"I don't give two shits who he wants," Kavinsky snapped, twisting his fingers into his shirt sleeves. The scratches on his arms were aching, one of the scabs snapping and leaving blood pooling on his wrist. He let out a single, embittered laugh, focusing on the ache of his scratches, the pain of his hand, anything but breaking down right now.

"He can want you and anyone else he wants, and that's fine. I don't give a shit." He couldn't give a shit. It hurt too much. Having Al here, watching his confusion and hurt and knowing he had some piece of what was going on but realizing, more and more, that it was just that--some piece--was only making it worse.

"Did he even fucking tell you what happened?" He narrowed his eyes. "Fuck, he didn't, did he? You got one side of the story, and you didn't even get all of it. You don't even know why the fuck I'm out here except that I let someone else fuck me, because that's all he probably told you, and now he's gonna act like that's it, that's the whole fucking deal here."