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Kavinsky stared at the bag for a while. Newt was at school for a little while longer. Kavinsky was done with work for the day, and Beca had said she didn't need him for the evening, so he'd headed home. He'd make dinner, but in a minute. For the moment, he was going to stare at this bag and consider what the hell he was doing.

All the lingerie he'd bought still had the tags on it. The girl at the shop had said that as long as it did, he could still return it. He'd thought about that, a couple times, in fits and starts. But then he thought about the way that Newt looked at him in those modest cotton panties and that grey dress and he thought, it wasn't so bad. He thought, he could do that. Newt would look at him adoringly any way he looked, but it was sort of nice to do something stupid, something silly, and see how it made Newt go wild.

So Kavinsky put on the garter and the stockings, and pulled on the lacy black panties as well. He pulled his jeans on over it, and one of Newt's soft, worn sweaters--a little narrow in the shoulders for him, these days, but comfy and warm.

Just having the lingerie on, he found, was sort of thrilling, and sort of comforting. It was a secret that nobody needed to know about, he realized. It could just be this: wearing them under his clothes, a strange, subtle press of cloth that was totally different than his normal underwear. He put away the bag with the other panties in them, and then he went into the kitchen to start making dinner.

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Everything feels heavier than it did before. He's managed to keep going, managed to keep putting one foot in front of the other but most of it has been down to Kavinsky. Kavinsky dragging him out of bed in the morning and driving him to class. Kavinsky making sure he's where he's supposed to be.

He lets himself into the house and drops his bag by the door, padding through the house until he finds Kavinsky cooking. Something warm settles over his shoulders. Something that feels like safe.

"Hey, love."

Kavinsky half turned as Newt came in, hearing his rustling. It was strange, a bit, the decrease in sound. He hadn't thought of Al as making a terrible amount of noise. Maybe they were both just muffled a little with the weight of it.

"Hey, sugar," he said, and smiled. It was easiest to smile when he saw Newt. Everything else felt a little tacked on. Not performative, like he'd gotten so used to, but something so obviously covering everything else. He didn't have to be like that with Newt. That, at least, was the same.

He moved away from the stove, gesturing back to it. "Goulash. Thought it'd be good. Want me to make some tea?"

The food on the stove smells warm and comforting, heavy in a way that Kavinsky's food is when it's Bulgarian. Hearty. Newt nods, slipping into a seat at the table. He's tired. He's so tired.

"Tea sounds really shucking good, actually."

Kavinsky rubbed his thumb against the nape of Newt's neck. They were both taking things roughly, though in different ways. He was doing everything he could to keep them floating, to keep things smooth and quiet and home. He was fairly certain why he'd decided to put on what he had.

He bent and kissed the spot he'd just touched, then returned to the stove to start getting tea ready.

"I may also have a surprise? If you're up for it?"

Kavinsky usually means one thing when he says surprise like that, and a faint smile tugs at the corner of Newt's mouth. Their only comfort is in each other.

"Maybe," he says. "What kind of surprise?"

Kavinsky wished he could do more. But what did he have? His patience and love, his understanding, his own complimentary suffering. He'd prefer to act like they were alive, even if it was only in stupid little gestures like this: food and tea and trying to tug Newt toward warmth and light.

He leaned against the counter and made sure that Newt was looking at him as he unfastened his jeans. The garter belt came into view first, peeking over the waist of his jeans, and when he peeled them down a little, there were the panties too. All that lace and framing on his skin.

Newt's eyes widen a little at the flash of lace against the flatness of Kavinsky's belly, the bulge of his cock against the panties.

"When did you get those?"

Kavinsky blushed a little bit, smiling cautiously as Newt looked at him like that. He ran his fingers across the belt, tracing where it clung to his waist. "A couple weeks ago? I've been being too chicken shit to put 'em on..."

He shrugged a little, tapping his fingers on the lace panel of the garter belt. "I dunno, it's silly."

"Doesn't look shucking silly from where I'm sitting," says Newt, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Let me see properly?"

Kavinsky bit his lip and pushed his jeans down, revealing the stockings, the garter, the panties. He turned, folded his jeans and stripped off his shirt, so it was just those things and his sparse jewelry he was standing there in. He finished making Newt his tea, and then brought it over.

It was thrilling, a little bit. He flushed a bit and tried to keep his arousal tamped down a moment longer.

Newt reaches out and touches Kavinsky's bare hip, right above the lace. His breath catches just a little. He doesn't look Kavinsky in the face, not right then.

"I'm scared I'll go too hard on you."

Kavinsky ran his fingers through Newt's hair. He understood the worry, but it felt out of place. When had they ever worried about such a thing? There had been times, moment, of needing the gentleness more than the roughness. But Newt had never gone too far, never pushed where Kavinsky didn't want to go.

He leaned down and kissed Newt's ear. "Dinner's got a bit longer to cook," he murmured. "But I can put my pants back on, if you'd rather?"

Newt hesitates, but only for a moment or two and then he shakes his head, his teeth touching his lip for a second.

"But I do want to drink my tea," he says, quietly. "Kneel down."

Kavinsky leaned in and kissed Newt softly, but then did as he'd been told. He folded down onto the floor at Newt's hip, curled his legs neatly underneath him, and tilted gently toward him. Newt's leg was warm and firm under the side of his head, and Kavinsky rested against him silently.

It's so easy to focus on, the weight of Kavinsky's naked upper body across his lap as he lifts the cup and drinks. It's so easy to pretend that nothing's changed, that this is just them together, and there are other boys that Kavinsky loves, but not exactly like he loves Newt, and this. Easy to pretend that Al will be home, but not until later.

"How does it feel?" he asks. "Wearing things like that for me?"

"Different," he said earnestly. "Good, for you. I feel...good. Kinda the same way wearing my collar feels." Admitting to that last part hadn't been something he'd been intending, but only because he hadn't realized that was the secure, muzzy feeling he was having until just then.

"Yeah?" asks Newt, sipping his tea again. "Is that because you...you're dressed like that just for me? To do whatever i want?"

Kavinsky breathed out and nodded, head tucked neatly in Newt's lap. His eyes drifted all the way closed and he let Newt's voice roll over him pleasantly. "Just for you, sugar. You went so wild for the cotton panties, I thought...something fancier might be nice."

"You look beautiful like that," says Newt, letting his fingers drift through Kavinsky's hair as he drinks his tea. "You look fit for filthy shucking things, love."

"Could be," he assured softly. He tilted his head along with Newt's touch, sighing out gently from the weight and warmth of his fingers on his scalp. When he looked up at him he smiled, blissful and adoring. They could still have this, could still make this work. He wanted to think that Newt would have him even without Al here as well, that he would be enough. The hypocrisy of the thought occurred to him, but he put it aside. He turned his head and kissed Newt's wrist gently.

"It'd be a shame to waste it." He's still very aware of how easy it would be, right now, to go too far, to push too hard. There's so much anger in him, wrapped up in the hurt and the loss. Kavinsky, he thinks, can take it. Kavinsky loves him enough to be safe despite it. And Newt? Newt can barely remember loving anyone as much as he loves the boy kneeling in front of him. He tugs Kavinsky's hair lightly.

Kavinsky sighed at the light tug, following the track of it, tilting his head back to look up at Newt. As any time they did something like this, he was aware of the power exchanged between them: he, basically naked and kneeling; Newt, swathed in all his layers and sitting like a prince.

"Whatever you want, sugar," he assured. And he meant it. He was healed from the bruises and busts of Fight Club, and they both knew how well he wore Newt's marks in place of more casual violence. He could be what Newt needed him to be, right now.

"I bet you want that too, don't you?" says Newt, scratching his nails lightly against Kavinsky's scalp. "Want me to go hard on you. Give you something else to shucking focus on."

Kavinsky nodded, because he did want it. He wanted to be out of his head, wanted to be focused on a physical pain that he could explain, wanted to have some evidence of the hurts for days to come.

"Want to focus on you," he breathed. The breath stuttered a moment, and then he said, "You know I make a good distraction, sugar. However you wanna have one."

Newt finishes his tea and sets the cup down. He thinks about it for a moment.

"Get up in my lap," he says. "Facing me."