maskormenacelogs | O9 👶 IT'S EITHER HELL OR HIGH WATER

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O9 👶 IT'S EITHER HELL OR HIGH WATER

WHO: Joseph Kavinsky & John Murphy & any other CR who'd fancy it
WHERE: Varous institutions where shitty criminals are held :)
WHEN: Throughout May 2017
WHAT: Known to the public, Kavinsky has been arrested for unleashing the dream plague of Nazi America across the ImPort community! If you know him, feel free to visit him during his week in prison. Catch-all for May, feel free to pp/PM me if you'd like a starter.
WARNINGS: Mental illness, incarceration, institutionalization, drug use/withdrawal.

May 16

[1. contact visitation]
[the room is crowded and there are small, round tables all over, just like in tv. that is, if you tend to watch television shows set in prisons, rather than for example, news coverage about eighteen-year-old import assholes trolling half of america with a horrifying dream plague, complete with high-definition torture and terror and destruction plenty. of course, the latter programming is why you are here.

joseph kavinsky was arrested on may 15th, with the help of concerned citizens.

he shows up in orange, with a guard leading him by the arm. he looks both at home and oddly out-of-place— his baby face places him on the youngest end of the range of inmates. he's too skinny, and his hair is still long. it could look like trouble of an unsavory sort, but the crazed light of withdrawal is beating visibly behind his pupils. he looks a little dangerous, if you know what to look for. he regards you across the table, then juts his chin.] Hey, sweetheart.

You bring me any coke up your asshole? Please and thank.

[an addict's gotta ask.]
[2. no-contact visitation]
[other times, there's a pane of thick glass between the inmates and their visitors. kavinsky files in in an orderly fashion with men who are, on average, considerably larger than he is. but there's nothing particularly nervous about the look of him, when he slings his skinny body down into the chair. if anything, he looks bored. it's the usual expression on him, his heavy eyelids low, a hangdog slouch in his skinny shoulders. despite the amphetamine fidget in his hands, the jitter running through him, he doesn't look hurried.

great white sharks look that way too, when they barrel through the sea. right up until the flash of tooth.

he picks up the phone.] Heyyyyy, bitch! You're not my lawyer, [he says. (that is: even if you actually are! hey jeff winger! pick less shitty clients, maybe.)]

May 21+

TBD :3

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ it's weird, being on this side of prison visitation, and weirder still, seeing someone else led around by armed guards in obnoxiously uniform gear, but at the same time, the sight of someone so young in a place like this doesn't fit murphy as odd. something that raises bitterness in him, yes, but not unheard of.

if he glad it isn't him? hell yes. is he pissed for the literal torture kavinsky put him through for his own revenge? yeah, that too. but does he think he belongs locked up like this? no. no one actually died, right?

maybe. he hasn't actually checked the news on it.

murphy's at least a friendly face, lazy look in his eyes, slumped shoulders, torn outfit and all, and when asked for ass-stashed goodies, he plops a corner store bag with a bottle of coke (coca-cola) and a bag of chips on the table between them. ] Didn't go for the cavity search, sorry. Wasn't feeling prison kink today.

[ thus, the bag, which did not come out of his butt. ]

[there was a surreal split-second where kavinsky thought maybe ronan had come to see him. he gave that up pretty quick though, after a little parallax, realizing that this version of the same-faced boy doesn't measure nearly tall enough to qualify for the original object of kavinsky's heart. penis. heart? penis. whatever. the distinction doesn't concern him even under the best circumstances, and these are not the best of circumstances.]

You gonna drive by when you are feeling it? [a brow goes up on kavinsky's face with the question, sly, gross, but mostly he's focusing on the bag that murphy brought him. dragging it over by the handles, craning his head to peek inside. the next instant, he's extricating the coke. not asking if it's for him, of course, because-- obviously.] Scratch that. I'll take this instead of my conjugal. [translation: thanks.] Hey. Hey, Murph.

You mad? Is it poison? [it doesn't matter. he's opening his soft drink.]

I'll consider it. [ coming by for a friendly ass searching, said in a mild tone with a small smirk and a lazy look. is it a joke? we just don't know. the coke and chips are for him, so murphy doesn't do anything to stop k as he digs in, just leans an elbow on the table, chin dropping against the heel of a palm, letting out a snort. ]

If I was mad enough to try killing you, you'd have known during driving lessons. [ because he can definitely survive a car crash with how his power works here. he assumes kavinsky is much squishier. which, brings about the thought of how he's doing here. prison isn't a kind place, least of all when you're the smallest or youngest one, and kavinsky is scrawny as hell. ]

You know, I was on death row once. For like five years. [ fun conversation starters, but this is a little bit why he likes kavinsky. he doesn't expect to be balked at for it. ] Friendly advice, you can make a decent shank out of just about anything, and concrete makes a good file.

[kavinsky drinks way too much of the coke in one swallow, considering we all know what it feels like to have the carbonation needling down the inside of one's throat. ouchie. he thunks the can down the next moment, vigorously enough that the brown fizz jumps out of the opening and gets on his hand, but he doesn't care. he's tearing open his bag of chips. messy. messier than usual, actually. most of kavinsky's chaos is usually about homemaking or catastrophic emotional dysfunction. usually, he cares about having a cute earring, expensive jeans, nice hair, not having chips dribbled down his front.

getting into jail really takes a guy down a peg. but he smiles for the buttsex joke, and fails generally to look all that melancholy.]

Big fucking difference, [he points out,] didn't have my powers nullified when I took you driving, sweetheart. [if it sounds like he's kind of sort of trying to convince murphy to kill him, that's not so very surprising, surely. kavinsky stuffs a few more chips in his mouth, chipmunking them into his gaunt left cheek.] What were you in for?

Edited (fix) 2017-05-19 02:11 (UTC)

Arson. And wasting oxygen, I guess. [ murphy answers, with raised brows at how kavinsky attacks the soda can. calm down, it's not going anywhere, and it isn't fighting back. as far as killing him goes, well, it's not a business he's really in without good reason, and kavinsky did make the effort to pull him out of his bullshit dreamscape faster than most. even if k wants him to, murphy's not about to have that over his head just to do a favor for someone depressed.

but they can swap stories for the sake of entertainment, and acting chill in a situation that definitely isn't chill. he thinks kavinsky probably lies as well as he does. everyone has their coping mechanisms, and this, he's found, is a particularly good one. ]

Set an officer's quarters on fire. [ murphy explains, pulling open the bag of chips and stealing one for himself. ] Asshole didn't die, sadly, but I was only 13 and didn't have a lot of practice in setting people on fire.

[the feel of grease on kavinsky's fingers is gross, and he has half a mind to wipe them on the other boy's clothes for laughs. but then the guards would come, and he doesn't want that yet; he doesn't want this conversation to end. it's boring with the plebes because they offend his narcissism. it's also boring with the plebes because he doesn't have cocaine.

also murphy is less boring, quantifiably speaking, because he tried to murder a guy with fire on a spaceship before.]

Huuuuh. [kavinsky looks duly impressed, his eyebrows going high on his pale forehead; eyes very sharp.] I approve of your methods, baby. But you probably oughtta have acquired some better fucking accelerant. [he slouches comfortably, elbows on his knees. regards murphy steadily from across table + tiny scratchy bits of crisps scattered all over it.] You gonna tell me what he did?

[ a lazy eye roll and a snort later, murphy sighs and shrugs, at least as much as he can without dislodging his head from where it's flopped on his hand. ] Getting something flammable in the first place, on a heavily rationed space station, was hard enough.

[ he was a determined delinquent, but he also didn't know much about starting fires. murphy didn't pay very close attention in earth skills.

rolling the thought around in his head, murphy's trying to decide if he really wants to be honest with the question kavinsky gives him. or if he wants to just side step it entirely. he does appreciate that k immediately knows it was a revenge attempt. munching at a chip buys him some time to stall, but he eventually comes out with an answer. ]

He fucked my life up over a bottle of flu meds. [ the truth, but none of the too personal specifics. he doesn't need to go over the dead parents details in the middle of prison visitation, and something about kavinsky, the sharpness in his smirks, the glint of danger in his eyes, sparks that urge to look more invincible than he knows he is. oddly, it reminds him a lot of bellamy. ]

[murder is definitely not just an earth skill, kavinsky wants to point out. but he doesn't, because-- well he's one percent tactful maybe, or he's just aware that given only one of them is currently dressed in the hottest trending hunter orange right now, maybe he shouldn't be giving advice on how to accomplish crime. he stares at murphy's face like an alligator, motionless, nearly expressionless, but unmistakably attentive.

it's very practical if you are an alligator, to be motionless and expressionless. the better to feel the nearby vibrations of creatures struggling in the muddy water. flu meds and heavily rationed space station. there's a connecting thought there. kavinsky knows better than to ask directly.]

You made it out in the end, [he observes, after a moment. he remembers the network post. a radioactive planet, devastated. he chews on another crisp and then asks,] Did he? [stories of effective revenge on his favorite, okay. if you catch him in the right mood, he'll admit to preferring it to porn.]

Haven't kicked it yet. [ Murphy shrugs, because it is very much a concept of 'yet', back home. he's skid by on so many occasions, only barely surviving, only barely making it out, to everyone's surprise and dismay. cockroach, he's been termed, and yeah, it's appropriate. luck's going to run out some time, or he's going to find himself backed into a corner, unable to swindle his way out of it.

but the officer? murphy frowns, thinking on it, trying to remember if he'd seen him anywhere in arkadia, or with farm station. not that he can recall. it's always possible another station landed safely far, far away, but not freaking likely. half had burned up and fallen apart in atmo. ]

No. Probably died in the crash. [ and there's a slow smirk that pulls across murphy's lips as that reality sinks in. how sort of perfect it is. the same hell he'd sent murphy to die in, the kid would survive and the officer would perish. seems like justice, in a fucked up, round about way. ]

[the alligator listens to the vibrations, the shiver and quake channeling through the water and into his stone skin. prey struggling nearby. but then there is also the viscous smooth movement of another long body coming through nearby. more alligators. alligator friends.

the alligator smiles.]

Congratulations, sweetheart. [kavinsky raises his coke can in a way that speaks to volume of pride and celebration, and then he knocks back another needling, near-painful swallow of its bubbling contents. a sharp chuff of breath out of his nose, almost a laugh.] You should've brought yourself one. Now I feel fucking rude, having nothing for you to toast with. [but he sticks his fingers into his chip bag, extricates one. offers it to the other boy instead.] What was his name?

[ his alligator friend smiles back to him, some kind of camaraderie found in being deplorable people, and convicts. it's a pity kavinsky's bound to be in lock up for a while. it's nice having the break from the sunshine and giggles that is currently the meadows, and the righteous fury that is raven freaking reyes. ]

Next time. [ he promises, tapping the chip to kavinsky's soda can in mock cheers. ] We haven't even gotten to the actual murders yet.

[ because there are those too. as for the officer himself, murphy squints some, thinking as he munches his chip. the man was more a face to him than anything else. some adult to this little kid that just wanted to throw a fit on a monumental scale. ] Something bland. Johnson? Jackson? Jameson? I think it was Jackson.

[sunshine and giggles rarely flourish around kavinsky, it's true. he is the weedkiller equivalent of happiness and beauty generally. even if he does seem to be taking this situation quite well overall. there's an inevitability about it. he was always going to end up dead or in jail.]

To fucking Jackson. But no cock. [he nods.] But hey, you wanna catch up on the murders, I could give you my car. [he leans back on his seat, flinging a thin arm over the back of it, still prying around the chip bag with his other hand. he has an actual appetite with less drugs in his body.] Left it parked outside the place where this shithead narced me out to the popo. [he shrugs.] Bet my lawyer could get you the keys. Then you just gotta practice driving where they got homeless people. [a beat.]

And maybe a driver's license. [that's optional.]

Maybe he rest with blue balls. [ said before a triumphant munch of his chip, snorting a wry laugh at the suggestion of hobo murder, because this is the kind of sad shit that's actually funny to him. as much as kavinsky's all things ill and unpleasant, murphy has described himself as made up solely of pain, hate and envy, with no desire to amend that. 'ABCs of me', he'd told Jaha. ]

Yeah, but where'm I gonna find a car wash willing to put in the elbow grease to get brain matter out've the grill? [ john murphy is a bucket full of charm. and yeah, maybe that ABCs of me thing hadn't been entirely true, as far as the person he wants to be goes, but he at least doesn't feel Noah's warning judgment in his head, and ronan's catholic guilt. ]

Who was it, by the way? The narc.

[kavinsky salutes with his drink again, definitely 100% advocating for this portrait of murphy's dead whoever that guy was that he doesn't want to talk about too much. there's a rape joke waiting to happen, but i guess being in prison takes the fun out of that particular domain of humor. or maybe he just used them up on the inside already. kavinsky will find some other way to bet terrible.] Lots of places in Maurtia Falls, [probably doesn't count. everyone knows what maurtia falls is like. water is wet.] At De Chima, you'll have to say it's a deer or something. You gotta show me your poker face.

[a show of teeth. he slouches, his eyes shifting across murphy's narrow mug.]

His name's Billy Kaplan. ImPort-- obviously. Can't remember is code name. If you wanna sex revenge him for me, just be aware he doesn't take it up the asshole. [he leans back on his seat.] He drew a pentagram on the floor to summon me like some fucking Exorcist shit. [possibly, kavinsky never watched the exorcist, but he won't be the only one.]

I'll work on it. Get back to you next week. [ with his poker face improvements, and if he managed to get anyone to scrape dead hobo off of kavinsky's grill. of course, he isn't actually going to go murder hobos, because despite the fact he has murdered and doesn't feel that bad about it, it isn't really a hobby. but, still fun to joke about. even while his head slowly tilts to the side, wondering A, who the fuck Billy Kaplan is, B, What the fuck bullshit witch crap he pulled and why K was summoned like a spirit and C, why the eff K wants Murphy to fuck him for it. ]

Sex revenge? How's screwing him supposed to avenge you? What if I end up caught in some voodoo ritual for justice? [ but that's what that nonsense sounds like. there's going to be some over eager ex cop shaking chicken bones at him while he's trying to get off and murphy just isn't about that life. ] The fuck's up with that, anyway. Did anyone even die from that dream stuff?

[ why is kavinsky in jail if no one even died??? ]

[kavinsky spins a finger around, indicating the general area around them. this handsome jail and its variously murdery and sketchy-looking occupants. kavinsky looks like neither, according to canon; he looks innocent, at least in the biased regard of another young and horny gay man. and he's always had one of those young faces. still, there's something that puts him at home here-- perhaps just the utter lack of concern about the fact he is.] Common wisdom is, you can accomplish a lot with a couple of razors shoved up your asshole.

But that joke sounds tired for some reason. [get it. get it!! hahahahahaha ok i'm a self-referential turd lord. sorry.] Fucking and revenge go together fucking sweet. You'll figure that shit out someday. [he absent-mindedly taps his tattooed fingers on the chip bag, which is mostly empty now except for a few crumbs. studying murphy as he does this.

it feels strange to have someone make excuses for him. like it ought to be a trap.]

You're not saying torture's your thing.

[ the sundry of tattoos doesn't really shout innocent to murphy, but that might be because the only people he ever knew with tattoos were grounders, and they liked to torture him a lot. but as far as his features go, yeah, he looks relatively young, almost delicate in a way. maybe it's because he already looks somewhat damaged, with the too pale skin and too dark hair, touches of red that stand out under his eyes, telling of drug withdrawal more than anything else, probably. but once his freaking mouth opens, the whole innocent vibe shatters pretty hard. ] Uh huh. And how'm I supposed to keep my own asshole from getting shredded? You ever try it before, because I'm dying for tips here.

[ no, he's not, because he's not doing butthole razors, not for kavinsky for anyone else. the fucking and revenge part he really doesn't get. he's pretty sure fucking bellamy blake wouldn't make him feel any better about being lynched. or maybe it would, who knows. bellamy blake wouldn't ever stoop to touch him any kind way anyway, though, so it's a moot point. moving on, to torture. ah, the john murphy life. ]

Oughta be by now. It'd make life less of a bitch, at least. [ he's sure the previous dealings with angry grounders aren't going to be his last, and people just seem to freaking love putting him through physical agony, so why not? why'd you think he got vivisection down so well in there, kavinskers? ] I'm just saying, it was in dreamland. Nothing actually happened to anyone's bodies, so boo freaking hoo.

People are pussies, [kavinsky says, nodding along in problematic agreement, outwardly indifferent, inwardly quite interested in murphy's totally botched sense of morality. and lack of sticky residual resentment toward him. he'd already ruled out screaming rage when he'd shown up with the chips and soda, but you know, sometimes people are still bitchy and defensive after they've let you off the hook for the big thing. take joseph kavinsky, for example. even though he died because of ronan lynch, he's been pretty cool about it, going so far as to take him out on valentine's day and kiss him, instead of telling him about that one time he kidnapped the guy's brother.

usually, people hold onto shit a little.]

I think they mad because I made people more fucking crazy, man. I think-- [he motions across the table at murphy himself.] Probably not too many people start at your baseline fucked in the head. You can think about it like, all those little ImPort boys and girls out there, were like you before Jackson shit on your life. Then I rolled in with my rectum open, baby. [the only thing kavinsky likes less than taking responsibility for his own shit is losing his villain cred. don't be fooled-- he can do one without the other!] Did you cry?

[ it's true, his morality is completely fucked, especially considering he'd gone from the law of the Ark, which meant standing in the wrong spot or getting pregnant at the wrong time would be a death penalty, to the Ground, where bloody murder was forgiven, if the right person was committing it. the concept of justice, in his screwed up little head, has been flipped inside out and backwards. the revenge he sought out in an attempt to hold on to some idea of justice one got him into deeper shit. what murphy considers right and wrong, now, depends entirely on how inconvenienced it makes him, and his ability to survive.

all in all, dream torture? not the worst thing kavinsky could've done to him. especially considering he'd also been trying to help him out of it at the time. along with that, someone who can suck every import in the US into a nightmare horrorscape? someone he wants on his side. like with many things murphy, just because he gets a good opportunity out of it, doesn't mean he isn't interested in it for other reasons, like the part where this feels like an easier conversation than 80% of the ones he'd had in the Meadows outside of Ronan himself. ]

You're on an asshole dropping roll today, sugar. Need me to go so you can score some alone time and take care of some stuff? [ seriously, prison must be getting to him because that's the third butthole mention in a couple minutes. and sugar, because he keeps calling him things like baby and sweetheart and people don't call him that, so it's kind of funny. it makes sense, though, in a weird, strung out, drug withdrawal kavinsky way. leave people without a lot of trauma just a little bit of trauma and it sticks pretty hard. but that last question gets an actual pause from him, considering. ] When? In dreamland?

[kavinsky shakes his head, his gaunt face crinkling into a smile. he jabs his finger down on the chip bag emphatically.] Listen. I know you're new, but the conversations where assholes are for shitting are different from the ones where assholes are for fucking. You get me? [emphatic! jabbing! into the deflated plastic baggy. his bleary eyes crinkle. is there anything to talk about in the universe besides maiming, drugs, sex and shit in various and sundry types, really?] Also. Pretty sure conjugal visits were on the table when you got here ten minutes ago.

Now it's all about leaving me alone. To take care of myself. Thought you'd understand, better than anyone. [sarcasm's easy. there's no self-pity in kavinsky's eyes, not really; he slouches over the edge of the table, setting his bony chin on his arms. his jacked up eyes lambent with laughter and everything else is probably wrong with you when you dream horrorscapes for people.] I wouldn'ta turned out this way if somebody'd taken five minutes to give me a hug when I was four. [at this angle, the shadows suck in around his cheekbones. his face looks like a skull with some skin painted on.

don't do drugs, kids!]

Dreamland. After you woke up. Whatever,

What about the ones where the assholes are for drug trafficking? Or revenge? I need you to clarify this crap beforehand. [ fucking absurd conversations - a prison visit with joseph kavinsky. really, he's not sure how much of this is kavinsky joking, how much is serious, and how much is drug withdrawal nonsense. but now he's jabbing and complaining about conjugals and taking care of himself. murphy leans forward to match him, chin on his arms and voice quiet in half-mock conspiratory tones. ] Are you seriously throwing a fit because I asked if you wanted to go jack off? Wanna take a conjugal so we can go hug it out and you can talk to me about your rectum knives some more?

[ kavinsky looks half dead with how hollowed out his pale face is, and how sickly the lights paint his skin, so murphy can't really say how much of this he's reading right. but he answers the question honestly, none the less. it doesn't cost him anything. ]

No, I didn't. It didn't hurt when I woke up.

[ had he cried during it, in dreamland? maybe, he honestly couldn't remember. did he cry on the ground, when they were ripping his fingernails off? absolutely. he cried and screamed and begged, and on the third night, he broke and told them everything they wanted about the dropship camp, but not until they'd already taken them off every single finger. ]

[it's a reasonable question. kavinsky is not a particularly reasonable person, but he experiments with refocusing on the situation at hand to try and follow what murphy is talking about. going forward is always easier than going backward. going backward is what makes young dream thieves want to kill themselves, in a world where nanites refuse to let it stick.]

Pretty sure I'm just trying to get you to put out, my good man, [he says, after a moment. that seems likely. it's a rather half-assed effort, but when in prison... you know.] Or start some shit. [one or the other! sometimes both at the same time. according to history, kavinsky has a messy messy track record with presenting some of the most hostile, off-putting flirtation known to man?? who knows what maggie stiefvater was thinking??? he's like a shark, is what we've determined. he tries to figure shit out by putting his teeth into it.

(and also, he likes the taste of blood.)]

Appreciate the junk food, but it's never bothered me when people hate my fucking guts. Just wanted to make that clear.

[ joseph kavinsky's head and thought process within it are a mystery to murphy, and for a while after that proposition, he's staring at him with brows knit and lips pressed in a thoughtful line, as he glances from kavinsky's boney, inked hands on the table, over the uniform prison jumpsuit, up his tattooed neck, to his sharp, too fair features, and into his uncharacteristically fluffy hair. maybe he's just dropped too much acid in his life and now his brain's fried. or, he's just really freaking lonely, with a good side dish of mind/emotion-fucked.

whatever, psychoanalysis was never something murphy appreciated much. ]

What d'you want me to do, drop under the table right here and hope the guards start throwing dollar bills instead of putting cuffs on me? [ he's not going to, but whatever, there's one for the spank bank if kavinsky's seriously wanting any of that. which is a concept murphy isn't even beginning to take seriously right now, for several reasons (ronan, k would probably fuck a sofa if it could consent, ronan, who even wants murphy anyway, ronan, ronan, we're not playing this right now, ronan), one being the whole 'start shit' thing. yeah, he gets it. doesn't mean he's indulging it. ]

I don't hate your fucking guts, calm your horny prison tits.

[ that, however, is true. murphy's hate is a pretty palpable thing, and this is far from it. ]

[Ronan comes as soon as he hears - which isn't immediately, and is probably Too Late by Kavinsky's standards. Nevertheless, he makes the effort to be there. He hasn't decided yet how to feel about their shared dream, and what went on between them, and what Kavinsky forced everyone to endure.

He's been angry about it for weeks, but the anger dissipates with the knowledge of Kavinsky's capture. Ronan is certain, without a doubt, that what Kavinsky will have to endure here and at the hands of the authorities will be excessive punishment. Kavinsky deserves a lot for his crimes, but he doesn't deserve to be taken apart, which is (as he has been informed) what generally happens to creatures like them.

It surprises Ronan, when he looks across the table, that the sight of Kavinsky in orange affects him viscerally. There's a difference between expecting something and confronting it when it actually arrives. Kavinsky has always belonged in jail. Ronan is shocked by just how much he never wanted to see Kavinsky jailed.]

You look like shit.

[it's kavinsky's super special gift for depression, that he can expect everything to maintain a baseline shittiness, and still go to shit, and still after that be critically disappointed at the shitty shittiness of the world. so yes, his ass was a little burned that ronan hadn't shown up, because he felt entitled to that, somehow, in spite of fully understanding he done fucked up and more importantly, he'd fucked a lot of people over.

but the other side of that is, he's pleasantly surprised when ronan does show up. 'pleasant,' like an arrow through the gut laced with dilaudin, or filling your home with dream shit, fantastical and empty.

sometimes he doesn't know if ronan's bad for him, or if he's just gotten weak enough to care that he is very obviously bad for ronan.] It's called prison bitch, [he says.] And all the cool kids are doing it. Very in vogue, sweetheart. [puts his elbows on the table, then gestures at ronan with his hands, permissively.] Begin Catholic lecture.

For fuck's sake, K.

[Ronan's not sure why he's here, but it's certainly not to lecture. Kavinsky knows what he did. He did it on purpose. Nothing will change the part of Kavinsky's nature that makes him do these things. And if anything does, it certainly won't be Ronan's words.

He does his very best to look like he doesn't care about this, but there's a tight irritation etched on his features that wouldn't be there if it didn't matter to him that Kavinsky's trapped in here. The reality is that it's taking all of his control to just sit here. He wants to reach across the table, grab Kavinsky, and drag him away from this place.]

How long are they keeping you here?

[kavinsky smiles and then his heavy-lidded eyes crinkle, a smile going all the way up. his happiness is true when ronan is exasperated and pissy at him. if other, truer forms of happiness are possible, he's never met them before.] Maybe a week, [he says.] My lawyer's working on a deal. Get me into one of those bullshit rehab facilities or whatever. Maybe one of those probation officers. You know a lot of ImPorts get them, after they're done in here. Calendar Man told me all about it.

[he leans back in his seat. then he raises his foot from the floor and sits it on ronan's chair between his legs. it's not what the guards are watching for, so in the busy room, that goes unnoticed just for now.]

Maybe you ain't that mad because I didn't hurt all the little boys in your ass train bad enough. Just a bad dream, right? That's what you get to tell yourself. That's how you make it okay.

[Rehab only sounds minutely better than prison. Patients don't seem as dangerous as criminals, but Ronan trusts a doctor far less than a prison guard. If Kavinsky has any brains at all, he should feel the same. Of course, Kavinsky might have no idea about the dangers that had been closing in on them back home. Does he know that dreamers get taken apart?

Ronan's scowl deepens as Kavinsky's foot finds its way between his legs. He shifts in his seat, pressing further back and away from it without budging the chair.]

Nothing's ever just a dream with us, right?

[Kavinsky's goading him and Ronan has no idea why. He doesn't know why Kavinsky set out to hurt them all in the first place.]

Playing house is a weird thing to build into a nightmare. As far as fantasy scenarios go, it's not what I would've expected from you.

[kavinsky's goading him because

because

because everything ends. except for, apparently, his fucking life. which somehow he can't fucking abort. reminds him to ask his mother if she ever thought about getting out the old clotheshanger. if she'd tried. maybe that's what was wrong with him. fetal damage. he's stuck here in a body that's either invincible or doomed to resurrect. a boy that will never really be his. kavinsky stares at him for awhile, his eyes going bright, then dull, then sharpening again. he doesn't move his foot from its invasive nest.

(on some level it's kind of funny, pretty ironic, ronan worrying about vivisection and gory experimentation; kavinsky just thinks he's trying to make fun.) (that's what the beginning of the end sounds like.) (sounded like.)]

Speak for yourself, my sweet gummy anus princess. [he snorts and leans back in his seat. game face on.] You wanna know what my real fantasy went like? I can tell you. Your boy Czerny can back me up.

[it's always the same story. he chases and chases until he shoves the other dream thief away.]

[Ronan's instantly and deeply shaken when Noah's name is brought into this. Like the other boys, Noah has always disliked Kavinsky. And when it became the two of them competing for his affections, Ronan thought he understood why.

Now he realizes there's a secret involved. Something no one's let him in on. Something his own boyfriend has been keeping from him. Ronan gets the same sense he felt constantly when he first arrived in this world: that his life went on without him in it, and now he's here to face the consequences of things he can't even remember doing.]

What the hell are you talking about?

[kavinsky could envy that, a little. getting left was all he wanted. granted, he wouldn'tve particularly minded if the entire world had gone with him, ended in fire, but beggars, choosers. that shit applies here.

he watches the cracks form in ronan's facade. the ache of inevitability twists in his stomach. this would be more fun on cocaine.

pain now better than pain later. he'd told himself the same thing as fire descended out of the sky.]

Timeline fuckery, sweetheart. July the 4th, [he tells ronan.] You ditched my ass to crawl back onto Gansey's mutant dick. So I kidnapped your brother. You know, the blond one. Rides the shortbus to school. [he cocks his head, his eyes as flat as a piranha watching through glass.] Kind of a fat ass for a handsome queen my size to get into the back of the Mitsubishi. But I did it. Thought maybe you'd kill me, but you pussed out, sugartits. [a bony hand goes up in the air, pretends to tweak ronan's nipple. probably by now ronan cannot appreciate the gesture what with the loud pounding/thunder/circus music playing in his head over the sounds of ordinary prison life.]

[Ronan kicks his chair back and shoots to his feet so fast that the guards react, all of them suddenly on high alert and reaching for their tasers. There's a wave of confusion around the room as they realize it's a visitor - not a prisoner - who's making the scene, followed by uneasiness as they all compare themselves to Ronan's size and conclude that this will not be an easy fight.

But Ronan becomes aware of them, too, before he makes another move. He's outnumbered, and although it would satisfy him immensely if he could reach across the table and beat Kavinsky into the ground, the satisfaction isn't worth the moments that would follow. He will land himself in a cell right beside Kavinsky if he lets his anger seize control.

Gritting his teeth and shrugging off everyone's stares, he sinks back into his chair. The room visibly relaxes and returns to business as usual, though the guards' eyes remain fixed on Ronan now. He sets his jaw and refocuses on Kavinsky.]

Stop lying.

[kavinsky got his foot off the other boy's chair. it was probably a moment of rare wisdom, of being mindful of the authorities nearby. either that or, you know. he didn't want ronan to break his fucking leg off.

but he just sits there. skinny in his prison uniform, sitting back against the chair. his face pleasantly slimy, a faint tilt like a smile or a sneer to the full-lipped shape of his mouth. everything ends, but joseph kavinsky has always had a weird and shitty need to end things on his terms. preferably with fire. he doesn't have his dreaming, so this is close enough, the same ugly brutal beat of his heart in his chest. adrenaline. almost like glee. the glorious spectacle of ronan lynch's rage, which almost burns hot enough to suffice. the only differences between ronan and his dragon are on the inside. outwardly, they're just as beautiful.]

Bitch don't defile my moment of redemption. I'm the only one who's told you the fucking truth.

[Ronan grips the table so that his hands aren't tempted to wring Kavinsky's throat. He says nothing for a good long moment, nostrils flaring as he glares daggers at Kavinsky. He's doing battle with himself, trying to reel in the rage while simultaneously putting all the pieces together. God, fuck, but the worst part is that he believes Kavinsky. There wouldn't be any point in saying it if it wasn't true. Kavinsky could have provoked Ronan any number of ways, but the truth must be the sweetest, because - as Kavinsky helpfully points out - it means that everyone else around Ronan has been lying this whole time.]

You're telling me now. After everything. You fucking asshole. If you hadn't landed yourself in here, you'd just keep fucking with me. You don't win points for telling me the truth now that you can't shove your tongue down my throat.

[kavinsky's eyes flicker like a reptile's. is it true? maybe ronan is right. maybe he would've. but the way little boy lynch thinks is foreign to kavinsky, in the end-- it feels too foreign to kavinsky to explain, even if he had the words. even if ronan looked like he was in the mood to listen, rather than the mood to put his head through the table.

a broken heart is nothing new, but this one is older than most.]

Makes sense, [he says.] Didn't win points for saving your ass from a monster. Or saving your dog-and-boy relationship with three-dick Gansey. [his face is empty as a doll's. kavinsky turns his head away and motions at a guard. they're done here, except for what fuckbrain card he has left up his hunter orange sleeve.] Write me a postcard with every excuse the rest of Dicky's ass train comes up with, a'ight? I'll start a fucking souvenir wall.

[ The fact that Kavinsky had been arrested... it wasn't so much a surprise to Reggie, not if he actually took a few moments to consider it, but it had caught him off-guard anyway in the way things like this always do when you somehow assume they can never happen to you or people you know.

A stupid logical fallacy, obviously, but there you have it.

Kavinsky's still his friend, though, so even though it takes him a little time to get accustomed to the idea, Reggie does finally get around to visiting. He looks a little sick himself, though pale and dark-eyed from sleeplessness rather than withdrawal, but manages a half-hearted sort of smirk when he sees Kavinsky. ]

People really do that? [ Today's not your lucky day, sorry buddy. ] No. You think they'd let me give you a haircut?

[ He doesn't know what else to say yet. It's a little awkward. ]

People really do that, [kavinsky says, a thin smile making his mouth lopsided. he leans back in his seat and scrubs his blunt nails down the sides of his prison jumpsuit. his instinct is to put his hands in his pockets, but when you're incarcerated, they don't give you such luxuries. he frowns slightly when he realizes what he's doing, and winds up smacking himself on the thigh irritably.] People should do that.

[cravings are a bitch. the nice thing about rich people drugs, though, is that the withdrawals aren't physical or anything. it's not like booze. and for that, they've been sticking benzos in him at night time. but he doesn't look too bothered right now, studying reggie from across the table. he comforts himself with the thought his tolerance for alcohol is going to be pretty fucking great by the time he's out of here. and you know. that he'll have a hot piece of ass waiting for him.]

Wouldn't be my fucking preference if I was allowed to touch you, baby. [a beat. then a long, expectant stare.] Lots of other things we could do. Say. You didn't have a couple of bad dreams the other week, did you?

[heh heh. heh heh heh.]

How the hell do they get it back out? I mean... well, I can guess, but who would want to actually use it after that?

[ Kavinsky, apparently... Reggie isn't experienced enough with drug addiction to understand how attaining and ingesting the drugs would be the priority for someone that's jonesing, rather than the way the drugs actually get to them.

He wrinkles his nose slightly at the thought but moves on from it quickly, brushing his bangs back from his face and meeting Kavinsky's stare with one of his own. He tilts his head slightly and quirks up one eyebrow slightly. ]

I guess they might not want you near scissors without handcuffs, huh? [ He leans closer. ] Is this the kind of prison where that's an option? Maybe next time.

[ His slight -- very slight -- grin falters, replaced by a more apparent look of blank confusion. Then just blankness. ]

... I know some people did. [ He leans back again, considering one question, then asking another, safer one: ] Did you?

Not really. [interest lights behind kavinsky's eyes. the way a masochist might thumb a still-sore scab or tuck needles into his own skin. surely that was what had brought reggie here. drug jokes, information about poopholes, all of that is very funny and he enjoys seeing the squirming discomfort of others— especially people that he likes. he's a fucking asshole that way. but this is better.

it's always interesting to him, when people should be angry at him, when people should hate him. when people should leave, and they don't. it's his favorite.] No worse than usual, babe. [he grins. shows teeth, just for an instant, before it vanishes into a smirk that would look more at home on the face of a rabid fox.] You know it's true. No point in pussing around about it, man. They caught me. If you're gonna feel bad, you can try. Guards will bring you some tissue.

[he doesn't think reggie's going to cry. not really. nothing to do with assumptions of strength, or assumptions about reggie's assumptions about loyalty. he doesn't think that reggie's that good a person, to be truthful; doesn't empathize with others.

well, unless he's here on persephone's behalf.]

[ The truth is that Kavinsky's right, Reggie's not that good a person; he'd like to think he is sometimes, but at the end of the day, most efforts he might make to that effect are for that reason only. To feel better about himself, to be more like the people he knows who are loved and respected and happy, all things he can never seem to achieve for himself.

But not because it's the right thing. Not because he understands that the people around him deserve better, and that he should care about that for their sake more than his own. Kavinsky might wish he were more of a sociopath, while Reggie lives in fear that he's been one all along.

Or at least, he used to live in fear of that.

Reggie only stares, then slowly shakes his head. ]

I feel fine. [ Tired, but fine. ] I never cry.

What happened, anyway-- did you finally go off the deep end? [ He pauses, then leans a bit more on his crossed arms. ] Hope it was worth it.

[kavinsky's eyes shift across the other boy's face, as if he's trying to divine the truth from lies. i never cry. it sounds like a lie. you put never in a sentence with a biological function and any human, it's probably a lie.

but maybe it isn't. cocaine kept kavinsky's tears away for the longest time. he blinks like a cyborg refocusing his lens, belatedly syncing in on the question. and then there's a flashpaper smile, brief and bright.] 'Finally,' [he repeats, as if insulted. he isn't.] Nah. I was going after somebody and all you other fuckers just got caught. Collateral damage. [he shrugs his shoulders up. his lawyer would not approve.] No offense.

[well, at least he didn't apologize. you're definitely not supposed to do that.]

Pretty sure it was. I'm getting out of here in a couple of days. Making a deal. [he taps his fingers on the table, and lifts his chin slightly. looking tough, feeling tough. it's not entirely a lie— he knows the system's rigged in the favor of imports.] How's the outside? I missing anything besides your nihilistic angst?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

O9 👶 IT'S EITHER HELL OR HIGH WATER

1!!!

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la de da headcanoning shit blah blah yada yada

cw classist joke

cw gross gorey murder joke

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fdshjkglsda get out lmfao

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tw rape joke

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mild powerpose lmk if not ok!

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tw suicide

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cw ableism

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1. ( can be pre- or post-21st! )

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