(no subject)

Kavinsky had stared at his phone for what felt like ages before he'd managed to get the text out, sounding casual and hopefully not weird. He was pretty sure it was weird to request something like this of his totally-not-boyfriend's boyfriend. But since he was trying to make a surprise out of things, that meant he couldn't ask Newt, or Jack, or Peter, and that left a supreme deficit in the number of people he could ask for a thing like this.

An hour and a half after he'd sent the tweet, he was waiting at the mall, staring at the entrance to a lingerie shop like it was some sort of terrifying, gaping maw. He'd gone into places like this before--Skov and Jiang had liked to go to Victoria's Secret in an effort to hit on girls; he and Newt had gone to this exact store when Newt had woken up a girl because he actually had tits to deal with and Kavinsky's bras hadn't fit. Somehow, this was so vastly different. Probably because the last time he'd looked at girl's underthings, they'd either been on his boyfriend, or were generic cotton things.

He cast his eyes skyward. "Dear Jesus," he mumbled. "Please, for once in your fucking existence, help me out for ten minutes. Peace, J-Kavinsky."