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On the evening of Adam Parrish's twenty-ninth day at Aglionby Academy, he's riding his bike home from his second job when a car going ninety down the road comes out of nowhere and drives right into him.
He dies instantly.
Joseph Kavinsky slams on the brakes and gets out of the car, and looks down at the broken body of a boy he vaguely recognizes from school. That new scholarship kid. Hungry eyes, this kid. Ambitious eyes. It was something Kavinsky liked.
This is not the first—or even the second—time Kavinsky has had to deal with a dead body, so he puts the body in his trunk and drives home. Then, he considers what to do.
It doesn't take him long to come to a conclusion. He's done it before. His father is still running around, ain't he? And Proko is the newest member of Kavinsky's pack for a reason other than his stunning conversational skills. What's one more dream to fill out the ranks?
Hey, it's not like it makes them any less real, not really. Kavinsky is an excellent dream thief. Hell, he's practically a fucking god, bringing people back to life.
"Alright, Adam fucking Parish," he says, smirking. "Time to figure out what makes you tick. Gotta make you just right, right?"
It takes a few tries to get it right, but once he does...
Well, this one's probably his best fucking work.
The new Adam Parrish is sleeping, and Kavinsky loads him back into the Mitsubishi and finds his way to Henrietta's trailer park. It's a fucking shithole, a place he never would've stepped a single foot in if he had a choice, but fucking whatever.
It's extremely late by now, late enough that it's early, so there are no watching eyes around to see as Kavinsky lugs Adam out of the car and over his shoulder, grunting with the effort. Downside of dreaming up as exact a copy as possible—it means he's fucking heavy.
It takes Kavinsky a minute to find the right shitty trailer out of all the shitty trailers, and he spends the entire time muttering insults to the unconscious dream boy in his arms until he finally spots a mailbox with the name Parrish on the front.
He doesn't bother doing more than dropping Adam at the foot of the front door. Kid'll wake up eventually and drag himself inside, confused as all hell but right as rain, too. Everything will settle over the weekend, and he'll be fine by the time Monday rolls around. And by then maybe Kavinsky will have dreamed up a new bike to replace the one he, uh, lost. One not destroyed by a car going ninety.
Job done, he turns and leaves. As he speeds away, he finds himself grinning, and he blasts his music.
God dammit but he is good.
It's no secret to anyone at Aglionby, from Adam's first day there, that he is a scholarship kid who lives in a trailer park. His clothes are second-hand, he gets to school on a bike (a regular one, that is, not one with a motor), and, most importantly, his answer to the question of "where are you from?" did not provide an area code of the rich and powerful.
This apparently extremely important status of his means that nearly everyone avoids him like he's a dog with rabies. Sure, not everyone is a complete and utter jackwad, but that doesn't mean they're not all stuck in their own little self-important worlds. They're superior simply by existing, and Adam is so very far from their level, in all their eyes. He might as well have the plague for the way all his fellow students avoid him, or simply don't care that he exists.
Well, almost all.
Joseph Kavinsky is the kind of boy that comes with warning bells. He is just about the definition of "bad boy", though that might be an insult to bad boys everywhere. He is vulgar and violent and constantly drugged to high hell, even on school property. Not that he's often on school property—the guy skips more classes than Adam actually thought possible, and if his dad wasn't filthy fucking rich (and probably a mobster, honestly) he probably would've been expelled a thousand times over.
Adam has absolutely zero clue why Kavinsky decides to notice him. All he knows is that one day, barely more than a month into Adam's attendance to Aglionby (a month of keeping his head down and muscling through, because this school is a cesspool of rich brats who think themselves so much better than him, no matter that Adam's working his ass off to afford this place and still acing his classes), he's walking across the front lawn towards his bike and hears a voice call out, "Hey, trailer trash!"
It's not the first time he's been called that, not by a longshot, and he highly doubts it'll be the last. So he doesn't stop walking, just grits his teeth and shoves down his anger and moves on. It will only be worse if he engages.
"Hey," the voice calls out again, closer this time, and Adam's shoulders go rigid. "Hey, shithead, I'm talking to you."
"I can see that," Adam says between his gritted teeth. He doesn't turn around, doesn't stop. "Sorry if I don't feel like stopping to chat."
There's a chuckle from the boy, and then suddenly he's passing Adam and planting himself in front of him. Adam jerks back to avoid ramming into him, and then his eyes go a little wide when he sees who it is. Thick head of spiky hair, tan skin, dark circles peeking out from under the sunglasses perched low on his long nose. His tie is absent and the top few buttons of his shirt undone, revealing more than an appropriate amount of skin for school. Adam has no doubt that's exactly why he's doing it.
"Jeez, Parrish, you need to chill," Joseph Kavinsky says, looking him up and down with disdain. Adam is extremely used to disdain after being surrounded by rich assholes for a month, but the kind Kavinsky is showing feels—different, somehow. Adam just can't tell if that difference is better or worse than all the rest.
"Can I help you?" Adam says in his politest tone, refusing to rise to whatever this is. Does Kavinsky want a fight? Does he just want to mock? Adam isn't interested in giving him the satisfaction of any of it.
Kavinsky snorts and shakes his head a little. "Follow me," he says, then turns and starts walking away.
Adam blinks after him, too bewildered to feel offended about being ordered around. "Why should I?"
Kavinsky glances back over his shoulder, eyes dark and hollow and piercing as they lock onto Adam. The grin on his face is nothing short of devilish, and Adam can't imagine anyone seeing that look directed their way and not immediately running in the other direction. He definitely feels like heading straight for his bike and putting this entire interaction in his rearview mirror (...metaphorically).
But Kavinsky is the first person at this school who has actually looked at Adam, looked at him like he actually was there instead of a gnat on a windshield, and that fact is enough to make him...pause.
"Because who the fuck else is giving a shit that you exist?"
Well.
Adam's jaw works, watching Kavinsky make his way to his white Mitsubishi without another word to him. His hand tightens around the strap of his bag, and he glances around. There are plenty of students out on the lawn right now, either leaving or just enjoying the warm day, and none of them spare him a single glance.
He follows Kavinsky.
"Atta boy," Kavinsky says, pleased, as Adam slides into the passenger seat, and Adam scowls at him.
"What do you want?" Adam demands. Boys like Kavinsky don't just do things like this, not without an ulterior motive. Hell, Adam's a fucking idiot for playing into it at all.
Kavinsky shrugs a shoulder carelessly, starting up his car. It purrs to life around them, and Adam frowns. He knows cars like the back of his hand, and this one sounds a little...different. Not what a normal engine sounds like—not that he can put his finger on what exactly is so strange about it.
And then Kavinsky is tearing out of his parking spot, making Adam grip hard at his seat, sucking in a sharp breath. A glance on the speedometer shows that they hit sixty way sooner than is in any way safe.
Contrary to Adam's—slightly panicked—reaction, Kavinsky laughs as they pick up speed, loud and delighted.
"Are you insane?" Adam asks. Kavinsky rolls his eyes over to him, raising a mocking eyebrow, and Adam shouts, "Look at the damn road!"
Kavinsky grins, but does listen, turning his gaze back forward. "Gotta learn to live a little, Parrish."
"I don't think driving like this ends with living," Adam says tersely.
He releases the seat to grab his seatbelt instead, quickly clicking it in place and cursing himself for getting into the car in the first place. What the fuck was the point of this? He knows the kind of person Kavinsky is, and it is the absolute last thing he needs in his life. So what if Kavinsky was the first student to pay him any kind of real attention? Adam doesn't need friends to succeed, certainly not ones like this.
"Then is living really worth it?" Kavinsky drawls.
Adam stares at him. Jesus, he's actually serious.
Kavinsky glances at him briefly and snorts, rolling his eyes. "It could be a drinking game, how often I feel like telling you to fucking relax. Get your panties out of a twist, Parrish. Stop being such a fucking ghost. Trust me—I'm very familiar with ghosts."
"'Trust' and you don't really seem like things that can exist anywhere near each other," Adam says before he can stop himself. Shit, that was rude. But this whole thing has seriously knocked him off balance. Honestly, what the fuck is even going on?
But Kavinsky doesn't get upset. Instead, he crows, a lazy grin stretching across his face. "Oh look, the puppy's got teeth. That's good. I was almost worried this was all a serious fucking waste of fucking time."
"What is the point, exactly?" Adam asks.
"Of living? Way to get philosophical, pup. I don't know if that's a first date topic."
Adam's cheeks flame red, and he pushes forward, refusing to acknowledge the needling. "You know what I meant."
"I don't know what you want to hear," Kavinsky says, sneering. They're going eighty miles an hour now. Adam thinks it's a genuine possibility that Kavinsky rams them into something like a building, just to see what would happen.
"The truth would be nice."
There's a pause. Kavinsky fingers drum at the steering wheel. Adam wonders if they have a destination at all.
"Would you believe me if I said you were the man of my dreams?" Kavinsky says eventually, wide grin back in place, and he looks over at Adam. There's something in his eyes...Those words genuinely mean something, to him. It sounds like a bullshit pickup line, but it means something.
Fuck if Adam knows what.
Adam stares back into those dark, shadowed eyes. He doesn't tell Kavinsky to stop staring at him, to watch the road. Something about this all feels extremely weighted, and even...fuck, there's something about this that feels familiar, but he has no idea why. Not being in the death car, he doesn't think, but...but Kavinsky. It's like there's something on the tip of his tongue, something Adam knows but is forgetting. He just can't for the life of him figure it out.
Dammit. He seriously hates not knowing things.
"You feel like giving me a straight answer?" Adam says evenly.
Kavinsky's mouth twists with something Adam can't identify, and he looks away again. The weird engine revs as he picks up the speed even more. Adam has moved past fear into acceptance, and he doesn't know what that says about him.
"You and Proko have a lot in common, is all," Kavinsky says, a smirk curving his lips, and Adam blinks at what feels like a sudden change of topic. Definitely not a straight answer.
"I—what?" he asks, bewildered. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Just enjoy the ride, Parrish," Kavinsky tells him. "You're in for a wild one."
Yeah, of that Adam has no doubt.