They couldn't do it?" He asks, to turn back to that. "Just... you, how'd you even learn you could do it? How'd you perfect it?"
Kavinsky shakes his head. “Don’t think so, but I don’t know,” he admits. If either of his parents were capable of this, he thinks he would have noticed eventually.
Or maybe not.
He sighs and rubs his cheek a little, almost like he’s fighting sleep.
“I just did it,” he answers. “Vaguely realized what I was doing, I guess. Like, where the stuff I woke up with came from. Didn’t really start practicing shit until I was a little older.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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"Gimme one of the blue ones. Sends me off easier and doesn't knock me awake. Picture might take a while."
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He touches his hand to Kavinsky's forehead, like he expects a fever. "What else makes blue different than green? Tell me the catch."
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He lolls his head to look at Tate.
"Or you can just stay here with me and hope I fall asleep the normal way."
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"How are your arms?" He asks, thumbing over the back of Kavinsky's hand - checking in on the status of his paralysis.
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He tips his head toward Tate, looking at the space between them as the other boy's thumb brushes his hand. Kavinsky wiggles his fingers a bit like that might prove something. He is tired. There's that, at least.
"Why do you think your mom was so fucked up?"
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"Because she was a cunt." He answers, voice - sharper. "Why?"
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He was thinking of his own mother, of the shift between New Jersey and Virginia, when she started getting nosy and all up in his business. He's aware, vaguely, that maybe she just had time all of a sudden: time to be a mom, and she was trying to catch up. But it just felt like an invasion. So he made it stop.
"Been doing this since I was a kid. I don't know if they ever noticed."
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"I don't know why my mother was ever a mother to begin with," he murmurs - knowing full well that her kids were probably a strong reason why. Not what she planned, not what she expected and not what she wanted. Even him. Tate's lips firmly set together.
"They couldn't do it?" He asks, to turn back to that. "Just... you, how'd you even learn you could do it? How'd you perfect it?"
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Kavinsky shakes his head. “Don’t think so, but I don’t know,” he admits. If either of his parents were capable of this, he thinks he would have noticed eventually.
Or maybe not.
He sighs and rubs his cheek a little, almost like he’s fighting sleep.
“I just did it,” he answers. “Vaguely realized what I was doing, I guess. Like, where the stuff I woke up with came from. Didn’t really start practicing shit until I was a little older.”
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