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“You don’t have to do this, you know.” The words are quiet, punctuated by a slow drag of a cigarette. Prokopenko is pretty sure he’s gone through an entire pack today.
Kavinsky makes a show of taking a glance towards the unconscious form of Matthew Lynch on the ground a few feet away, his hands bound behind his back and duct tape over his mouth. When he looks back to Proko, he raises an eyebrow. “I sorta fuckin’ do,” he says.
Prokopenko takes another drag. He wishes he had something stronger but doesn’t want to leave Kavinsky’s presence for even a second to retrieve it.
He wants to say, Why?, say Why is Lynch so important?, say Why was I not good enough?
He doesn’t. Instead, he finishes his cigarette and puts it out on the skin of his inner wrist. It burns horribly, but he fights not to show it.
The Fourth of July is supposed to be a good time. The last two years, they’ve had wild block parties that people talked about for months following.
Tonight, Kavinsky is ready to go out like a firework: loud, and leaving the smell of smoke in the air for a long time afterwards.
Proko wants to say, Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone.
It doesn’t matter. He won’t last long after Kavinsky is gone, anyways.
They’ve discussed it, talked about whether or not dream creatures could exist after their dreamers were gone. In the end, there was no way to test it other than by killing Ronan Lynch and seeing what happened to his brother, and Kavinsky wasn’t willing to do that, either.
So while this may be a premeditated wake for Kavinsky, it may also be one for Prokopenko.
And if he isn’t killed following K’s death, then… he’s still not going to last long.
“Stop looking so fucking emo,” K snaps, suddenly, and pulls Proko out of his head.
Prokopenko can’t take it any longer, can’t take the thought of losing this, and he springs out of the chair and lets himself fall onto Kavinsky’s lap on the couch. His lips fall against K’s like they’re molded to fit there; maybe they are.
Kavinsky’s fingers bite into his waist, harder than usual; it’s obvious he’s trying to leave bruises, so Proko will have marks to look at all week even after K is dead and buried.
It’s too much. He bites down on K’s lip hard enough that K yelps and pulls away, lidded gaze turning into a glare.
“Bitch,” he says, but it’s laced with affection. Proko kisses him again.
He tries to let his lips say everything that they otherwise can’t, a montage of I love you and don’t leave me and dear god, please don’t leave me.
K takes his breath away, and Proko’s throat burns with choked-back emotion.
He drops his head to K’s shoulder; he smells like gasoline and the air after a firework show. Lithe but strong arms wrap around Proko, pressing him close. It’s a moment of tenderness that he usually only gets from K when he’s eight shots in.
Proko’s breath is caught in his throat. He doesn’t want this moment to end.
Kavinsky says, “Let’s go.”