[Sam shares the sound of a stranger's laughter, and Kavinsky squints against a sun that isn't there. If it was, it would have stationed its burning behind Sam, lighting up his wings so that they'd silhouette a matte black against the backdrop of a massive star. Samael, the angel of death, and here Kavinsky was about to start guessing inane options: Urinal, Purell, whatever.
He doesn't belong in the arms of someone with such good will. He squirms like a kitten, too intent on being released to recognize such a drop would hurt. The moment in which he'd been so human, squeezed with his arms--it's long past. A mere memory that Kavinsky refuses to accept.]
Stop it.
[It's not the snapped out order or ruthless threat he would have told one of his boys, like, give me the gin or let's see if you'll cry home for daddy before we're done. In this case, Kavinsky has no such belief that Sam would go along with him. He's too old and he's seen too much and he's holding him like it isn't hard at all.]
Stop it and save it for someone else, Wingman. I know you got them all lined up.
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He doesn't belong in the arms of someone with such good will. He squirms like a kitten, too intent on being released to recognize such a drop would hurt. The moment in which he'd been so human, squeezed with his arms--it's long past. A mere memory that Kavinsky refuses to accept.]
Stop it.
[It's not the snapped out order or ruthless threat he would have told one of his boys, like, give me the gin or let's see if you'll cry home for daddy before we're done. In this case, Kavinsky has no such belief that Sam would go along with him. He's too old and he's seen too much and he's holding him like it isn't hard at all.]
Stop it and save it for someone else, Wingman. I know you got them all lined up.