mitsubishievo | [For Newt; Jan 8]

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[For Newt; Jan 8]

Seven days. Seven days and four hours. It had been seven days and four hours, and Kavinsky's skin felt frigid, like he'd gone swimming in the Hudson in the middle of February. Kavinsky knew that Al hated running messenger between him and Newt, and Kavinsky didn't blame him, so it had been strange when he'd shown up with one that wasn't even specifically from Newt but was just about him. It had been strange to approach the Bramford for the first time in a week and not go to Newt's door but another, unfamiliar one, to see a familiar face and let himself hear another riot act just so he could hear that Newt wasn't even in the building anymore, that he'd gone to the hospital.

Seven days and four hours, and Kavinsky's lungs were burning because he'd run from the Bramford to the hospital, and if one more nurse, one more orderly, tried to tell him that he needed to leave, he was going to punch someone.

"No," he growled. "You have to let me see him."

"Sir," a stern looking nurse hissed. "He's very weak right now, and you're not on the list of approved visitors."

"I don't fucking give a shit if I'm on your goddamn approved list! Call someone who is and get me on there!" He was already at the door, glaring murderous intention at an orderly that looked ready to grab him. His hands were shaking. It had been seven days and four hours, and he felt like the world was about to end. "If whoever you call says I can't stay, then you can throw me the fuck out. Until then, you can suck my fucking dick."

He ripped the door open, but shut it with all the care in the world. The room was dark and warm, and there were monitors making quiet noises, and Newt was a waif of a thing under a thin sheet. Kavinsky sat down in the chair beside the bed. His fingers itched terribly. His eyes itched terribly. He put his face down to the bed, trembling and terrified, and prayed against the charm Newt had given him, the first prayers he'd given in years.

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It feels like it did last time he was treated, like swimming through clear, cold water. How bad had he gotten this time? He finds that it's difficult to remember, exactly. The Flare doesn't leave much behind it, only the taste of smoke, the memory of burning up. Tommy wouldn't have let him come near the Gone, he knows that, but he'd almost wanted it, this time. Almost wanted it. Anything to keep from thinking. The ache in his chest. He'd tried to tear it out with his nails. Or he'd dreamed it. Something like that.

He opens his eyes slowly, finds the room dark and quiet. It takes a moment to recognise the boy sitting at the side of the bed - Newt's not sure that he's ever seen Kavinsky look so still before.

"Joe?"

He croaks it out, his voice raw and ill-used.

Kavinsky looked up at the soft croak of Newt's voice, barely louder than the sound of the monitors. His eyes were red-ringed, tears streaming down his face. He'd managed to keep his crying mostly silent this time, around gasping prayers, but now, looking up, it broke.

The tears crashed out of him, waves on rocks, and he pressed his face down into the bed again, shaking and wretched. His hands shook and itched, but Newt had told him he was not allowed to touch; Kavinsky wouldn't, not without invitation, no matter how much his fingers itched.

There are needles stuck in him, things clipped to him, but he manages to move one hand enough to touch Kavinsky's tousled, dark hair. Just lightly, he combs his fingers through the disordered strands.

"Hey," he says, still quiet. "Hey. It's okay." He doesn't want to fight against it anymore.

"It's not," Kavinsky breathed, ragged and hiccoughing with too many pent up emotions. He felt, again, like when Al had confronted him about what had happened: hollowed out and empty and voided. His whole body shook. Newt's fingers in his hair were a benediction he didn't deserve, a grace he hadn't earned.

"It's not," he rasped again, shaking his head desperately. "God, Newt..."

"Stop it," says Newt, his eyes drifting shut again. He doesn't break the point of contact with the top of Kavinsky's head, though. "Just. C'mere."

He hasn't quite got control of his voice. Every word feels funny in his mouth.

Kavinsky wasn't sure if Newt was telling him to stop crying or stop his murmuring. In either case, he tried to do both. He chomped down on his lip until it hurt. He moved slowly, easing himself up onto the bed. He was still painfully aware of where all his limbs went--not only to avoid all the tubes and electrodes and everything, but also to continue avoiding touching him until he'd been given explicit permission.

If he ever was. He wasn't holding his breath. He kept his face turned down, wheezing as he tried to wind the tears in, under control.

Kavinsky gets up on the bed and Newt's too tired, too bruised, to fight against what he wants anymore. The memory of the disappoint, the hurt, is more of an echo. The treatement's washed it away with the memory of the fire and, right then, all he wants is the safety that's Kavinsky's arms wrapped around him. He shifts, snuggling closer, his face against Kavinsky's shoulder.

"Just hold on to me," he says. Clears his throat. "Please. Don't want to float away."

Kavinsky remained careful, now only of the tubes and wires so much. Newt was a strong thing, stronger than he was. He wrapped his arms around him and held him close. His chest heaved on more barely contained sobs and he shook a little bit. He pressed his chin against Newt's hair to avoiding kissing it.

Everything felt off limits in the worst kind of way: not only that he couldn't do it, that he would rebel and try anyway; not that he was incapable of doing something because of some physical limitation; but the very visceral knowledge that he was not allowed, that he had put himself in this position and there was no fixing this.

With cautious, shaking fingers, he pet Newt's hair. He couldn't speak yet, worried the words would just come out as sobbing. So he didn't even try.

"You came back," he says, shifting until he's in a slightly more comfortable position, head pillowed against Kavinsky's shoulder, nose pressing against his shirt. He slips one hand across him, fingers slipping under the hem of his clothes so that he could press his fingertips against Kavinsky's bare skin. "I didn't..." He frowns, eyes still closed because it was easier. "I don't think you were going to."

Kavinsky's fingers shook against Newt's hair. He didn't know how to take that, what to say. He stared up through the half dark of the hospital room and took a slow, shuttering breath, trying not to displace Newt from against his shoulder and chest.

Finally, very softly, think with tears, he whispered, "Of course I did. Of course I--where was I gonna go?"

As soon as the words were out though, they ached in his chest, in his head, with that dark maw that he recognized as guilt now, and he shrank down a little bit, trying to draw back and into himself a little bit. Newt didn't deserve that. He deserved better than that, better than some jumped up Bulgarian asshole who thought he was entitled to Newt's time; who thought he could just crawl back in to Newt's life.

"I didn't mean it like that, that made it sound..."

"I didn't think." He frowns. His head's finally stopped hurting, but treatment has left him feel like his skin is too tight, too new. He presses his whole palm against Kavinsky's skin, over his hip. It's only be a week, but it's almost like he has to learn the touch of him all over again. He rubs his cheek against Kavinsky's shoulder. "I didn't know where you were."

He hadn't wanted to know. He'd never wanted to see Kavinsky again. It seems impossible to think it now.

"Al did," Kavinsky said, because that was true. If Newt had wanted to know where he was, had been interested in it, he would have asked Al, and Al would have told him. There had been times that Kavinsky had expected it. There had been times that Kavinsky had hoped. He'd tried not to let himself do that too much.

Newt's hand was too warm, feverish, and a noise hiccuped into Kavinsky's chest. Not quite a sob, but some sort of distress. He kept petting his hair gently. He didn't dare do anything else. Every iteration of anything he could think to say sounded like accusation as it rattled around in his head, and he couldn't have that.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. It came out a whispered, broken thing, and the tears rushed out of him again, rattling and wretched, while he tried to pull them back. "I'm sorry, Newt."

"I didn't want to ask him. I was....so bloody scared of what I'd say if you were suddenly there." The sound of Kavinsky crying hurts, somewhere buried deep in his chest. He shifts again, his hand sliding against Kavinsky's ribs, rucking Kavinsky's shirt up over his arm. "I...It wasn't all me," he says. It sounds like an excuse, empty, but he also needs for Kavinsky to know. "I was sick. I..."

Kavinsky shifted a hand, put it on Newt's under his shirt, pressing and pressing and it felt like a brand. Some uncontrollable fire, stabbing through his skin, tattooing the words across Kavinsky's skin. It wasn't all me, he said; but enough of it had been, because of all of it had been Kavinsky, dishonest and terrified in the face of Newt's light and happiness and joy that he'd had any hand in. Enough of it was just Newt, justifiable and pained, not wanting to see him and now a lance to relieve all this pent up grief of the past seven days that felt like seven years.

He stalled Newt's hand and gripped it, the safety of the cotton of his shirt keeping him from touching Newt's skin in the same way that Newt's hair kept him from touching his scalp. It only did so much.

"You told me you were sick," Kavinsky said, choked. "You never said--. You can't--Newt..."

He wishes he could hold Kavinsky's hand, but with his shirt between them, all Newt can do is press his palm against Kavinsky's ribs, stroke his thumb against Kavinsky's skin.

"I can't what?" he asks, softly.

"You can't be like this," Kavinsky said, voice all think and pained. He squeezed his hand over Newt's with the cotton of his shirt between their fingers. He should have showered before he came, should have changed his clothes, should have made himself look more like he was a reasonable person capable of taking care of himself when he wasn't around Newt.

He wasn't, though. How pathetic. He had to be better.

His breath hitched in his chest, tight and only tightening more. "You can't be here...not like this. Not..."

Kavinsky swallowed tightly and pressed his forehead against Newt's hair, brief and heavy, unsure how to tell him how worried he'd been when he'd been told that Newt was in the hospital, that he was sick and in the hospital and all Kavinsky could think was that he'd never be able to see him again.

"I told you I was sick." Newt stifles a hollow cough against Kavinsky's chest. "But it's okay. I got treated. Tommy's...blood. They make it from that. He's immune. I'm the control group." He lifts his free hand, stroking his fingers along Kavinsky's jaw, careful not to jar tubes and wires. "It's...always going to be like this, kind of. Every three months. I just...I ignored it. I didn't...I didn't catch it. But Tommy did."

"You never--" Kavinsky bit his lip, stopping himself. He hadn't come here to be accusatory, hadn't come here to make Newt feel guilty, and every word that managed to claw it's way out of Kavinsky's chest felt like that was all it was doing. So he clamped down, teeth on his lip, until his mouth bloomed with pain but no blood.

When the want to pry for explanation passed, Kavinsky let his shoulders sag. He pet Newt's hair gently, and was quiet for a while, before he muttered a quiet, soft, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I know I don't--I don't expect you to forgive me, I just. I'm sorry."

The tears were welling up again, and he did his best to shove them back down, deep into his chest. He could deal with them later, when he went back to the warehouse.

"I didn't tell you," says Newt, finishing the thought. "I...I didn't know what you were, not at first. And then, once I did, and I didn't want..." He shakes his head. "You didn't see me when I first got here. I didn't want you to...know." Kavinsky's crying again, and Newt wants to be able to do that, wants to be able to pull him into his arms and pull him close, but he's bound in place by wires and tubes so all that he can do is press himself closer, fingers of his free hand slipping into Kavinsky's hair.

"Are you going to do it again?" he asks. His tone isn't accusatory, but it's a question that he's got to ask, all the same.

You told Al, Kavinsky wanted to say, or at least Al had some idea of what was going on, knew the severity of it, because Al had told Kavinsky what was going on now. But whether or now he knew it was like this or not, Kavinsky didn't know. And Kavinsky knew that they had met while Newt was recovering in the hospital; they'd told him that. Maybe Al was just as in the dark as Kavinsky was. But he doubted that.

He inched closer to Newt, put his fingers very cautiously on Newt's elbow to support him. He hoped his hands were not shaking as much as they felt like they were.

"I'm not," he said. He didn't say that he hadn't done it since, that he hadn't even let Al touch him--not like that, at least. Everything, the very idea of it, had seemed dripping with Newt's accusation. His skin had been poisonous.

"Al saw me in hospital. And..." He clears his throat, thinks about looking for water, but he doesn't want to pull away from Kavinsky just then. "He was in the other Darrow with Tommy, so he's seen Cranks. He's seen what...going passed the Gone would have turned me into."

He leans into Kavinsky's shaking touches.

"It's called The Flare," he says. "It's...in my brain. Always will be."

What Kavinsky just said could wait. Newt's got his own version of penance to do here.

That was the second time Newt had coughed like that, and Kavinsky extracted himself from him, slow and cautious. There was a pitcher on the bedside table with a small plastic cup, and Kavinsky managed to control the shaking in his hands long enough to pour a half cup. He sat on the edge of the bed and handed the cup to Newt.

He twisted his fingers into his chain, ran his thumb over the pendant silently.

"I've spent a lot of time in hospitals," he said, quiet, because he didn't know what else to say in the moment. "Mostly taking care of my mom, but. Sometimes because of me."

He tugged on the chain a little, letting the clasp bite into the back of his neck. A bite of pain, a point of distraction. A reminder that he was not here to take care of anyone, but to make penance for what he had done, if he was allowed.

Newt pulls himself up into a sitting position to take the cup. He takes a few slow sips of water. It's unbelievably delicious. He watches Kavinsky fiddle with the charm that he'd given him. It looks good on him, suits him. He frowns, feeling a stab of protectiveness in his belly that hadn't gone away just because he was angry.

"Why did you end up in the hospital?" he asks. He holds the cup out to Kavinsky again, waits for him to come back to bed.

Kavinsky didn't answer for a moment. He took the cup and filled it up with water again, sat back down on the side of the bed. His fingers were itching once more, filled with want to trace every plane of Newt's face and shoulders, to rememorize how his body fit together, to wipe away the tired smudges under his eyes. Instead, he kept fidgeting with his necklace, kept his sleeves low on his wrists, kept himself as still as he could.

"Loads of reasons," he said, after a while. "Nothing like this. I mean, like, I'm sick but--"

He shrugged, dismissive. He tapped his temple and licked his lips a little bit. "My head doesn't work right. It's whatever. I get by. And sometimes I didn't. Sometimes I'd forget all that I'd taken, couple times I got into car accidents. It's whatever. It hasn't been like that so much since--"

Since you, he wanted to say, but he couldn't. He tapped his fingers against his knee. "Since I got here."

"Flare means that my brain doesn't work quite right either," he says, tears welling up in his eyes, overspilling, rolling down his cheeks. He sniffs, swallows, skims at his cheek with the heel of one hand. "Shucking hell, Joe. Some of the things I said to you. I..."

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