That's a hard thing to come to terms with. It's easier to parse through the fact that he was fucking selfish, that there were four boys that cared about him, that needed him. He'd dreamt Swan a car to make up for bleeding in the backseat, but Proko was... he didn't know what to say or how to say it.
The first night out of the hospital, it's all of them together, and they nearly smother Kavinsky for staying so close. But he has the good sense not to comment on it; if anything he's almost greedy for the attention, for the affection. Even if it's obvious how much his pack of boys care about him, right now he needs it more than ever. But tonight he'd staying at Proko's, just the two of them- like everything's back to normal.
It isn't.
But he climbs up onto the bed with him, curling up against his side, and trusting that the other boy wont push him away. He could always trust Prokopenko, always by his side. Before he'd dreamt him, and after.
He isn't dead. But this still almost feels almost like a dream, like waking from a nightmare. Where the world feels sharp and his edges feel too soft. Going from bleeding out on the floor with a broken heart to here, pressed up against Proko, and just the stitches in his arm. The other boy had visited him in the hospital, even when Kavinsky had been a wreck -- hardly fit for his own skin, let alone for company.
He was sure that if Proko could have fought his way into keeping watch by his side, he would have.]
I-- I'm sorry, man. I wasn't thinking. I... thank you.
[He knows that he should have said it sooner, but somehow it's here where he manages to find the words, or at least to try and stumble through them. Curled up against him and in his bed, tears in his eyes, fingertips shyly smoothing down his side.]
I didn't mean to hurt you.
[It's vague on whether he means nearly killing Proko because he was his dream, or the suffering because Proko cared about him. Probably both, honestly. The words all feel shallow, like they're not enough. And without an audience, Kavinsky sort of wants to just press himself into the other boy's chest and shake through the feelings he can't name, but he's trying to not be selfish for at least a minute or two.]
something to live for;
That's a hard thing to come to terms with. It's easier to parse through the fact that he was fucking selfish, that there were four boys that cared about him, that needed him. He'd dreamt Swan a car to make up for bleeding in the backseat, but Proko was... he didn't know what to say or how to say it.
The first night out of the hospital, it's all of them together, and they nearly smother Kavinsky for staying so close. But he has the good sense not to comment on it; if anything he's almost greedy for the attention, for the affection. Even if it's obvious how much his pack of boys care about him, right now he needs it more than ever. But tonight he'd staying at Proko's, just the two of them- like everything's back to normal.
It isn't.
But he climbs up onto the bed with him, curling up against his side, and trusting that the other boy wont push him away. He could always trust Prokopenko, always by his side. Before he'd dreamt him, and after.
He isn't dead. But this still almost feels almost like a dream, like waking from a nightmare. Where the world feels sharp and his edges feel too soft. Going from bleeding out on the floor with a broken heart to here, pressed up against Proko, and just the stitches in his arm. The other boy had visited him in the hospital, even when Kavinsky had been a wreck -- hardly fit for his own skin, let alone for company.
He was sure that if Proko could have fought his way into keeping watch by his side, he would have.]
I-- I'm sorry, man. I wasn't thinking. I... thank you.
[He knows that he should have said it sooner, but somehow it's here where he manages to find the words, or at least to try and stumble through them. Curled up against him and in his bed, tears in his eyes, fingertips shyly smoothing down his side.]
I didn't mean to hurt you.
[It's vague on whether he means nearly killing Proko because he was his dream, or the suffering because Proko cared about him. Probably both, honestly. The words all feel shallow, like they're not enough. And without an audience, Kavinsky sort of wants to just press himself into the other boy's chest and shake through the feelings he can't name, but he's trying to not be selfish for at least a minute or two.]