mitsubishievo | I've got headaches and bad luck but they couldn't touch you, no [for Peter]

The Evo was already parked out front when the bus pulled up at its stop, blessedly right in front of Ocean View. Often Kavinsky was timely, but seeing the turnaround laid out like this was a new, thrilling thing. Peter had asked for his company and gotten it before he was even present to receive it. That and a few conversations and a silly little shape in his last text were telling a story Peter wanted so desperately to be a part of. It hardly seemed real. Until his eyes were on the shape of that boy in front of his door. Peter grinned at the shape of those shoulders, his colorful shoes, his swoop of hair.

"You could have let yourself in," Peter said gently, leaning over and against him to unlock the door. He pushed it open but before he let Kavinsky in, he wrapped his arms around him in greeting, holding him there, soaking in how grateful he felt to have him. He pulled back with a wide, flushed smile.

"Hey," he said, by way of greeting. He was still smiling when he stepped aside to let Kavinsky into his apartment. What a basket case he was for that boy.

Kavinsky warmed through in a curious, elated way, when Peter spoke and even before he touched him. Then, his arms were wound around him, and Kavinsky couldn't keep the smile off his face. He was off kilter, as much as he'd been when he'd touched Jack and when he and Newt had discussed this strange cosmic fall out, weeks ago now. But Peter--Peter was stable and certain, this time around. Kavinsky was fairly sure he knew exactly where he stood here.

"Wasn't sure if you were here yet," he confessed, smoothing a hand up the back of Peter's neck while he was close, and not begrudging when he moved away and they could step into the apartment.

There were words on his tongue--the last time I let myself in without knocking--but he didn't follow that line of thought, and he certainly didn't speak the words that had sprung up in him. Instead, Kavinsky fidgeted with his phone in his pocket, smiling softly as he watched Peter fill space.

"Good day, though?"

"Even if I wasn't," Peter said, holding the door for Kavinsky before he closed it carefully behind them. He locked it. The rest of the world was always welcome in Peter's little corner of it. Tonight, his world was narrow and it was all smiles and angular hips and denim and those ridiculous shoes.

"It wasn't bad," Peter confirmed, squeezing Kavinsky's hand on the way to the kitchen. "It's better now." Their hands touched more, now. There were many places Peter couldn't have touched before and while hands weren't necessarily on the list, they never did. Maybe it was something they'd thought held the facade together. Peter had never thought about it. What was better: he didn't have to think about it at all.

He opened the fridge. "Want something? I'm going to have to think about dinner soon." He hadn't eaten since breakfast, he realized as he took out his water pitcher and bumped the door closed.

Peter locked out the world, and Kavinsky focused in on this, on the boy in front of him and this warm, close place, and the home that Peter was slowly making in this apartment that he had barely stepped into until Jason was gone. This place felt almost as much like home as the house did, any more, because it had Peter here, and Peter was making it his place.

He looped his fingers against Peter's fingers when he touched his hand, just long enough before he moved into the kitchen. Kavinsky trailed along with him, admiring him and smiling to himself to be sharing this space and time.

"Could make you something," he offered softly. "Us. Make us something. If you wanted? You have that audition yet?"

Kavinsky was a live wire and, in his presence, Peter was a puddle. Fingers laced for just a moment and Peter's face stretched into a smile so wide that he wouldn't look at Kavinsky. It said too much -- too much that shouldn't be said.

He heard feet shuffling after him. His eyes lifted to look behind him and Kavinsky was trailing after, approving in his attention, smiling with a much more muted brilliance. IF they were back in just friends mode, he'd have been touching him already and calling it nothing. The only reason to restrain himself had something to do with decency and Peter was quickly forgetting all that. They'd kissed a few times, now, and each time was a new chunk of peace and satisfaction all its own.

The dinner offer broke him. He licked his lips and didn't -- did not -- think about how less than an hour ago, Kavinsky was pretending he hadn't asked Peter to send him a dick pic. He was only just learning to cope with the idea that there was no guilt in occupying the same space every possible moment, so what was beyond that was still just a bit out of Peter's mental capacity. Sometimes.

"Yeah, okay," Peter said gently, bumping their foreheads together and swaying them to snake an arm around Kavinsky's waist. "I'll see what I have." In a minute. One hundred percent of his view was that frenetic boy and that was so very good by him.

"Audition's tomorrow." Peter tucked a strand of Kavinsky's hair back into place. "First day of school, too."

Kavinsky wound his arms around Peter's neck, in answer to the arm around his waist. For a moment, they were still. The words hung between them--Kavinsky's fresh promise of food, Peter's answer to the questions asked, all the things they'd said in text.

Slowly, almost nervously, Kavinsky leaned in and tested a kiss against Peter's cheek. When he'd professed his nerves, even humorlessly, he hadn't realized he'd been worriedly holding his breath that maybe there was something wrong with him, in a long series of things wrong with him. Hadn't he spent years telling himself that, once he fucked a girl, he'd be cured?

But the kiss swelled warm heat in his chest, just as kissing Newt had. Different, but involved. He sighed against Peter's cheek and tucked their foreheads against each other.

"Shit, that's right. 's goddamn late in the year, man."

Peter's eyes slipped closed against that sweet kiss, tentative and gentle. Peter thought he was being careful for his sake, but Peter wondered if he wasn't worried about his own stability. In all probability, Kavinsky had just done something he'd tried to get himself to do more than once at home. It was something that had occurred to Peter, but never seriously, something that Jason had gone through very differently.

So yes, Kavinsky was getting sweeter as they moved forward, but this one was also rattled. Peter could not relate, didn't ever think he could, but he knew what it felt like to battle with what he wanted and what felt right. The status quo was always resetting. Peter himself was proof of that, he and Kavinsky together doubly so.

"Yeah, St. Cecilia's started in like July," Peter said idly, caressing hands hands up Kavinsky's sides over his shirt, just fingertips back down. On the way back up, his hands spread out more against his back, felt up either side of his spine, warm and soothing and close.

"Doing okay?" He watched Kavinsky's face, angled up just a touch in their slight height difference. They didn't have to talk about it, but Peter had a feeling that was part of what Kavinsky was doing here. They talked; it was what they did, and they didn't forget, they dealt with it and put it away together. Peter dared not think of it as a sustainable dynamic, except when he absolutely did.

"Shit in Henrietta started around Labor Day. 's weird, like a week later than I'm used to?" Kavinsky snorted a little and shrugged. He didn't move much away from Peter, didn't untangle himself from the knot their arms made, but he scooted back to the end of their limbs, so he had a good focus on Peter's face as they talked. "Whatever, I just gotta keep you and Newt from going crazy with school work, yeah?"

And that touched on Peter's question. It was not, after all, about some of what they'd texted. Bits of it. It was about the situation, and why Peter had invited him here--but not really that, either. Peter was always inviting him over; or, otherwise, there was the standing assumption that Kavinsky would find himself here.

"'s weird," he admitted, then laughed. Peter's touch on his sides, his back, were a livewire. He needed this. "Like. So Jack--do you know Jack? Vincent?--anyway, he got all ladyfied and shit, too, a few days before...everything. And, uh. That was a weird fuckin' fiasco, you know? And now Newt, and it's just--"

Kavinsky sighed nervously and licked his lips. "I used to try, with girls, 'cause maybe I just didn't know any better? Maybe if I could, I'd stop--? But it--this is probably different. I dunno, I'm kinda freakin' out."

"You kept us sane last semester," Peter reminded him, and while he was assuming on Newt's behalf, it was safe to do so. Kavinsky's support, when he gave it, was unwavering. Even though mistakes -- both deliberate and not -- Kavinsky had a way of being there. Maybe it was muscle memory from keeping his eyes and ears open in Henrietta, to attack and to shelter. The fact that he'd self-made all of that manic attention into this kind of solid support was one of those incredible things that kept Peter right where he was.

Peter listened carefully. He watched Kavinsky's face, since the boy had found the courage to show him all of this. He never stopped touching, and the closer Kavinsky got to that gnawing doubt, the closer Peter drew himself. His fingers slipped up the back of Kavinsky's shirt and soothed along his spine, more sweet than insistent. Skin on skin was a suggestive thing, but it didn't have to be. Peter's intention was more in the chest than near the beltline.

"I do know him!" His exclamation was quiet, gentle, careful not to spook the boy. "I didn't realize." And now was not the time to be jealous because jealousy was effectively useless in this relationship. Still, Jack was a kind of handsome that Peter couldn't ever match, and cooler than Peter could even pretend to be. Kavinsky could not be blamed for being preoccupied by Jack.

"I think it is different," Peter continued, thoughtful. "This isn't about doing what's right, is it? It feels wrong but it's who you love." And that, that was something they both knew a lot about. Peter knew, too, what gay panic looked like, what it felt like to watch someone that was his entire world seek comfort in something dishonest and what it felt like to watch everything crumble down after.

"You're okay, gorgeous." His hands were up around Kavinsky's shoulderblades, now, his arms completely disappeared in the back of Kavinsky's shirt, fingers still making soft passes at his skin. He pressed a gentle, careful kiss to Kavinsky's chin.

Kavinsky was fairly certain he'd done very little to keep either of them sane through spring semester. There had been a lot of upheaval over the months leading to summer. He was glad, now, that things had settled out the way that they had. Things could have gone considerably worse, and it was good that they had not.

The quiet exclamation was followed by a face, a look that Kavinsky didn't want to interpret but could, easily. In another lifetime, he might have played this deep, worried affection off the hormonal obsession. Here, now, Kavinsky lifted a hand to rub his knuckles gently against Peter's chin and worry away that spot of concern. He had never thought himself so capable of emotion; here he was, though.

"It feels...weird. More than wrong." Peter's fingers were warm spots on Kavinsky's back, moving upward. They were tangled against each other, and that made him smile a bit, shifting slowly so that he could lean against a counter but not lose Peter's touch. "'s still Newt in there. Like it was still Jack. Fuck, man, if you and Al join the ranks, I'm gonna be fuckin' four for four on this shit and I might die."

He kept his fingers gently against Peter's chin, and so he felt him move before Peter pressed a kiss to his chin. Kavinsky tilted down, just a little, so that their lips brushed.

That small little gesture robbed Peter of his breath. It was a quiet acknowledgement of his feelings, a promise of comfort with nothing discarded. In that little caress, Peter knew that what he felt mattered and that what he feared wouldn't come to pass. The first part offered more comfort than the second. Peter had been assured of such things before. Those sorts of things lingered. It was up to Peter to choose which stood in the foreground.

They kissed. Peter slipped a hand around to the Kavinsky's front under his shirt and rested a hand gently over his sternum. At his fingertips, he could feel Kavinsky's heart thumping quickly. He was scared, possibly also elated. Kavinsky kissed him like he was at the very least reverent.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" He didn't quite pull away, thought maybe he should have. It would have given the pretense of innocence in his voice a single leg to stand on.

"This is helping," Kavinsky assured, also not quite moving away. Peter's hands were hot on his skin, a brand, marking his ribs slowly. The word of God laid waste under his skin, pulling him in and in and in.

He kissed Peter again, slow and sweet. This was touching slowly toward an edge that he would have to pull himself away from, an edge that demanded he slow and think and maybe have to ask for permissions. An edge that demanded they stop and talk about what this was.

He kept kissing, for a moment. Then, when he could feel heat in his chest, he pulled back a little. Gently, he grabbed Peter's wrist and slid his fingers down from under his shirt. Only that one. The one on his back could stay. "You still want me to cook?"

For a quick second, it felt like a step back and into shame, and Peter nearly recoiled. His memory was cruel, his hurt lasting -- outlasting even the good feelings. That was the thing about hurt: it stuck around longer than what soothed it away.

No, Kavinsky was right. What they wanted and what they needed were two different things. It was more important that it lasted. Together, they could build something sustainable, but it would have to be carefully crafted. Unmuddied by any more questionable decisions. Peter moved a hand to sift through the hair at the back of Kavinsky's head.

"Hell yeah!" Peter said, stealing a quick kiss before he stole away to the fridge to see what he had. "Let's see, I have chicken and some veggies." He leaned against the freezer door and wrinkled his nose apologetically. "It's been a while since I've gone grocery shopping."

Kavinsky admired Peter and the way he moved, fluidity and grace and long limbs. He stayed against the counter for now, chilled to not be receiving Peter's touch, pressing the heels of his palms into the edge as if that would ground him more than Peter's proximity.

"Chicken and veg sounds good," Kavinsky said with a nod. He turned and looked in the pantry to see if there was pasta or rice or something. "Also, I cannot add grocery shopping for you onto the list of things I do in a week, you're gonna have to learn how to take care of yourself. God."

He smiled to soften the blow, teasing and letting the edge of adoration sink into it. He thought, since January, since things had settled back in with Newt and Al, he might have always loved this boy. But other preoccupations, his guilt, Peter's guilt, had shuddered that. Now, there was nothing but the two of them.

There were so many times, now, That Peter caught Kavinsky watching him. They weren't very long into whatever they were doing, but Peter couldn't count on just his hands how many times he'd caught Kavinsky admiring him. It was good. Half the time they were high, all Peter did was watch Kavinsky. He was always moving and he looked so good in motion. Or at rest. Or whenever.

"Jerk!" He shoved Kavinsky's arm playfully, not that he could go anywhere, holding down Peter's counter like that. "I do fine on my own, thank you!" While he was very proud of his independence, he didn't mind asking for help. When he did, it was usually from Kavinsky or Magnus, and while Magnus was a remarkable being, getting help from him didn't feel quite the same as it did from Kavinsky.

There was that look again: close observation with no scrutiny, admiration and no holds barred. If he hadn't already loved Kavinsky like he did, he would have fallen flat on the spot. This kind of connection, mutual admiration, was what made it so hard not to touch him.

He gave in, though not quite how he wanted to. He slipped his arms back around Kavinsky, under his arms and snuggled in, head pressed to his chest. The counter held them up and Peter kept Kavinsky pressed there. Food would happen. Eventually.

"You want to do the veggies or the chicken?" Peter asked, nuzzling his face into Kavinsky's chest, giggling just a touch because he was allowed to do so and thrill in it.

They were all wound together, arms around each other. Peter fit against his chest in the way that Newt or Al or Jack did, a perfect puzzle piece to couple with all his edges. He was tucked in so close, so perfectly, and all Kavinsky could do was wrap his arms around him and scratch gently at his scalp.

"I'm gonna make 'em both, man. Meat and veg." He kissed Peter's forehead, running his fingers up and down his spine, over his shirt. Food was the furthest thing from his mind right now. All he could think of was this boy in his arms, pressed against his chest, breathing in his space.

"Maybe in a minute, though," he murmured. "Got time. No rush, right?"

A contented sigh slipped from between closed lips, huffing out of his nose against the softness of Kavinsky's shirt. The boy smelled of smoke and some douchey locker room scent and Peter inhaled it, letting it warm him like the fingers in his hair. The touch was the real magic: relaxing Peter into his pillar of gorgeousness.

"Then what am I gonna do?" Peter asked, tilting his head up toward the kiss and capturing a few spots on Kavinsky's chin and jaw in return. There was still an edge of wrongness that hadn't dissipated but -- much to Peter's deep shame -- he sort of liked that. There was a passing familiarity with it, but like it had been updated to accommodate the future.

"Mmn," Kavinsky hummed, smiling and giving a soft chuckle. He stroked his fingers through the hair at Peter's nape, and gently reversed their positions so that it was Peter against the counter, and himself hemming the other boy in.

"Be a distraction, probably," he proclaimed, all lazy smile and soft, dark eyes. He kissed Peter, holding the back of his neck, because he could. Because it was nice and they were not teasing or making fun, leaning in too close and then laughing themselves away. It was just Peter's soft mouth under his mouth.

Their bodies fit so close together, and Kavinsky sighed into the kiss, just letting himself feel this moment.

Peter made a sound something like token protest when he eased Peter against the counter. Kavinsky's fingers were firm, his gaze pressed Peter further into the counter. No distance stretched between them; Kavinsky was kissing Peter before he could drop his jaw in mock-offense at this accusation. As much as he loved that -- the ribbing that led to shoving and curious touch -- nothing compared to this.

He extracted his arms from beneath Kavinsky's. To get to his toes, he slithered himself up between the counter and that perfect boy. He kissed that tiny sound from his lips, lined his jaw with his hands, and kissed him like he meant it. Like he'd always wanted to. The kiss deepened as Peter canted his head. His skin burned against Kavinsky's. This boy was lighting fires, inside and out.

When he came up, he was more breathless than he meant to be. He slouched back a bit and took Kavinsky with him, forehead-to-forehead.

"I'm a distraction?" Peter asked, aiming for doubtful and landing somewhere near deeply affected.

It was such a wonderful, lazy sort of kiss, series of kisses. There was such a hunger there, in both of them. Kavinsky didn't think he was capable of this much hunger, when it was just kissing. But he fell into it, a well that he could not find the bottom of.

When they pulled apart, it wasn't really pulling apart. They were looped around each other, touching at the forehead, at the hips. Kavinsky was not yet aroused, but that was in part because he was reigning himself in. He refused to make a mess of this. Peter deserved all the proper steps in all the right order, and now that Kavinsky knew how to do that, it made it easier.

"Definitely a distraction," Kavinsky said with a grin. "I'm tryin' to cook here, man."

"You started it!" Peter said, smacking the back of Kavinsky's shoulder weakly. He kissed Kavinsky's lips again, more chase than the last, save for the proximity of hips. Kavinsky wanted, he could feel it, but he was taking it slow. Peter wondered if it was for him or for Kavinsky's sake. Peter had never felt a natural progression, and since his time in Darrow, Kavinsky had. Peter was as he always was: eager to learn. He was also happy to teach, where he could.

"This isn't cooking." Still, he scratched his hand at the scruff on Kavinsky's chin, kissed the jut of his adam's apple, then replaced his hands to Kavinsky's hips. He pushed back gently, reluctantly.

"I think I have some rice in the pantry. Would you please grab it?" He whirled Kavinsky around by the shoulders and smacked his ass gently with both hands, urging him forward to complete the task. He felt giddy, light in his head and chest and legs. As he turned to open the fridge and retrieve the rest of the ingredients for their impromptu dinner, he scraped his teeth over his bottom lip to try and contain it. There was no use; he was still grinning when he nudged the fridge door closed with his foot, balancing bags of various veggies atop a bed of packaged, raw chicken breast.

"How do you want to cook it?" Peter was going to help as much as Kavinsky let him. He probably didn't know where all of the pans were or where Peter kept his cutting board or things like that. At the very least, he could do that prep-type stuff.

Kavinsky laughed, breathless and happy, as they separated. He didn't really want to be separate, but it was probably for the best. Let them both cool off a little, while dinner was made.

He found the rice in the pantry and started to look through the cabinets for pots and pans. For all that Kavinsky knew Peter's apartment, he was not particularly familiar with the kitchen. Most of their time eating together was snack food and coffee and other bullshit, when they were high.

Kavinsky was suddenly unsure if he could ever show his face in that coffee shop again. Maybe they'd have to go to the cat cafe instead. It was further away, and there were people from Henrietta there, but not ones that loathed him. And no Freddie, to boot.

"Depends on what you've got. If you have flour and spices, and eggs, I can make pan-fried chicken? Steam the veggies over the rice while it's cooking?"

"I have all of those things!" Peter chirped excitedly, disappearing into the pantry to retrieve the non-perishables and nodding toward the fridge for the eggs. A part of Peter had wanted to let Kavinsky putter around his kitchen and orient himself. That boy was so quick to get his bearings that it was fascinating. Many an afternoon had passed where Peter had soaked in his brilliance and he wanted many more. There were less brilliant things he wanted, but they could wait, even if Peter was pretty Goddamn sure those things were plenty brilliant too.

As Kavinsky retrieved the eggs, Peter got the pots, the pan, dragged out the spice rack, and retrieved a cutting board and knives. Kavinsky said he didn't want help but he was going to get it.

Easily, they fell into a rhythm. Kavinsky did not object to Peter being a part of the cooking process--it was his kitchen, after all--and they moved around each other like they'd been doing this for weeks or months or years. It had taken much bumping and laughter in Kavinsky's house, with Newt and Al, for the three of them to be able to put a dinner together. Kavinsky wasn't sure if his and Peter's ease was because there was only the two of them, or because they had been moving around each other in various ways for months now.

Once the rice was set to cooking, and the chicken was ready to be fried, Kavinsky paused. He caught Peter up in his arms, wrapped around him from behind, and he kissed at his neck. There were so many heavy words on his tongue, and he wanted to say all of them, but this felt so safe and unbreakable. Putting the words out might crack something that could not be fixed.

He kissed Peter's neck some more, from his ear to his shoulder and back, and sighed against the skin behind his ear, "Obicham te." It was safe to say things in Bulgarian. Nobody else understood what he was saying.

The veggies were washed and cut. After that, there wasn't a whole lot he could do, so he started to clean up where he could, rinsing utensils and packing them neatly into the dishwasher, wiping the counter free of chicken-juice and gathering the trash to be taken out. Kavinsky was a tidy person, not just in Peter's space but all around. There was a compulsiveness about the way he kept everything contained to one area, swept up after himself, and moved onto the next. At St. Cecilia's, everyone had been a mess. Invariably, every party ended with Matt and Peter picking up after their friends, like every morning began with Peter picking up after Jason. So much had changed.

Peter was about to open the cabinet for a water cup when he was seized by the middle. He squeaked a little, pleased and surprised, and curled his arm backward to scratched gently through the hair behind Kavinsky's ear, head tilted away so he could get as much of this as possible. Kavinsky said something and Peter let the vibration of the words warm him. Whatever it was that Kavinsky said, he sounded like he meant it, and it sounded wonderful. Over and over again it struck Peter how much he felt like he belonged exactly where he was.

"Mmm, you have no idea how long I've wanted you to kiss me there." He emitted a nervous little laugh because he meant it so much. Kavinsky's breath had brushed his neck countless times, and each time Peter wanted to lean in. He could've called it an accident or made a joke or something. Now, he was glad he hadn't. This was so worth the wait. He dipped his head and turned just enough to capture Kavinsky's roaming mouth, removing his hand long enough to turn and replace it at the back of Kavinsky's neck, forward-facing and gentle. He kissed him again. And again. And once more.

Voice soft, forehead-to-forehead, Peter whispered, "I'm glad you're here."

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