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Kavinsky dreamt.
In Darrow, he no longer dreamt of the dream place. It was here, he could feel it, but it was no longer the place of his dreams, the place that he could pull things from. More often than not, in these past months, when he dreamt, he found himself in his study apartment, surrounded by warmth and a knowing and a comfort. It meant that, in reality, the studio was full of quiet, fantastically perfect things. It was how he wanted it, and so it was.
Kavinsky dreamt.
Over months, things had shifted and figured themselves out. Things were settling. The house was still quiet, just the two of them and now the cats, growing up quickly into gangly little teenagers with too much energy. Gally was still an ugly thing, and his sister was only a little bit better. They were good for him and Newt. The house felt like a home again, slowly, slowly. Once winter left for spring and they could liven up the garden again, it would be that much more again.
Kavinsky dreamt.
A year ago, he had come home to Newt's apartment. He did not dream of that. Ten months ago, they had bought this house. Six months ago, they had celebrated Newt's birthday. He dreamt of this house, this home, of Newt. Of Newt. Of Newt Kavinsky.
In the dream, in the dream studio, there was a box. Dark blue and velvety. Kavinsky knew what it was. He picked it up and looked inside and smiled a little bit. He put the contents to memory. He put the box to memory. He made it real.
Kavinsky woke. There, in his hand, was the box. There, beside him in their huge bed, was Newt. He slid close and wrapped his arms around him, kissed the back of his neck gently.
"Happy New Year, sugar," he whispered.
In Darrow, he no longer dreamt of the dream place. It was here, he could feel it, but it was no longer the place of his dreams, the place that he could pull things from. More often than not, in these past months, when he dreamt, he found himself in his study apartment, surrounded by warmth and a knowing and a comfort. It meant that, in reality, the studio was full of quiet, fantastically perfect things. It was how he wanted it, and so it was.
Kavinsky dreamt.
Over months, things had shifted and figured themselves out. Things were settling. The house was still quiet, just the two of them and now the cats, growing up quickly into gangly little teenagers with too much energy. Gally was still an ugly thing, and his sister was only a little bit better. They were good for him and Newt. The house felt like a home again, slowly, slowly. Once winter left for spring and they could liven up the garden again, it would be that much more again.
Kavinsky dreamt.
A year ago, he had come home to Newt's apartment. He did not dream of that. Ten months ago, they had bought this house. Six months ago, they had celebrated Newt's birthday. He dreamt of this house, this home, of Newt. Of Newt. Of Newt Kavinsky.
In the dream, in the dream studio, there was a box. Dark blue and velvety. Kavinsky knew what it was. He picked it up and looked inside and smiled a little bit. He put the contents to memory. He put the box to memory. He made it real.
Kavinsky woke. There, in his hand, was the box. There, beside him in their huge bed, was Newt. He slid close and wrapped his arms around him, kissed the back of his neck gently.
"Happy New Year, sugar," he whispered.
