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 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."

"That's what I tell myself," he says. "While she was still healing up, they had her on a shit-ton of meds and I was the only one she'd have near me. They let me sleep in her room for weeks."

Kavinsky wasn't sure if he could have stood the same. He'd seen his mom in the hospital a few times, he'd spent his own time in hospitals. He couldn't imagine watching his sister in a hospital, because he liked her significantly more than he liked anyone else in his family. It panged in him, remembered Newt in the hospital in January.

"Have you written to her? In Poison's mailbox thing?"

"Every day since he put it up," admits Jack. "I draw a lot of stuff for her. Tell her about people I've met. Stuff like that." His jaw tightens for a moment. "I helped him dye his hair the other day? Fully freaked out at all of the red. Which was...humiliating."

"I've dropped a couple," Kavinsky confessed, because he hadn't told anyone, really. Not because he was ashamed, but because it felt strange to do it, and what did it do? Catharsis, maybe, but he could get that from sex or driving fast or the right combination of wiping his brain out for a few hours with drugs. "It's a smart idea, I guess."

"He's full of smart ideas."

Jack groans. If he could go ten minutes without Poison crossing his mind, maybe he'd have proved something to himself. He's not sure what, but it'd be something.

"I'm worried she's going to try and kill herself again and I'm not going to be there."

"...is that what you're calling your dick now, 'smart ideas'? That seems presumptive as fuck, dude." Kavinsky grinned widely. "Have a little modesty here, man. C'mon. Jeez."

He let the joviality rest on them, because it seemed necessary, especially when Jack followed it up with that heavy worry. Kavinsky supposed he could say, again, that Jack would be there. But there was nothing for that, really. And Jack couldn't be all places at once, even back home.

"Hopefully her meds get worked out," Kavinsky said instead, "and everything works out for the best."

"Shut up. It's totally something to write home about." He rolls his eyes, and smiles, glad that Kavinsky changes the subject. "Last time I saw her, they'd taken her lighter away, so..." He shrugs. "It's been pretty up and down."

Kavinsky laughed, but his ears were pink. Definitely, decidedly not thinking about Jack's smart ideas. Or Jack filling Poison with his smart ideas. Except that he definitely, decidedly was, and it was rubbing him raw.

"How'd she have a lighter in the first place? I was in the psych ward of juvie for three days, and they confiscated all my shit while I was in there."

"She's been there for so long," he says, pushing one hand back through his hair. "And smoking is, like, her favourite thing in the world. I have literally never seen anyone enjoy anything as much as Jillie enjoys smoking."

Kavinsky was poised to make a quip about Jack's--and, by extension, Jillie's--age, when he realized the supreme irony in that on a couple of fronts, the first being the admission of his crush and the second being that he was only a little bit older than Jack himself. It was like when he called Newt and Al on their ages; they were all in his peer group, even if he was one of the oldest.

"And here you are, mister My Body is a Temple and I Will Paint the Walls?"

Jack huffs a laugh, scratching idly at one tattooed arm. He shrugs.

"We're twins. Doesn't mean we're joined at the hip. I'm pretty in favour of anything that calms her down. She eats meat, too. But I smoke pot sometimes and she hates it."

"I don't know if I've ever met twins," Kavinsky admitted, and shrugged. If he had, they were fraternal, like Jack, and so he'd only ever met the boys. There had certainly been no identicals at Aglionby, that he'd noticed. "So you two just kinda...balance each other out, you figure. Though, man, I can't imagine why she'd be weird about you smoking pots if she smokes cigarettes. Like, c'mon, girlie. Which one of those is processed industrially by the Man?"

Kavinsky shrugged and laughed. Then, he winked. "If you need a weed hook up. I am your man."

"You'd like her. Everyone likes her on a good day." He shrugs. "I guess she doesn't like that it changes me a bit? She finds me harder to read when I'm stoned. I'd stopped touching the stuff when I knew I was going to see her." He leans back, closes his eyes for a moment. "Might take you up on that."

Given that Kavinsky had been collecting girls into his small smattering of friends--remarkably, unbelievably--since he got here, he did not dismiss the idea out of hand. Maybe he would like Jillie. He liked Jack, who reminded him so much of Gansey; he supposed it would be entirely possible to like Jillie as well.

"Whenever you want," Kavinsky said with a nod. Then, almost conspiratorially, he said, "It's legal here."

"I mean, it's quasi-legal in California," says Jack, with a shrug. "Yeah, it's medical but I've got friends who've got recommendations based on utter bullshit. I wouldn't put it past my dad to start randomly drug testing, especially after Jillie ended up in the hospital, so I tend to keep consumption to a minimum. It's...totally unBuddhist of me."

"Quasi-legal still gets your shit arrested if you can't front the system, man," Kavinsky pointed out. But he and Jack, they were the system, in a way, and he knew that. Jack was money and power, and Kavinsky was--well, he was what he was, and that meant dreamt up releases and his father always knowing how and when to protect him and bribery all across the Eastern seaboard.

But Darrow was different. He hoped neither of them had to worry about that shit back home. He supposed, from what he knew, he didn't any more.

"Whatever man. Consider it a road to enlightenment or something. Letting go of earthly connections."

He huffs a laugh and shakes his head.

"This is why I'm a bad Buddhist," he says. "Plus i have a tendency to attach quickly and I'm really fond of vintage leather jackets."

"You're a bad Buddhist because you like weed and people? Man, this is why I don't do religion any more. What's the point of anything that makes you feel bad about doing you? Just...let be."

He'd been better about letting be since he got here, since there wasn't the pressure of being something or someone that he wasn't. Here he was, now. This was it. If people didn't like it, that was just too bad.

"Buddhism isn't a religion. It's a belief system," says Jack, rolling his eyes a little. "And, honestly, I'm just trying to follow the middle path. I just don't always get it right." He shrugs. "But I will absolutely buy weed from you."

"Middle way sounds like it ought to be balanced, ya know? How's giving up earthly possessions and people and whatever balanced. I dunno. I don't get that shit." Kavinsky rubbed his forehead a little bit. "But I've got a fuckin' messed relationship with religion--or belief, or whatever. You do you. If it's working out for you, more power."

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