mitsubishievo | (no subject)

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It was such a little thing, in the grand scheme of things. They'd been working on refurnishing the house since they got out of the hospital, basically, and things were just about back to rights, and now things were decorated too for the season. That was nice, and as it should be. Kavinsky had pulled out of savings, substantially, to make things happen, but when it got down to it the house was paid, and they lived rather comfortably with their stipends and their jobs, so it was alright. Buying a replacement truck for Newt's landscaping business had put a dent in things, but it had been a comfortable purchase, and Kavinsky had felt okay with that.

Purchasing a car for himself had felt strangely daunting. He'd never actually done that before. His car had always been a dream, had always been that Mitsubishi Evolution, except when it had been the Ferrari he'd won in a bet when he first got here. There weren't a lot of dealerships in Darrow. There wasn't a lot of need for them. He had very limited choices, and he was picky.

So when he saw it, the car, his heart stopped a little bit. He was worried a little bit that it was a dream. Bone white and terrifying for a second, heart stopping, gloriously boyish even with that stupid hatchback. No, it didn't feel like a dream. And besides, Kavinsky hadn't dreamt in almost a month.

He drove it home, and the VW Golf sang under him, and he could have wept for it. It was almost the same model year that Prokopenko's would have been, because Darrow was terrible and wonderful like that. Newt was going to give him a look for that, probably, if he mentioned it, somewhere between sympathetic and stern. Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he'd just laugh that Kavinsky was driving a hatchback.

He parked in the driveway, next to the truck, and breathed in the smell of new car.

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He hears the engine in the driveway, subtly different from the Evo's growl. Newt's spent the afternoon in the lounge, reading and, when he hears his husband come home, he gets up and pads to the front door, opening it and leaning his head against the frame, just taking the opportunity to watch Kavinsky for a moment.

Kavinsky hauled himself out of the driver's seat and leaned over the top of the car, watching Newt as he watched him. He smiled, love blossoming behind his ribs, and let the lazy emotion of it fill him all the way to the brim.

"The silhouette's a little different, huh?"

"Yeah," says Newt, head tilted to one side, pretending to be critical as he surveys the new car. "But it suits you, all the same. How does it feel to drive, shank?"

“A bit like flying,” Kavinsky admitted with a smile. He moved away from the car, juggling the keys with one hand. He’d already put the house keys on the fob, the studio key, and things felt right.

He moved away from the car, touching the hood reverently as he passed, before coming to a stop in front of Newt.

“I know they’re just stuff sometimes,” he said. “But it’s good to have them.”

"You look right with a car like that," says Newt, who still feels naked without his wedding ring, but isn't going to say it again. "Do we need to christen it?"

Kavinsky breathed out a laugh. He caught Newt's hands and squeezed them gently. The rings were coming, he thought, or they would. Without being able to dream them, Kavinsky wanted to find something perfect. He was maybe being a little too much of a stickler about that. Maybe. He said nothing.

He did kiss Newt, soft and sweet. "We definitely could," he said. "The back seats lay flat."

They've barely kissed, since that night that Newt ended up in the hospital, so it feels gentle, tentative, almost. He pushes his fingers into Kavinsky's dark hair and tugs, just a little, holding him to another kiss.

"Sounds like it could be nice," he says.

There was something about just kissing, being held by his hair and wanted like that, and doing it right there in the front door of their house that was very satisfying. They had neighbors. Kavinsky didn't think the neighbors particularly liked him, with his swearing and his loud cars and music. Kavinsky didn't really care if the neighbors liked him, because it didn't matter in Darrow.

It didn't matter with Newt here, right here.

He wrapped his arms around Newt's waist and pulled him close, just a little bit off his toes, because there was just enough difference in their heights to do that. He broke the kiss only to glance at the car in the driveway. "You wanna just leave it there, or are we gonna at least pretend like we've got some modesty and pull it into the garage?"

Newt loves being pulled up onto his tiptoes like that, loves being held like that, and he stays pressed against Kavinsky everywhere that he can get. He's surprised by how hungry he is, how much he wants.

"Whatever you want, shank," he says, and kisses him again.

It was sort of thrilling, the idea of just doing it right there in the driveway. They'd done it a lot of places. Parked out in the countryside and pulled over on the side of the road for blowjobs, all sorts of public and semi-public things, and they've fooled around in the garage once or twice. Almost everything always ends up back in bed, or the couch. Back in the house.

He edges, slowly, toward the driveway. He doesn't want to give up kissing, but it's probably safer if they do. Besides, he has to fish his keys back out of his pocket so they can actually put the seats down, either way.

Newt pulls away, but only enough to let Kavinsky get to his keys and open the door. He glances inside.

"Oh, man, it's nice. I think I actually like it more than the Evo." He pauses for a moment. "Is that really disloyal?"

"Totally disloyal," Kavinsky said teasingly. He opened the back to put the seats down, so that it had the full size available to them. It was big enough for a small mattress back there. He knew, because he'd moved one before.

He sat down on the now-lowered back seat, scooting in so that there was room for them both. Softly, he admitted, "Proko had one almost just like it."

Newt knows enough, knows Kavinsky well enough and how his heart works, that he doesn't even feel a twinge when Kavinsky mentions Proko like that. At the end of the day, there's one person who Kavinsky comes home to, no matter what else. They've come a long way. He leans in and presses a kiss against the corner of his husband's mouth.

There was some curious relief in no questions asked about it, that they'd gotten to such a place. The car was just a car, even if it reminded him a little of a boy. Kavinsky's chest welled up with so much love as he tilted back, taking Newt with him. The folded down seats were not the most comfortable. He knew that.

He slid his fingers up under Newt's shirt, squeezing his sides gently.

Newt squirms a little, as Kavinsky's hands slide up under his layers, palms against bare skin. He shifts, swinging one leg across so that he can straddle Kavinsky's thighs, leaning down to press a kiss against his lips again.

They squirmed and shifted. Kavinsky leaned, briefly, to make sure they got the door shut behind them. It was brisk enough outside that he didn't want a draft in the car if they were going to get frisky in here.

Then he was focused. Newt was there, a solid weight across his thighs, an insistent press of lips, and Kavinsky sighed happily. It felt like closure, like they could put everything that had happened, everything they'd lost and been through, neatly away, even just for a moment. His fingers skirted to Newt's spine, working up his back, pushing his layers up slowly as they kissed.

"Missed you," he whispered.

"I've been right here," says Newt, but he knows what Kavinsky means. He squirms to press closer, his hops rocking down rhythmically against Kavinsky's as he enjoys the skin to skin contact under his clothes. "I'm right here, love."

Kavinsky shifted his hips to meet Newt's, a lazy movement still. It feels like it's been forever, like the months that have just sort of gotten away from them, a tangle of things out of their control, have stretched on forever.

He pulled off Newt's top layers, lowering his head to kiss his neck, his collarbone, his fingers flush to his back still. They hadn't gone anywhere but everything had been just out of reach for so long, and now--now it felt like it was settling back neatly into place.

Stripped down to the thin stuff of his t-shirt, Newt settles more comfortably into place, a hand planted on either side of Kavinsky's head, bending down to kiss him again, nipping at his bottom lip.

It was an easy thing to fall into, that heady sort of kissing, the tug of teeth and slow shift of their hips together. He lowered his hands to Newt's ass and squeezed, urging the way that he moved. It was nice just to lay there and make out, to grind against Newt and feel the hot weight of him, how very real he felt.

He shifted one hand, nudging his fingertips down the back of Newt's jeans.

Newt doesn't pull away from any of the touches. He moans softly against the press of Kavinsky's mouth, one hand pushing into his hair to hold him, to change the angle of his head slightly, to demand slightly more.

It was easy to give it up for him, to tilt his head and seek what Newt wanted from him. He shifted a hand off of Newt and fumbled with his own jeans, a clumsy thing with the way he was sprawled underneath him. He laughed, softly, smiling against Newt's mouth.

"This how you want me? Just like this?"

"I don't care," says Newt, kissing down Kavinsky's throat. "I just want you. Any way you want, shank. I want you."

It's a gentle thought, a nice one, just to be wanted. He tilted his head back to expose his throat as much as he could, opening Newt's jeans next. His fingers felt clumsy, too swift, too eager. It felt good to laugh about his enthusiasm, the giddy jitter of just wanting this as much now as he had every time they'd done this.

He curled his fingers around Newt's cock, stroking him lazily inside is jeans.

Newt makes a soft sound when Kavinsky's fingers curl around his cock, almost a sigh. He bites his lip, pushing up onto his hands and rocking into the circle of Kavinsky's fist.

"Feel good?" he asks. "Miss this?"