Kavinsky let his shoulders flex and relax, a continuous cycle, under Al's palms on his shoulders. He didn't want him to touch him, his size and strength and this confused reassurance like he could mend this somehow. Newt had made it plenty clear that there was no mending this; Kavinsky had known, trudging from the Bramford to where they'd parked on New Years Eve so he could get his stupid car, that there was no mending this.

This wasn't something he could just dream a patch for. He couldn't smooth this over. So what the hell was Al here, trying to prove?

Kavinsky shook his head. "So what if I did?" His was thick and terrible in his ears, tarry black ichor. The scratches on his wrist itched intensely, and moreso, the building of more black, tarry teeth that he would probably dream out of himself.

"I didn't mess up, Al. Messing up is when you don't take a calculation into account and you miss a turn and roll your car. This?" His smile was dangerous, not even really a smile, just teeth in a skull. Dangerous. "I'm a bomb. I was bound to go off at some point."

Laughter bubbled out of him then, thick and terrible as his voice was, disarming. He brought up his hands to grip Al's forearms. His shirt sleeves slid back, and the scratches were more visible--on both arms, long, angry furrows, like claws, six or seven tracks on each forearm. His grip was not nearly as strong as Al's, but his fingers dug into the thick muscle of his arms and he leaned in, until he was nearly breathing Al's air. They were not so different in height, even if Al was a lot bigger.

"What were you hoping to do here, huh? What were you hoping I'd say? He told me he didn't want me to touch him, that he didn't want to see me, that he wanted me to go, so. He's all yours now." His eyes darted over Al's face, sharp, shark-like grin in place. "Don't act like I haven't seen how uncomfortable having me around makes you. Mazel tov, motherfucker. I'm out of your fucking lives."