mitsubishievo | Hold your breath when the blackbird flies [for Newt]

For a long time, Kavinsky sat in the garage. The door of it was shut behind him, and he'd turned the Evo off, but there's a terrified, sick part of him that whispered to him. He ignored it. But he sat there, staring at the steering wheel, and the wall beyond. It was late, he thought. Or dark at least.

What the fuck had he just done?

Nothing he was proud of. This wasn't like figuring things out with Jack and Peter, the little caveats that went into those functioning. This wasn't even really like what he'd done with Connor. This was just--it was the nastier parts of what he'd been back in Henrietta. Distraction and use and messing the whole thing up. But there was no hiding it, not like in the halls at Aglionby. There wasn't even anything to hide, physically at least.

Kavinsky sat behind the wheel of the car and wept. How stupid, to be upset over something so small. It wasn't, though. The act itself had been, but not the implications. Not what it could do to all this delicate balance. He felt like a heel. He felt worse than that.

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"I don't know," says Newt, frowning, worrying the hem of his jeans for a moment. "I don't...I'm so..." He looks at Kavinsky. "I don't even know how I feel about you...right now. I mean. I love you. But I don't know if I like you very much."

"That's, uh." Kavinsky sniffled once and nodded. "That's fair. I can stay at the apartment, if you--if you need space. You'll know where I am."

But, he was pretty sure, Newt would want to keep an eye on him, even if he was mad. Putting himself somewhere else offered up too much risk to the fragile situation.

Newt shakes his head.

"Don't go," he says. He looks up. "What were you even thinking, Joe? You got so twisty at the thought of me fucking him."

Kavinsky uttered a noise that, in any other situation, might have qualified as a laugh. He scrubbed the back of his neck and tried to think how to phrase what had gone through his head without making things out poorly.

"Um. I thought if I got him off, I could--I could get his keys off him, and drive him home." This time, the laughter was real, short, breathy bursts of hysterics. "How stupid does that sound? God. Who--who the fuck does that?"

He did. He had, now, and a few times in Henrietta. He tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling.

"You're right," says Newt, his tone flat, his voice quiet. "That does sound shucking stupid."

Any of the hysterical mirth of the situation bled right out of Kavinsky. He sat there, silently, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment. His chest ached. He couldn't breathe right.

"I know he's better than me," he whispered. "Like, a better person. That's why I got weird about the idea of you and him--that's stupid too, forget it."

"Better than you?" asks Newt, both eyebrows raised. "What...I don't even know what that means, Joseph Kavinsky. I can't...I have no shucking clue what you're talking about."

Kavinsky shrugged one shoulder, just gone a bit quiet and settled. "I dunno. It doesn't make any sense, it just--like, he's done shit. He does shit, and. And I'm some kid."

There was an irony to that, when he looked like this, he thought. It didn't matter. He sniffled once, vaguely. "Sorry, I don't know what I'm saying, I'm not making any sense."

"No," says Newt, shaking his head. "You're not. I don't give a fuck what he's done. You're the one I'm in love with. You. You shucking asshole."

There was nothing to say to that, not without looking like some heel that was begging for something--acceptance, understanding, gentleness. He hadn't earned any of those. Had done everything possible to earn the opposite. So Kavinsky was still and quiet.

Finally, after what felt like an age, Kavinsky whispered, "I love you too, Newt. And I'm sorry."

"Yeah," says Newt, nodding. "You are." He scrubs one hand back through his hair. "I don't...I don't care what's going on between you too. But you don't get to do this to me. You don't get to...You don't get to do this to me again, do you hear? Never."

The fact that there even was an again involved in this made Kavinsky's stomach twist into painful knots. He nodded quietly, blew out a breath and slowly straightened.

"I'll talk to Peter tomorrow, tell him I can't--" His voice hitched, and he stopped, then shook his head. "I'll talk to him tomorrow. I doubt I'll need to talk to Jack."

He looked at Newt, and his voice was curious, cautious. "Can I still be friends with them? If we, like. Hang out here? Maybe not right now, you know, but. But in a while?"

"Yeah," says Newt, nodding. "I'm not trying to tear your shucking life apart, K. It's just...we tried this, right? We tried it and...it's not working for me, so...Either we try something else or we call it a day." He glances at Kavinsky. "I don't want to make you unhappy."

"You're not," Kavinsky said, soft, a little breathless. "You're not tearing my life apart, and you don't make me unhappy. I did...did some fucked up shit, and I would totally understand if you needed me to put a little space and just, ya know. Focus on you."

He fiddled with his tongue ring against his lips for a second, then slumped just a little. The tension had gone out of him, leaving him like a puppet cut off strings.

"I'm...gonna go make up the day bed."

Part of Newt wants to tell him that he doesn't want that, not right now, but, in the end, he nods.

"Yeah, you're right," he says. "Okay."

"Okay," Kavinsky whispered. He sat there a moment more, gauging where he was at. Settled, surprisingly. Upset with himself, but calm and as content as the moment would allow. He'd fucked up, but he still had his home, the love of his life, and that was probably more than he deserved.

He hauled himself off the couch and shuffled into the office to make up the day bed.

Hold your breath when the blackbird flies [for Newt]

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