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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Kavinsky smiled a little bit. It was a vague, wishful thing. As much as he and Peter joked about they didn't know straight people, what Kavinsky was finding more and more was that he didn't know gay people, either. A small, single-handed count, a knot of people that Kavinsky could hardly speak to, because none of them had gone through things he had, or he didn't trust, or didn't like him enough for him to be open hearted.

What a curious thing. He'd always been terrified of being out, of what it would mean. Now he lived in a place where it seemed like it was more rare to be straight than queer of some variety, but he still felt like an outlier, because he couldn't get it up for women.

Kavinsky smiles but Jack still feels, inexplicably, like he's done something wrong. He drowns a little, fussing with his hair.

"What?"

"Nothing, man," Kavinsky said, his smile still in place and a laugh chasing after his words. How would he even have explained that? There was no explaining that. So he didn't even try. He smiled a little bit. "Some day, I'm gonna get one of you bisexuals to explain what's so great about ladies, because I don't get it. And I've been one now. Thanks Darrow."

"I mean, maybe it's just a person by person thing," says Jack with a shrug. "I'm just into...people? Like Bex was like...lighting or something. I don't even know how I'd describe Poison. But I'm not entirely sure it's down to biology."

"Okay but there is still definitely a biology thing going on there, man," Kavinsky objected gently. He tapped his fingers lightly on his knee, in time with the music on the television, and he smiled softly. "Like, I've gotten better about being cool about ladies and whatever, but I still am not into...vaginas."

"I mean, my experience with...that...is pretty strictly theoretical, if I'm honest?" says Jack, eyebrows raised. "But, like, I'm not complaining about loving close-ups in porn or whatever." He flushes, one again questioning why the hell he's talking about this. "But, like...his..." He stumbles. "Body? Way more into that than I anticipated?"

Kavinsky laughed, managing to keep any bitterness out of the noise. It was just expressive and loud and boyish. He smiled, rolled his eyes. "No, man, I know why I'm into dudes. Like, on the purely physical, biological level. Dicks might be kinda funny looking, but they're great. But I have tried the lady train. Guess who's never getting on that again?" He jerked a thumb at himself.

"Yeah, but..." He shrugs. "I'd, you know. Never thought about it before. Until he was in my apartment and then..." He pushes one hand back through his hair. "All I can think about."

"It took you all the way back to your place before you decided if you were into him or not?" Kavinsky grinned at that. He didn't think he'd ever taken that long to settle on if he was into a dick or not. Then again, he had a bit of distance from the first time he'd figured out he was into one.

"I mean, there are worse things to think about, dude." He shrugged, looking at the space between his and Jack's knees. "But I think space'd be good for you."

"Yeah," says Jack, nodding. He glances at his phone. There's two texts from Poison. His jaw clenches slightly. "I'm...yeah. I think I need to not see him for a few days."

Kavinsky wanted noted, but didn't say, that he was not encouraging full radio silence. Just a respectful, healthy distance to think about what had happened the night before. But if he was honest--and he rather liked to be, despite what everyone thought--it was exactly what he'd done with Newt. Minus instantly diving into a bottle of alcohol and as many pills as he could stand.

"Watch my dumb European singing show," Kavinsky said, snatching up Jack's phone and holding onto it himself so that Jack couldn't sneak a glance at it. "Do you have--fuck, I dunno. Questions or shit? I am mostly a good field of that shit, I have a lot of experience. Like. A lot."

"I mean, not that I can think of?" says Jack, watching the show idly for a moment. He leans forward to pour himself a little more tea. He thinks about it. "I think I'm going to need way, way more practice if I'm ever going to be able to suck dick in a way that's...in any way approaching proficient."

"I mean, I didn't mean necessarily now. Just, like. In general. If it comes up and shit." Kavinsky shrugged. He hadn't had someone more sexually experienced than him--except some of the older guys he'd fooled around with--who could answer his fumbling questions. It probably would have helped.

"Shit takes practice," Kavinsky said with a nod. "I...have had a lot of practice."

"I appreciate that," says Jack, and he means that genuinely. He smiles a little, ducking his head. "I mean, I didn't completely screw it up or anything, but yeah. More practice needed if I'm going to make it a regular thing." He blushes. "Feels...kind of weird."

Kavinsky laughed, and wondered, firstly, what Jack supposed having a dick in your mouth was supposed to feel like, and secondly, what completely screwing up a blowjob would have even entailed in the first place. Kavinsky had been sucking dick since he was fourteen and he didn't even know what completely screwing up a blowjob would entail.

"Someone once told me to practice on bananas but, man? Do not practice on bananas." Kavinsky sort of giggled about it, though, shaking his head.

"Jesus," says Jack, momentarily completely and utterly mortified. "Yeah, I am absolutely and completely not practicing on a banana." He sighs. "I miss my sister."

Kavinsky laughed again, his smile soft and slow. He nodded after a moment. "Yeah, me too. But--I never would have been talking to her about this shit. The fact I had a boyfriend--boyfriends--sure. But none of this. She's way younger than me and shit."

He leaned his head back. "You haven't told me much about your sister. Like. You don't need to, or whatever. But..."

He'd like to know. Selfishly. Even knowing he probably wouldn't be the only one to know those things about Jack, he'd like to know them.

"Jillie?" Jack smiles a little, sliding down in the couch as he thinks about it. "We're as close to identical as you can get with different gender twins. She's tall; not quite as tall as me, but pretty close. Longer hair. No distichiasis."

"No what?" Kavinsky swatted Jack in the thigh. "Dude, you've gotta use small fuckin' words, I'm ESL."

In truth, Kavinsky could suppose the meaning out of the word, because he'd done enough anatomical research over the years. But it was still worth reminding people, from time to time, that just because he was good at hiding it didn't mean he knew the language they were speaking.

"Distichiasis." He brushes his eyelashes with his fingers. "Double eyelashes. My mom used to say I had Elizabeth Taylor eyes. But it's just me, not Jillie. She's artistic, too. She draws people. Kinda abstract. She likes colour."

Kavinsky wanted to lean over, lean in, get a good look at those thick, dark eyelashes that Jack was brushing his fingers against. He did not, did not, did not. He breathed out and poured himself more tea.

"And you do--typography and shit. Lettering. Font and graphic design. But not people." Kavinsky remembered that conversation. "She design any of your tattoos, or were those out of a catalog?"

"Local artist," says Jack, rolling his eyes at the implication he'd picked them off a wall or something. "I paid a shitload for them, but it was totally worth it. Yeah. That's it. Poison reckons I can learn to draw people, but..." He shrugs. "Haven't managed yet." He smiles. "Jillie started getting sick when we were a couple of weeks short of our sixteenth. It got really bad end of last year."

"Hey man, there's nothing wrong with catalog art," Kavinsky said with a laugh. Both of his tattoos had been from a catalog, though the one for Al had been sketchily hewn together with the assistance of the artist. He hummed vaguely. "I can't draw for shit. Like, sorta cartoony things? But it's all crap. But practice and whatever, ya know? Not like you need to draw a lot of people--unless you do in art school?"

He was quiet a second, trying to recall if Jack had said what his sister was sick with. He thought he had, but he wasn't sure. Either way, though: "'s fuckin' rough, man."

"She's a disordered schizophrenic," says Jack, matter-of-factly, like he's telling Kavinsky her shoe size or something. "They've almost got her meds right, or they had the last time I saw her. It was...pretty rough, for a while? She went off the deep-end one morning while we were having breakfast."

"Hopefully that shit works out for her, man," Kavinsky said, and he meant that. He couldn't imagine if he'd gone postal at home. He couldn't imagine if his mom had. The genetic predisposition toward whatever made him and his mom such shitheels while his own sister had turned out such an angel had just fed into the awful truth of his monstrosity.

"I know it's rough here," he said, "but just remember that you're back there too, okay? She's got you."

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