Kavinsky shuffled back a few more steps, watched Parrish move, watched all the lines of him and didn't think, didn't think, didn't let himself think. There were boys waiting for him back at the apartment; and Parrish had one of his own, one Kavinsky had tried his hand at twice and lost both times.

His stomach twisted. His mind was giving him all sorts of filthy things to think about that he didn't want or need and he pushed through them, pushed them aside, long enough to call out after him, "Hey Parrish!"

His fingers were shaking. He still couldn't look at him. "Don't tell Lynch. As much as you hate me, I'm rather a fan of my general facial configuration, even like this."