mitsubishievo | O, daĭ mi lyubovta [for Jack]

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O, daĭ mi lyubovta [for Jack]

Kavinsky gave himself a week. He gave himself a week of distance and focusing on other things, and he was going to get over this stupid infatuation. The knowledge that Jack liked someone else was almost settling, really. It helped to keep the onus of his behavior on himself. Jack was a good kid, and he deserved to have some comfort, and if that meant he explored himself a little bit, then more power to him.

And, well, Kavinsky knew that rough sort of liking someone and being unsure how they felt. At least Poison seemed a relatively safe sort to have a crush on, as far as first queer crashes went. Kavinsky couldn't blame Jack for that, at least.

So, he gave it a week. A week, and then he'd be over this stupid infatuation.

God, he hoped so.

He texted Jack in anticipation of harassing him at his apartment--deliberately not thinking about Chelsea Cloisters, his history with the building, with people who had lived here once, with things he had done here--a simple im coming over and u cant stop me approximately five minutes before he arrived at Jack's door and knocked, sharp and succinct.

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Jack has been in bed pretty much since Poison left. He hasn't been asleep. He's been lying staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out how, exactly, he feels. Poison had left to go home to his girl, to his kid and left Jack trying to figure out what, exactly, had happened.

And then he gets Kavinsky's text. He hauls himself into the shower, is just getting out when he hears the knock on the door. He pulls on sweats and a clean t-shirt and is still toweling his hair when he yanks the door open.

"Hey."

Apparently, a week wasn't quite enough.

Kavinsky smiled, stepping into Jack's space and beyond, into his apartment. It was much the same as any of the generics, much the same as--as Al's had been, when he'd lived here, as well. There were a few small things that were definitely Jack's, like the drafting table and some little things, but mostly it was a sparse thing, still outfitted the way it came.

"So, do you have this interdimensional cable horseshit? Because it's Eurovision season, and I feel like I need to educate you on this part of my heritage. Also, you have to tell me how that ID held up to snuff. You were golden with the clubs, right?"

"Yeah, I have cable," says Jack, nodding towards the couch and then padding into the kitchen because he needs tea. "ID was good. We went to a club last night."

Kavinsky crashed down onto Jack's sofa and definitely, absolutely, didn't glance over his shoulder at Jack's back, the way his shirt was stuck to a little patch of still-damp skin across his shoulders. He didn't do that, because he was trying to navigate the near incomprehensible system of interdimensional cable that he had almost, nearly, figured out how to navigate, until he finally got to the channel he wanted.

France was performing. He didn't care.

He got back up and joined Jack in the kitchen. "Bulgaria got eliminated in their semi-final round. Bullshit. It's because some of the countries have automatic placements. I'm devastated. Whatever, not like we can vote from a bubble universe anyway."

His body still feels weird, in a way that he doesn't necessarily recognise- he can still feel the truth of the things that he did last night. He sets the kettle boiling and then turns, leaning his ass back against the edge of the counter, listening to Kavinsky talk.

"You want tea?"

"Yeah, that sounds good. You got any snacks or anything?" He hopped up onto the counter for the moment, like he'd sat on the counter in the kitchen of the Zen Center too. "Are you going to tell me how the clubbing went or am I going to have to start speculating on it? Because I've been to the clubs here in Darrow and I've met Poison."

A week had not been enough. He turned the fidget on his ring and told himself it had. Then he asked, a redirection. "Man, have you even been on a date before?"

"Crackers. Popcorn. Uh...chips. Maybe?" Jack gestures to a cupboard. "Knock yourself out." He blushes at the mention of the clubbing and ducks his head a little, focusing on the tea.

"Yeah, I've been on a date," he says. "And what's that supposed to mean? You've met him."

Kavinsky got off the counter, shrugging as he headed toward the cupboard to raid it for snacks. He wondered if Jack's tea was a zen thing or if he was just into tea--more of a west coat thing--but then, Newt really liked tea, too. Kavinsky hadn't really thought of it much of a beverage until it was just around the apartment, and then the house.

He grabbed the crackers and dug into the box. "Yeah, but like. Controlled environment. Mailbox and a bar where we both had make up on. So it went well?"

"Yeah, he's..." He comes up short on something to say, on how to describe him. Making the tea is almost meditative; small, precise motions, a pattern to be followed. He fills the pot and lets it steep. "He sort of...stayed the night?" He clears his throat. "Totally. He totally stayed the night."

Kavinsky stopped, a cracker poised near his mouth. He looked from the kitchen out into Jack's front room, sort of toward the television. People were cheering, but he didn't know who was performing at the moment, distraction spiked through him. Something tight and bitter was gripping in his chest.

"Huh." He ate the cracker. It took a second to put his calm together, but when he did, he laughed, crossing the kitchen to nudge Jack's shoulder companionably. "Yeah, I've had those kind of dates too, man."

"It wasn't supposed to be a date," points out Jack, putting tea pot and cups on a tray and lifting it so he can bring it over to the couch. "Like, it really wasn't. It all escalated kind of quickly. Things...kind of have a way of doing that when Poison is involved." He shrugs. "So...that's a thing that happened."

"Wait, what part of the attractive older guy I like is taking me to a club and I need my friend to get me a fake ID to get in isn't a date, exactly?" Kavinsky laughed again. He followed Jack back out to the couch and flopped down, putting his feet up on the coffee table.

"Yeah, okay, fair. Like, I would not call most of the things I've done dates, either. But, ya know. For your sweet baby-queer ears we can call 'em dates." Plus, Kavinsky didn't think Jack was the kind of kid who would put out that easily. Apparently, he was wrong.

"Well, I thought we were just friends," points out Jack, blushing at how lame that sounds, even in his own ears. He leans forward, pouring two cups of tea. "And then suddenly, we weren't just friends and now I don't know what I'm supposed to do with that?" He makes a face at baby-queer though.

"The hell do you mean, you're not just friends? What, you put a dick in your mouth, and that precludes being just friends or something? Shit, I better right home to, like...a good twenty people I went to school with."

He arched a brow at Jack, maybe deliberately trying to get a rise out of him now, maybe just a little bit generally curious about this stipulation Jack seemed to have about sex and friendly behavior. But it wasn't like it was foreign to Kavinsky. He knew that his situation had been an outlier. No one was going to admit to what they'd done with him because it was dangerous, on top of various other reasons for not admitting to it.

The mention of putting dicks in his mouth makes Jack blush darker because it comes with a very visceral sense memory attached. He blinks, sits back with his tea cup cradled between his hands.

"Do you seriously want to hear me talk about this? Because, honestly, I could get this shit off my chest."

That blush said more than Jack asking if Kavinsky wanted to hear about it and, just going off that, Kavinsky could tell he didn't. This was good though. If he could just put this together in his head--Jack was off limits, not only because Kavinsky was in a loving, committed, closed relationship, but because Jack was in...whatever he was in--then he could just get over it.

Better than a week.

"Yeah man," he said with a nod. "C'mon, lay it out. I can guaran-fucking-tee I have done worse."

"He stayed the night," says Jack, resting his tea against his chest. "He..." His lashes flutter and, God, he's mortified. "Went down on me? At the club. I bought him. We..." He rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. "Did some other stuff?"

Kavinsky was quiet a second, processing Jack's process here. He tried to remember the last time he'd been mortified by his sexuality. It had probably been in this building. He put the thought carefully out of his head. It had probably been by the businessman in DC, early in their arrangement, before there were things to mortify him with. Before the businessman had gotten bored.

"So is this,"--he gestured at Jack and his discomfort--"because he sucked your dick and you don't know what to do about that, or because of the other stuff, or because he stayed over?"

"I don't know?" says Jack, because he doesn't really know and he doesn't see the point in lying about it. "Like. It doesn't bother me that he's a guy; that is the least worrying thing about this. I..." He sighs. "Fuck. I'd never. Before last night?" He shrugs. "I'm not a monk or anything. Just...hadn't."

Kavinsky straightened a little bit because, of course, there were plenty of guys in an all boy's school who were virgins, or guy's who didn't count handjobs or blowjobs or whatever as sex because they were from townies or other guys. That was just how it was. But Jack was--well, Jack was cute. And charming, and well spoken, and--well, he was a bit like Dick, really, but not in that entirely snobbish way that Dick Gansey had.

"Oh," he said, sort of softly. He was aware that his cheeks felt a little warm. He was thinking about this all too much. "Hey man, that's--it's whatever. First time's whatever. At least Poison's a cool dude."

"I think it'd be easier if he wasn't?" says Jack, frowning as he says it. He takes a sip of his tea. "Like, I think this would be easier if I thought he was an asshole."

"Man, nah." Kavinsky shook his head. "I've slept with loads of assholes. You know what that gets you? Crying in a clinic two towns over when you're fifteen because some dude held your head in a sink while you were high."

He picked up his cup of tea and took a sip of it, face carefully neutral in the aftermath of the statement.

"Oh, Jesus." Jack just stares at him for a moment and then takes another sip of tea. "Yeah, well, he's not an asshole. At all. And now I can't stop thinking about him and I'm not sure what the fuck I'm supposed to do with that."

Kavinsky made a face at Jack's half voiced concern, munching a cracker noisily between sips of tea. He let Jack stew for a second, not sure if there was an actual call for advice there, or if Jack just needed to get the words out into the universe.

Finally, he leaned back. He let out a gusty sigh. "I mean. Take some time to think about it? Fucking around for the first time can be kind of intense for some people, so--and if he's your first person, let alone your first guy? My man, just. Just let yourself chill for a second. Breathe and whatever."

"Yeah. I need to not see him for a few days." He huffs a laugh, shakes his head. "Part of me is terrified it's going to end up a one time thing."

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