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Prokopenko always knew he was a dream. It was not like he'd ever been told- had it layed out for him, but Kavinsky wasn't good at keeping secrets, that and lying to Prokopenko, even though he lied to everyone else all the time.
Kavinsky gave Proko clues, little hints and one-offs, about his forgery-ness, and plus, Kavinsky's "master plan" hadn't been as masterful as he thought. What about Prokopenko's family? Where were they? Why didn't he have any memories before the age of fifteen? Amnesia, he'd been told. Kavinsky had dreamt up a birth certificate and some paperwork, but it lacked all the sense and reason that Kavinsky often lacked.
It wasn't like Prokopenko cared if he was a dream creature or not. He had his own free will, and through out many of Kavinsky's hints, it became apparent he was something, at one point. Proko knew that if Kavinsky died, he would die too, but there was something terribly, inexpicably beautiful about that idea. An actual ride or die. It wasn't one sided, both of them knew, Kavinsky would be nothing without his "cronie" Prokopenko.
And because Prokopenko lacked memories, he also lacked the knowledge of that night- The night of his death, the stolen kisses, the knowledge that Kavinsky's feelings weren't platonic. But much like him being a dream, Prokopenko had a feeling for that as well.
So, all in all, the nuances of Prokopenko's existence was a conspiracy.
Until one night.
Lying in the vinyl mansion on the outskirts of Henrietta, the ever present duo of Kavinsky and Prokopenko lay on the living room floor, chain smoking and watching the turning of the blades on the ceiling fan. They weren't high or drunk, shockingly, thought they'd been drinking, but this breed of Aglionby boy always acted as if they were: reckless, care-free (atleast to outsiders) and wonderfully, or terribly, random.
Kavinsky laughed, entirely out of the blue, listening to the lulling whirr of the fan. Of course, as usual, that sound was met with the not-so lulling sound of Mrs Kavinsky puking in the upstairs bathroom, probably from drinking too much, hopefully not from an OD.
"What's so funny?" Prokopenko asked, counting the flecks in the popcorn ceiling, and the light brown spots of water damage. Kavinsky laughed again- rough and husky and oddly lovely.
"Let's go for a drive," Kavinsky muttered between chortles, "Old times sake and all that bullshit."
Of course, Prokopenko didn't remember the "old-times-sake" but this was just another one of Kavinsky's ever-present hints. Prokopenko, piecing together information like a historian, nodded.
"Okay."
And so they left in the white Mitsubushi, so early in the morning it nearly seemed like everyone else in the world was dead, except the two of them. The unseperable duo. Prokopenko and Kavinsky. Kavinsky and Prokopenko.
In the car, Prokopenko had a stirring of a memory that seemed more like a dream. A car speeding fast, the crunching of metal, the metallic taste of blood, the words "it's okay" and "you're okay" being murmured like a prayer.
Some trashy electronic music was playing bass heavy in the background, so heavy the car vibrated, along with their bodies.
Kavinsky and Prokopenko were talking about everything and nothing at all: Ronan Lynch's brutal loss in a street race, some drugs Kavinsky dreamt, Jiang's drunken ramblings about God.
"What the hell is it with Lynch, man?" Prokopenko cackled, resting his head back on the seat.
"What 'bout him?" Kavinsky murmured. He lit up a cigarette and clenched it between his teeth. The smoke billowed around him. He knew what Prokopenko was talking about. The night where they saw Ronan Lynch pass out by Prokopenko's Aglionby dorm, then wake up covered in scars and bleeding out. Prokopenko knew what Kavinsky was, so he was certain he understood.
Prokopenko muttered, so low it was nearly invisible:
"The dream." Through his mind was not pictures of the night with Ronan, but with a night he didn't think he'd lived: kisses, the smell of thick cigarette smoke, the Mitsubushi, minus the knife decals, a car accident.
Something on Prokopenko's face was a tell-all. He turned himself to look a Kavinsky, who was still driving.
"What happened?" He asked. Somehow, this sentance changed everything.
Kavinsky let out an embaressed laugh.
"Lynch's a dreamer," he muttered, "I told you that."
"I'm not talking about Lynch," Prokopenko said, "I'm talking about me." Kavinsky looked at Prokopenko, looked at the road, then back to Proko, who stayed silent, squirming uncomfortably in his seat. Kavinsky didn't say a word and pulled over onto the side of the road. He rested his face into his hands.
"Fuck," he groaned. Suddenly, there were no secrets anymore. Prokopenko didn't find himself feeling angry, he felt confused, unsure, but looking at Kavinsky, there was no room for anger.
"Did you dream me?" Prokopenko asked. Kavinsky replied with a single. He took in a deep breath, which sounded like it hurt. Prokopenko's stomach fell. He hadn't expected to get a response so quickly, with so little prodding. He wasn't shocked, it was like being told a fact you knew at one point, but had forgotten.
"I thought you knew," Kavinsky whispered, "I told you. I told you the day I dreamt you back."
"You dreamt me back?" There were no secrets anymore. Kavinsky ripped at his hair. His face was still aimed down at the floor, at his knees.
Kavinsky laughed weakly, entirely humourless. It was a sad laugh, as most of Kavinsky's laughs seemed to be, but this one especially.
Kavinsky looked up at Prokopenko, deep black eyes glassy. Had he been crying? Joseph Kavinsky did not cry.
"You died, man," Kavinsky choked. The music still played, somewhat unkindly, in the background. "There... there was a car accident, and you died. You were gone."
Prokopenko did not let his eyes leave Kavinsky.
"I.. I... I dreamt you back as well as I could," Kavinsky continued, "You're pretty much the same, and no one else but the pack knows you died in the first place."
"What about my parents?" Prokopenko snapped. "My family? Do they think their son is missing, because hell, I've never met them." Kavinsky muttered profanity under his breath, he tugged some more at his hair. He laughed again, almost cruely.
He took a deep breath.
"Your parents were assholes. They would beat the fuck out of you." For some reason, this struck Prokopenko as more shocking than the first of that nights revelations.
"Oh." Prokopenko remained quiet, he was winded. None of this was happening, he tried to convince himself.
There were so many things Kavinsky didn't say- I didn't want you to remember what they did to you, that's why you've never known them. And, I tried to give you some memories, memories of us before you died, but I couldn't, so we said you had amnesia. Instead he replied, even more telling:
"They didn't fucking deserve you." It was so soft, Kavinsky physically cringed. They didn't seem like his words.
Prokopenko wanted to scream for being lied to, or hug Kavinsky for not letting him die and caring so much that he would dream him back. But he stayed quiet, fiddling with a loose thread from his t-shirt.
"They didn't fucking deserve you," Kavinsky replied, quieter now. His voice broke, and it became clear that he was crying. Prokopenko reached out to hold onto him, tugging Kavinsky's head into his lap, and stroking his hair, all too tender. This wasn't Joseph Kavinsky as normal, this was Joseph Kavinsky unshelled.
"Proko?" Kavinsky stammered.
"Yeah?"
"I'm in love with you." There was no shock in Prokopenko's heart. He known, he'd known, he'd known.
"You lied to me," Prokopenko muttered, "You lied."
All of a sudden Kavinsky got up, left the car. Prokopenko jumped out to follow him.
Outside the car it was cold, dark and dreary, two boys alone in the middle of a country street. Both Kavinsky's and Prokopenko's skin were tainted blue.
Kavinsky grabbed Prokopenko by his shoulders, not rough, but holding him in a firm grasp. Prokopenko shuddered.
"I'm done lying, I'm done. I'm telling you everything, now," Kavinsky muttered. And Prokopenko believed him; For the first time Kavinsky was real, unshelled, human.
"Tell me again," Prokopenko whispered.
"No more lies." Their noses were touching, and their breathing was heavy. Their lips met hurridly, and Prokopenko was suprised how soft Kavinsky's lips were. They pulled apart and kissed again, deeper now. They kissed again and again and again.
Prokopenko didn't know if things would be smooth sailing, he highly doubted it. But right now, the future couldn't had mattered less. The present seemed bright.