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WHO: Joseph Kavinsky, John Murphy + Ronan Lynch later
WHERE: Rehab facility K's being held in
WHEN: uummmmm idk china what's the ic date for this
WHAT: Visitation
WARNINGS: Bad words, mental illness, idk see comment headers

[ the clinic is cleaner, at least, than the jail, though Murphy finds it more off-putting, not because it is - it's a peaceful rehab center - but somehow he likes the concept of imprisonment more than the notion of discussing feelings with someone taking notes on a clipboard. Because that's who Murphy is as a person, aka, trash. you weren't given therapy for crimes back on the Ark. you were either floated, or put in a locked cell until you were old enough to be floated, so trying to counsel those troubled youths was a moot point. once they were done being youths, they'd just be corpses cluttering up earth's orbit. luckily there's no airlocks here for kavinsky to be punted out of. isn't civilization nice?

Murphy has his normal two cokes and a bag of junk food that he'd brought a few times to Kavinsky in prison the week he was incarcerated, this time it's a party sized Cheetos bag. The bag crinkles in his hands, fingers flexing over the plastic, fidgeting, while he waits for K to be lead in. In the prison, he at least felt somewhat at home, having spent most of his teenage years in Sky Box. rehabilitation is an alien concept to him. no one tried to rehabilitate murphy. just hang him, abandon him, banish him, sacrifice him, or execute him. a small corner of his mind is still astounded that they're doing anything else with K besides that.

One hand picks at the frayed threads on his jeans, and when the door at the far end of the otherwise silent visitation room opens, murphy near jumps out of his skin. but there's kavinsky, looking about as well as he did back in prison, perhaps worse with the contrast of a place that's kinder and calmer as background. maybe this's just what withdrawal looks like, but there's a tug in murphy's chest to feel bad for him. ] You look like shit, rockstar.

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[normally there would be a glibe reply. something rude and crude. the evocation of murphy's penis again, or his butthole, either one. kavinsky's usually good for that; sex is his safe place.

instead, he steps in more heavily than one would think was possible for him, considering he's such a skinny, light creature. he drags out a chair to sit in and sits. unlike prison, there are no pink marks on his wrists where he'd gotten cuffed for getting out of order at some point— here, he has his abilities back. the invulnerability, the psychic skills. his dream theft too, incidentally, but it's probably not entirely surprising that he still looks like he's riding the shit slide of withdrawal, considering there are cameras up in the corner of every room. maybe others you can't see. hard to produce your own bar and cocaine when your psychiatrist has staff to watch you change in the mornings. that and, incidentally, sleep medications tend to suppress dreaming.

(he's thought about dreaming other things, ones they wouldn't take away. bombs and monsters. he hasn't.)]

Didn't want to make you feel bad, [he says.] I mean I don't know what it's like to be a four talking to a ten, but shit, can't be good. [he sits down and stoops over the edge of the table a little, his eyes moving restlessly over the cokes, the chips, failing to seize on them with the same greed he'd shown in the prison before. instead, he rubs his fingers over his forehead, like he's mapping the subtle lines there. he still looks like a baby, but a life spent frowning in the privacy of your nightmares is going to leave a mark. his pause is fractionally too long.] Sup, Murph.

[ murphy's brows mildly arch for the insulting little joke, more pointed than his typical teasing, but he's more bothered by the tone of the man than anything else. usually kavinsky's jabs go immediately to sex and the wanting of it. there's something deeply listless to him now, as he slumps into the chair and flops on the table, not reaching for proffered goodies at all. murphy would think he'd be pleased as punch here - powers back, more freedoms, comfier beds probably too. something he rolls around in his head while he gives an automatic bit of sass back. ]

Guess you do now. Don't be so hard on yourself - you were at least a 6 before. [ his eyes travel over kavinsky, frown deep despite the joking going on, reaching out eventually to grab at the wrist of the hand rubbing at his forehead, pulling it back to look over his skinny forearms first, assuming there would be some show of damage on him if the wardens were being hard with him. ] It's okay, I like 'em a little rougher.

[ he cups his chin, then, tilting kavinsky's face up towards the lights, to view the shadows under his eyes and the bloodshot corneas behind pale and pink eyelids. he isn't looking good at all, though it seems more like withdrawal than anything else. depression too, sure, that's to be expected in a situation like his. plus, who knows what all k was running from in taking all that crap into his body. pulling back his hand, murphy takes up one of the sodas instead, popping the top, and setting it down in front of him. ]

Take your sippy cup, sweetcheeks. Tell me about your day. [ by which he means, 'what the fuck happened to you between a few days ago and now'. ]

Edited 2017-06-10 00:38 (UTC)

[kavinsky has always been too thin, a consequence of a steady diet of cocaine, genetics. mostly cocaine. his bones are fine by themselves, though-- murphy's fingers go all the way around easy. the bones stick out of his face, too, when murphy moves his head under the light. the dream thief looks vaguely amused by his companion's examination, his eyebrows buckling and lifting curly on his forehead. but at least he's focusing on murphy now, seeing him when he looks at him, the weight of actual attention filling his pupils.

murphy asked a question. murphy's giving him a soda. the actions block together clumsily in continuity. time seems to proceed in fits and starts--

—mostly, kavinsky supposes, because he's trying not to think about the video from yesterday, with the knives, a young man who'd had murphy's coloring if nothing else in common, rolls of fat that had split and spilled gummily under evisceration, greasy layers distinguishable from the dark run of blood. the association seems inappropriate, even of kavinsky, who has very little in the way of standards or barometer for such evaluations. he moves to take the soda, somewhat slower than he should be, but not hesitantly. the gold of the can is grounding. murphy has absolutely zero knives in him at the present time. it's a good thing to know; an important matter to remember.

remember the nightm--

involuntarily, kavinsky glances at the camera in the corner and regrets it a split-second later.]

Up at eight. Meds at nine. Pretty much the same as jail, except the food actually sucks more. And not as much hot black ass pumping iron in the gym. [he drinks his soda, but it seems a measured sip.] You? Lynch's barn? [meadows. he doesn't know it's called 'the meadows.']

[ maybe it's just the incarcerated life getting to him, constantly watched and monitored and carted here and there. there'd been a time in sky box when he was younger that it drove him nuts. there doesn't seem anything odd in the description of this place. murphy's never been in a psych ward, he can't say if anything more or less should be happening, but his eyes keep searching over the other boy, wondering what had broken him down this way. he'd never been in drug withdrawal either, so maybe this is completely normal to come on suddenly. ]

It's fine. Same as it was. [ the question about the meadows is easier to answer, rather than come up with more probing questions into kavinsky's state. it gives him time to stall - murphy never needs to think to run his mouth, really. ] Don't think they like the Mitsu there.

[ a beat, and he pops open his own soda, as well as the cheetos bag, setting that out between them. ]

What kinda meds are you on? [ it's still strange to him to live in a place that isn't so rationed on medical supplies, and none were wasted on the sky box kids. his eyes travel over kavinsky's near skeletal look again, sharp cheekbones and hollowed eyes. ] Are you getting any actual sleep?

[more soda. kavinsky's throat moves slightly when he takes down fizzy sugar water, one uneven swallow after another. three and it starts to hurt in that way that carbonation does, so he puts the can down and tries not to get too distracted by the veins in murphy's hands or the vague sound of chairs moving upstairs. murphy asks a good question. sleeping none tends to fuck your concentration, and kavinsky's slept even less than usual, for him.]

I should get you another one. You can leave it parked out front so they got something to enjoy even when you fuck off.

[he will always rally to harass sir dick gansey and his little rats nest, though! for this, he will always go through heroic lengths. there's another wan, amphibious blink. kavinsky meets the other boy's eyes.] Different ones, [he says.] Think the shit's supposed to calm me down. Hydrox... Hydrox-something. I had some— [fucked up dreams. sticky and lurid. fragments of reality intercut with high fantasy. john murphy in a unicorn mask, ronan in a pink apron and matching kitten heels. half of it had been in bulgarian. he leans across the table sudden as a viper, knocks over the soda can.

his fingers close around murphy's wrist this time. tattooed knuckles squeezed tighter than the other boy might have thought him capable of.

he doesn't blink.] Are you fucking listening to me, jackass?

[ murphy's rigidly still, like when you come across a wild animal and try not to look scared or run, knowing it'll give chase if you do. his grip hurts, bone squeezes against bone, pinching nerves in between, and there's the initial jerk of surprise and wince of pain, but he doesn't rip his arm away, or get up, or shout. his voice hisses, holding kavinsky's distant, reptile eyes. ]

I'm listening. [ murphy seethes, ] Quit trying to break my arm, prick.

[ it isn't abnormal for him to lash out, verbally or otherwise, or out of character, but it's the sudden shift of mood, and aggression out of nowhere, that's concerning. he usually at least follows some semi-logical pattern. he's usually pissed for a reason, and his anger comes out half as psychotic amusement. straight up violence is a first for murphy to have witnessed from him. his forefinger and thumb lift, from where Kavinsky has his wrist gripped, and brush against the underside of his forearm, a gentle touch in contrast. ]

Hey. Kavinsky. I'm here, okay? I'm listening. Come on, man. [ the other hand moves, careful, to touch the white knuckles gripped over his wrist, easing and prying at them some to get him to loosen up or let go, the warmth of his palm on the back of kavinsky's clammy hand. ] I don't think the calm part's working.

[fizzy sugar water flows everywhere all over the table. laking a big brown puddle, dripping off the edge, dotting kavinsky's pant leg. if they were at prison, guards would have gotten over here by now, they would have hauled kavinsky off murphy, folded his arms against his back like chicken wings.

they aren't in prison anymore.]

No, [kavinsky says. his face is empty; his voice a little less so.] Listen.

[and that's when it hits murphy. the fear, the rage, the disgust, slimed over with the weird tranquility that's too chemical to be despair. all of it as raw and cold as liquid concrete would be funneled down his open mouth. a muddled pandemonium that feels downright hormonal, without any specific thoughts or understanding or memories to ground it in objective reality, without structure or explanation. just raw emotion dumped straight into his mind. one of kavinsky's less infamous powers, probably less useful too. empathic projection. it's a whirling mess. and all the stranger, that kavinsky's hand pops open and

just like that, the feed cuts out. it's like shutting the door on a subwoofer-pounding club room, your ears still ringing. the world outside seems infinitely quieter. and one angry boy's emotional experience is generally enough to have to live with.

kavinsky stares at him. his mouth forms the words:]

Get the fuck out, Murphy.

[ the boom of emotion and unnatural calm choking at it his murphy like a mack truck, and he nearly does yank himself bodily away in recoil. instead his finger nails dig into the meat at the sides of kavinsky's palm, thin bones showing tense through his pale skin on the back of his hand.

it's loud, like to heartbeat of bass in the mitsu, and it's deafening in how the high pitch screech of the fear and anger scream through his mind, the disgust and the fury, things very familiarly kavinsky, and he hadn't realized he'd had a power so much like Ronan's with this too. it's terrifying, to get even this tiny window into his mind, and it's no wonder k hasn't been sleeping. murphy's lips part, horror written in the knot of his brows and the widening of his eyes and--

it's all gone suddenly, when he pulls away. he wants, immediately, to babble, and shout, and drag kavinsky bodily from this place, but john murphy isn't stupid, and doing that kind of crap isn't what kept him alive back home. whether this is just the drugs or this place or kavinsky's own fracturing mind, it's clear he needs something else. not this. if they want to rehabilitate him, scaring him out of his mind isn't going to help, or isn't fucking worth it, as far as murphy's concerned. he's pissed for him, lips wanting to twist into a sneer, but they settle for pressing in a tight line.

his eyes shift minutely, towards the camera k had looked at earlier (yeah, he saw that), without mocing his head towards it, and then back to kavinsky's eyes. murphy's hand having left kavinsky's drift away, he reaches out again, hooking his fingertips with his for a short second. ]

I'll see you tomorrow. Ronan's coming with. Try getting some sleep 'til then. [ translation being, we aren't leaving you here, and with ronan having all his powers and no limitation outside of a ward like this, maybe they can manage it. but kavinsky will have to hold out until then. pushing to stand, he leaves both sodas for K, and tugs the cheeto bag over, setting it in front of him, hand moving to his shoulder to squeeze shortly. ] Eat your snacks and try not to miss me too much.

[ronan. some emotion stutters in kavinsky's face, then suffocates like a flame. that's a mistake. that's a mistake. that's a mistake, he wants to say, but he isn't sure that would mean much, coming from some jackass locked up in a psychiatric ward. as of late, he isn't the local representative authority on wise behavior.

murphy touches his hand and then his shoulder, and a strange feeling scuttles down kavinsky's spine. leaves a funny ache in his stomach and a prickle in the back of his neck. he is a monster in his life, who hurts people, who's pushed pills into kids' mouths and watched them choke and spit and swear and he's laughed about it; who's touched the people murphy loves, and knew they hated it. he's the one who took matthew lynch from his brother. took him. out there, touch is one of kavinsky's weapons— and now murphy knows that's true in more ways than one.

but in here, he's a kid who hasn't been touched by anyone but guards and doctors for a month. and murphy's fingers leave ghost prints on his nerves, a miniature haunting. somehow, it doesn't make him think of blood.

he looks at murphy. the corners of his mouth curl upward. he almost looks like himself again.]

No promises, [he says.] Give it a little shake on your way out, will you? Daddy's had nothing to look at. Three fucking weeks.

i lold and needed to slap in one last tag, fite me

rekt - 2017-06-13 05:51 (UTC) - Expand

[ the mitsu speeds back to the meadows from the rehab clinic kavinsky's being held at, tires screeching and gravel flying, before the break locks into place and the car powers down. Murphy near explodes from the car, slamming the door shut, and stomping into the house, immediately shouting - ] Ronan! [ he goes from room to room, calling for him, until finally reaching him wherever he's hiding out, launching into this conversation regardless of how busy he is or not. ]

Lynch, we need to talk. [ you know it's serious because he isn't grinning and he isn't saying 'mom'. frankly, he's freaked the hell out, after having k share his own freaked the hell out feelings with him. ]

Kavinsky did some kind of brain meld thing, but with feelings with me. It's not as specific as yours, but I know he's terrified, he's furious, and he's sick - mentally and physically very sick. He's losing it inside that nut house they have him locked in. [ murphy still can't say what the cause is, the facility hardly seemed ominous aside from murphy's own discomfort with any kind of medical institution and distrust of good will in human beings. it could've been drug withdrawal, it could've been him just going off his rocker. the point was it's a scary kind of unhinged, even for kavinsky. ] Whatever's up with him, those people can't handle it. He'd be better off with us.

[ aka please use your super powers to break that friend you don't like very much out of a government approved psychiatric ward, thanks. john murphy is still not great with normal civilization, okay? ]

Edited 2017-06-10 09:00 (UTC)

[Ronan's in his bedroom when Murphy storms in. There's nothing occupying him except his headphones and the network, and Ronan tosses both of these aside when he sees the state Murphy's in. He sits up, confused and alarmed at first, then settling into a grim expression. It's hard to picture Kavinsky terrified, and Ronan's instinct is that it's an act. A lie. That's all Kavinsky does.]

With us? K wants nothing more than to kill every single person in this house. If he's telling you he has to be here, it's just so he can murder us in our sleep.

[ Murphy's head starts shaking, a sigh, because Kavinsky hadn't really said anything, he'd been too paranoid of cameras in the room to do it (whether that's a legit fear or not, Murphy can't say, but the problem is it's there). ]

He didn't say that - he showed me he's scared shitless, then said 'get the fuck out'. It wasn't an act, I felt it, Ronan. [ Felt it the way he'd felt Ronan's love for him, so if they really want to go down that path of argument, it isn't going to be fun. He's come to care about Kavinsky probably more than he should, likely because he's come to understand him likely more than he should. Maybe that comes with being an unrepentent murderer, but Murphy's learned, since Emori, that surviving alone is devastatingly boring and empty, but having people makes that a little more worth the expense that 'caring' requires. ] If you guys are too scared of him, I'll take him somewhere, but he needs to get out of there.

[Scared isn't the word he would use. If Kavinsky walks into this place, Ronan's far more likely to kill him than vice versa. He's bitterly angry about what Kavinsky's done to him, and he doesn't know what he'll do when there's nothing left to stand in his way.

Ronan's silent for a moment, scrutinizing Murphy. He knows what it's like to care about Kavinsky more than he should, and he recognizes the same sentiment in Murphy, which is fucking terrible. Murphy's being played just like he was. Ronan knows it. But if he says it now, he'll only drive Murphy away from him. Did he ever listen to Gansey about any of this?]

If K used his power on you, that means I should be able to communicate with him, too, right? If I go there? It must mean there aren't nullifiers like there were at the prison.

[ it's a large part 'i'm the bad guy' syndrome. he sees someone else in the position he'd been in before and the bitterness that ate him up for that back home comes out now too. he loves his family at the meadows, but he understands group mentality, and one offense building on another and another until it ends in ostracizing. of course, murphy doesn't know what those offenses were or how personal, but he also doesn't realize this is what he's doing either. he doesn't tend to think on these things much. ]

It should, yeah. There isn't anything blocking his powers, and he still looks near dead, makes no sense when he talks. Worse than he normally does.

[ because holding a conversation with joseph kavinsky is like catch the rabbit - where the fuck is his brain going now. ]

[Kavinsky's a Cheshire Cat and always has been. But "worse than normal" might very well confirm Ronan's fears. There could be someone like Greenmantle here, less concerned with collecting his treasure and more preoccupied with dissecting it. Ronan swallows, nodding.]

Whatever they're doing to him must be interfering with his dreams or he wouldn't need us to rescue him. Unless he wants to be there. Unless it's a trap for us. I'm not saying no, I'm just saying we have to be careful. We don't know enough about this.

[He sounds so much like Adam right now, and he's not sure if Adam would be proud or angry with him. Won't be finding out, either. If he asks for the others' help, they'll try to talk him out of it.]

We'll see how much info I can get out of him telepathically and figure out where to go from there. I might be able to dream whatever he needs to escape.

Why would he trap us? [ murphy asks, head tilting. he's far from the most trusting type, but people tend to follow certain patterns, even the batshit ones. ronan is someone he likes, someone who usually has good reason for the things he does, so murphy assumes there's something to this he's not being told, but he prods at it anyway, as that's how he gets answers. ]

He's the one that pulled us out of the dreamscape early. If he wanted to hurt us, he could've just left us there to suffer through it with everyone else.

[ as far as it seemed, ronan and murphy were the only ones he pulled free himself. of course, it wasn't anything gentle, the way he did it, but it was better than being there for days on days on days. either way, ronan's agreed to check it out, and that's all murphy was looking for here. ]

I told him I'd be back tomorrow. Coming with?

[Ronan sighs, irritated, though not with Murphy. He's done his best to put Kavinsky out of his mind since the dreamscape, and especially since his visit to the prison. He hasn't even asked the others what happened on the Fourth of July, because he doesn't really want to know. He wouldn't know what to do with the confirmation that this boy he allowed to touch him was using their intimacy for a drawn-out revenge plot. He'd known Kavinsky was playing with him. He hadn't known Kavinsky was trying to hurt him.]

Something happens - happened - back home. His past, my future. He kidnapped my little brother, trying to lure me into a fight. I didn't know anything about this until I just went to see him and he bragged about it. I think he was trying to get me to fight him there, too. At the prison. I think he wants me to end up locked up with him. My brother's not here, so I'm worried he's gonna try to use you the same way, do something that'll get me to come after him.

There aren't a lot of dreamers back home. We're the only living two that we know of. I always figured that if somebody got a hold of K and figured out what he could do, he'd tell them about me and they'd come after me, too. I think there's a good chance that's happening here, now. If he's in Hell, he wants me there with him.

And I'm a fucking idiot, so yeah, I'll come with you.

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tw gore in metaaa, cw racism

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powerpose lmk if not ok

youre good!!

more powerpose!! lmk if not ok!

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ronanners;

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visitation take two; now in threesome flavor

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tw bad medicine and PENISES and stuff

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