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[For Kavinsky]
Kavinsky's warehouse looks as much like someplace the factionless have to make do with as ever -- or like the abandoned buildings in the other Darrow. The graveyard takes the spooky atmosphere up another notch, and I don't know if I want Kavinsky to be here or if I want him to have a place to stay that isn't on the verge of crumbling to pieces. He knows people who aren't Newt or me, so why would he be stuck without options?
It wasn't that long ago that we came by to get his things. And now, after one night, there's more crumbling to pieces than just the warehouse.
I can't get Newt out of my head. Can Kavinsky?
Standing outside his pile of bricks and rust and broken glass, I send him a message that I'm hoping he'll answer. We need to talk.
It wasn't that long ago that we came by to get his things. And now, after one night, there's more crumbling to pieces than just the warehouse.
I can't get Newt out of my head. Can Kavinsky?
Standing outside his pile of bricks and rust and broken glass, I send him a message that I'm hoping he'll answer. We need to talk.
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Kavinsky froze, holding his ground. His shoulders stiffened radically. He raised his chin, stubborn and forward to face Al's misguided idea that he could fix something that was unfixable.
"It doesn't matter if he loves me or loved me or whatever. I know what I did--does he fucking get that what he did was shitty too? I know what I fucking did, and I know why I did it. So why do I have to keep fucking defending myself when he's the one that can't decide how he's gonna fucking deal with it?"
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I can't work out why. Because it lets him pretend that Newt won't miss him? That Newt has spares all lined up to take his place?
"What did he do?" Newt regrets what he said to Kavinsky. "You mean him wanting both of us?"
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"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."
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Everything Kavinsky's said today doesn't sound like not giving a shit to me. He's lying to himself, trying to convince himself that it's true.
"But he could tell that you thought you were second best, for some reason." Even now, Kavinsky still thinks that. "You could have talked to him."
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"So I went home. And even before he knew I'd been fucked, he was making the assumption I had been, just because I'd been out and I had a fucking shower. And then when he knew I had, it was all what a slut I was, how I should have just stayed over longer, asking what I'd been up to, what I let him do to me--if I even knew his name, because, hey, why should I, right?"
He was practically shaking now, practically electric. "And then he told me to leave. All past tense, all I shouldn't be surprised. He told me to leave and said he didn't care whether I had the key--which means leave it, in case you don't know, Albert--and now he gets to send you down here and say how sad he is that I'm not there because he doesn't have to say it to my fucking face."
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Newt knows he threw harsh accusations at Kavinsky that day, but he's human. He must have felt like I did when I found out about Kavinsky, when I thought that Newt hadn't told Kavinsky about me, only magnified.
"Newt didn't send me," I say, snap, growl, I don't know. Kavinsky isn't listening at all. He just won't hear the truth.
It happens before I realize what I'm doing -- my fist swings at him, at his jaw.
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He stumbled back, dazed, his vision swimming. The pain was radiating from his jaw like it had from his hand when he'd punched the wall. He wondered if Al's hand hurt; it wasn't not painful to punch someone.
He didn't know how he ended up on his ass, but he just sat there, feeling stubborn and petulant, because of the hit, and dizzy, even though Al had hit his jaw and not his temple or anything. He brought his fingers up to his jaw, trying to feel the damage, even as he curled in on himself.
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For Newt, sure, but that doesn't make it right.
"I..." On my knees, I stretch out my hands toward him, opening and closing them, stopping short of touching him. "Joe, I..."
I'm sorry? I won't hit him again? The moment is over, and I'm left terrified that I really did some damage, my insides in knots, my heart pounding as I try to look over him.
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He felt sick suddenly, the sort of sick he'd felt when he'd nearly hit Newt in the apartment during their argument. The sort of sick that he knew meant there was violence under his skin, violence that he knew he could turn deadly.
"You need to stay away from me."
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I should have known that the only thing I'd manage would be making a bigger mess of things.
My hands fall limply onto the cold concrete under my knees. A second goes by, then another. I can't go home. I don't have a home, not beside Newt, who deserves better than everything that Kavinsky and I have put him through.
Shakily, I push myself to my feet, hovering where I'm standing and looking down at Kavinsky for another moment, longer than I should. I still don't want to leave him alone.
"Newt didn't send me," I repeat one more time, in a whisper. "Still, I know he wants you to be okay, too. No matter what."
With that, I turn to go.