station72 | sometime after day 5

Entry tags:

sometime after day 5

[ Sam’s never really reached out to the Nest in general like this before, but at this point - well, he’s running out of options. The work he’s done on his mental walls has paid off, and nothing escapes his thick cloud layer except his words, and the soft hint of wind and feathers that flavors his mental link. ]

( Seems like we got a bit of down time, and I’m looking to put it to good use. I’m getting better with my symbiote ability, but I need someone who’ll let me practice it with them.

Simple explanation is that it’s healing, with a side effect that means it’s gonna hurt. Most likely for me. I can get into specifics if you’re up for it. ) [ If it doesn’t bother them or they’re willing to overlook that it means Sam getting hurt, he means, but seeing as he’s communicating with the Nest in general, he’s not gonna say that.

He already knows more than who person who is bothered by it and never seems willing to let Sam use it on them. ]

( I’ll take as many as I can get, more training can’t hurt. )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ It'd been equal parts irritation and concern that'd made him move so quickly, and another time he'd have laughed at the joke - it's exactly his sense of humor - but right now he just gives a soft huff as he keeps moving forward.

There's anger in the set of his jaw, movement tightly contained and purposeful in order to prevent his physical presence from coming off as hostile. He's not, he's just a little upset, and his touch is gentle as his fingers curl around Kavinsky's arm, just below the cut. There's a flare of warmth as his ability surges to life, and Sam focuses on the connection between them, widening it a little while the cut on Kavinsky's arm heals, and a similar one opens up on Sam's, just starting to scab over.

He doesn't pull his hand away as he looks back up from the cut, and he leaves the connection open, to see how much Kavinsky will give him. ]

What the hell?

[Kavinsky will give him whatever he wants. The memory of the act? He can have every gorey detail-- it was quick, poorly calculated, and didn't hurt nearly as much as having his jaw punched by an angry dog of a boy back on planet Earth. What else could Sam want? Gratitude? Sure. Kavinsky likes the feel good aftermath of hurt as much if not more than the original strike. Both feel like living.]

You needed a test dummy.

[Sam has callouses on his fingers. A working man.]

Not as much as I'd like you uninjured.

[ Not as much as he doesn't ever want to see Kavinsky self-destruct, and it doesn't take a mental connection to see the path that he's on. Despite appearances, Sam doesn't actually have the compulsive need to save everyone - just the desire to give people the tools they need to help themselves, when he sees the echo of pain below their surface. But there's something about Kavinsky that pulls at him, that almost makes him want to save him from himself.

He ain't gonna let that show, though. ]

There's a hell of a lot better ways to feel alive.

[Sam's a smart guy and with the benefit of their mental ties, surely he knows that Kavinsky isn't going to push the detonation button today. This was a small sample of how little he values his safety, nothing more, nothing less. Days will pass after this in which he doesn't so much as bruise, but he won't value that security. Staying still and comfortable is the worst kind of death. Boring. No flash to it.]

Oh yeah? You know some of those? Show me.

[Every word Kavinsky utters is a challenge. These two are the same, though they remain idle-- he could be picking his teeth as he says them. Show me. As he looks out a window and stops paying attention. That's the tone he's using.]

[ Not today, no, but Sam can see it coming. Always chasing the next thrill, neither soothed nor comforted by stability or security, adrenaline junkie. There's something of Sam himself in that, for all that most people tend to see him as calm and practical.

After all, who the hell straps on a pair of metal wings and jumps if not someone who lives for the adrenaline?

For a moment he considers turning and walking off, not rising to the challenge that Kavinsky tosses his way - but though he's learned to pick his battles, Sam's not sure this is one he should walk away from.

Kavinsky might not ever learn to find a balance between thrill chasing and stability, but he sure as hell won't learn it if someone doesn't try to show him those other ways. ]

Show you, huh? You want mentally or literally?

Literally.

[Kavinsky has no need for second-hand experience, no matter how real it might feel as the memory is relayed to him. The rush would be fake, sucralose sweetening up his humdrum life waiting for the next mission. Others have worked on tightening their bonds, but the bleedover isn't strong enough to transform Kavinsky entirely. He's so good with people when they can't sense his hunger. The gnarled up, black pit of him was never meant to be put on display.]

Thrill me, man, I know you got it in you.

[He wants Sam to have it in him.]

[ Literally it is, then. There are so many things that Sam wants to show him - mostly something soft, something gentle, because honestly he ain't sure Kavinsky's ever had much of that. But he's equally sure that those aren't something that Kavinsky'll accept right now, that they're something Sam's gonna have to ease him into.

So instead he steps up into Kavinsky's personal space, snapping his wings open at the same time as he yanks Kavinsky into his arms and launches off the ground.

He'd taken Kavinsky flying once before, but then he'd had to take it easy, stay low to the ground or risk getting caught by the people of Concordia. Now he flies so fast it's a blur, up and up and up until the Station's ceiling over the gardens is coming up so quick it seems damn near impossible for them to turn in time. But Sam's reflexes are even faster than they were back home, when he could all but outfly fighter jets, and he veers off to send them spiraling into a tight barrel roll before he pulls up, hovering high in the air.

Then he hauls Kavinsky up a little so he can adjust his grip on him, one arm wrapping around his waist and his other hand coming up to cup his cheek, touch gentle. ]

Why do you wanna know death so bad that you gotta flirt with him at every opportunity?

[In the movies, the hero picks up the helpless lady love interest and hoists her aloft in a princess carry. The earth falls away as they soar higher and higher, and Hollywood doesn't take into account things like air pressure or how cold it gets when you climb towards the stars. Sam isn't taking him that high, but he may as well be shooting out of the stratosphere. Kavinsky isn't being carried, but he hasn't dreamt up a parachute to prevent himself from falling down to an unsatisfying, sickly splat of a death.

He'll never admit that his first instinct was to hug his arms around Sam's neck in a vice of limbs, breath hot and--for so little time it can't count--frantic against the older man's jaw. Then he remembers that it isn't very Kavinsky-like to start clutching and scrabbling. He did ask for a thrill and the initial rush is usually the best part. He's just used to it more on the horizontal than the vertical.

Like he's some dumbass riding bitch on a motorcycle for the first time, he hung on too hard, and he's doing his best to plaster up indifference over the fine layer of embarrassment. His hands slide back until they're settled light and casual on Sam's shoulders, for lack of anywhere better to go.

To prove himself, he's looking down instead of at Sam. The hand on his cheek wants him to return his attention, but first he has to make it clear it's not like he was scared. Tad surprised, that's all.]

Trust you to make dying sound gay. Nice view.

[ If Sam notices the too-tight grip around his neck or the frantic breathing, he doesn't call attention to it. As far as he's concerned, there's nothing wrong with being scared - in general, but especially in a situation like this. He doubts Kavinsky'll appreciate him pointing it out even to say it's okay, though, so he settles for ignoring it completely.

Sam can't actually shrug up here, since with his arms full his wings are operating mostly on muscle movement and cybernetics, but there's the mental impression of one anyway. Sam calls it like he sees it.

Trust Kavinsky to take a mostly serious question and turn it into a gay joke. ]

He and I are old friends, is all. You know what the archangel of death's name is? [ Because if Sam's gonna personify Death here, he might as well go all the way. ] Damn right. No view better than the one from the sky.

Michael?

[He knows that isn't right. Religion wasn't a large part of Kavinsky's upbringing because mobster trash like his father liked to wear their Christian jewelry than pop people without a thought to the Lord's will. Money replaced God. The belief system he eventually subscribed to had to do with dreams and his own power. Creation in a literal sense.

His fingers wriggle like spider-legs as they creep climb under an unsuspecting apartment owner's sink. They stay on Sam's shoulders for now.]

[ It was a part of Sam's, more or less, with a minister for a father. Sometimes he wonders what his father would make of his ability, the power to give or take pain in his hands - but not often. Not now. Now he laughs softly, smiling slow and wide. ]

Samael.

[ Snippets of memory come along with that - the heat of the sun on his head and back, wings spread wide as he touches down in the dirt, the smell of blood and the feel of broken bones under his hands. Samael whispered through cracked lips, the soldier's eyes glazed over with fever. Riley's laughter, the sly grin on his face every time he called him that after. ]

[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.

[ Usually, when someone tells him to stop, Sam does. Most of the time with no questions asked. (Unless he's being a little shit, of course, and then half the point is not to stop what he's doing, but that's only when he's having fun. Never for something serious, and this is serious.)

But sometimes he pushes, presses for more of an explanation, takes someone out of their comfort zone for just a moment. When he thinks they're doing it as a defense mechanism, as an excuse not to look at things too closely.

Now's one of those times. Sam's up there with his wings flared out and his arms around Kavinsky, after all, talking about the angel of death and how much Kavinsky flirts with him, when's a better time than this?

There's a soft snort when Kavinsky says he's got them lined up, and though he doesn't say there's no one else up here but you and me, the impression comes across anyway. ]

Why? [ Why should he stop it, why should he save it for someone else, he means, but he doesn't have to expand on that. ] What am I supposed to be stopping?

[ He's got something of an idea, of course, but he wants to know what Kavinsky's objecting to. ]

[There's a sea in Kavinsky's dark gaze. Black and brackish, slamming waves forward against the glass curve of his eyeballs. They want out, they want to flood, they want high tide. Everything drowns, nothing survives. He tilts his head back, his gaze narrowed down to twin slivers.

He could hurt Sam. They're isolated above the station floor and there are those nasty symbiote abilities Kavinsky hasn't played with like he ought to. But resorting to physical violence like that is more of a Lynch or Prokopenko game. Kavinsky hurts, but when he does, it's flashy. A car flips. A keg explodes.

Sam isn't going to put him down until he's said something, is he?]

Going all Sesame Street. I don't need to bond or know about your ex-boyfriend. You didn't like me helping you out with your powers. Got it, man. Won't happen again.

[Kavinsky grits his teeth against ordering Sam to put him down. He doesn't mind the physical closeness or the height; it's the intimacy that makes him want to run.]

[ Sam watches him back, unafraid. If Kavinsky was older, if he hadn't seen flashes of something more vulnerable inside the kid, maybe Sam wouldn't have the patience to put up with Kavinsky's shit. But Kavinsky is seventeen and angry and hurting, and Sam doesn't know what, but something must have happened to make him feel like this is the only way he can move through the world.

He is a kid, and whatever else, whether Kavinsky wants it or not, Sam's determined that he'll have someone who won't give up on him.

Kavinsky could hurt him, Sam has no doubt of that. From what he knows of the kid, he's absolutely the kind to lash out to hurt - but so far it's only been verbal, so far the only physical harm that Kavinsky's done has been to himself. And Sam's confidence sometimes borders on cockiness, particularly when he's up in the air like this.

This is his element.

It's not the first time that someone called Riley his boyfriend, either meaning it in a derogatory way or trying to understand why his death had messed Sam up so bad or a number of other reasons. It isn't true, but it doesn't bother Sam, and he doesn't react beyond a soft snort. ]

I'll heal you any place, any time; that ain't what this is about. Whoever made you think that you weren't worth anything more than this path of destruction you're on, man, they were wrong.

No one--

[And what Kavinsky means is no one still living]

--makes me feel that crap. Guys like you need a charity case to keep their dicks wet. Okay.

[For an instant, he almost leaves it there. His case has been made; he will not be Sam's sob story. Salvation is never a one way street.

He who does not wish to be saved won't be. And Kavinsky wouldn't dream of it.

But he continues to speak because otherwise Sam might and he doesn't want to hear the motivational poster.

Hang in there!

It gets better!

Buck up, sport!

Kavinsky knows. Aglionby was addicted to messages of perseverance through adversity. So much so that even a kid like K that skipped class like it was going out of style couldn't avoid the repetitive droning.

What they never consider--teachers, counselors, Sams--is he exterminates his own demons, or consciously makes the choice to wear their skin. That isn't a convenient truth to stomach.]

I've met a couple guys here who'd be so down for your daddy kink. You can tuck them in at night and everything. But me, sweetheart? I'm good.

[He nods in convincing agreement with himself.

A flash of Ronan's ghost. He should have seen that one coming. Sam showed him the man he'd lost--the version of him that stayed behind for Sam to gladly pine over. K won't become that nostalgic loser; he banishes vicious smiles and shaved heads. Forged sunglasses. Races K never wanted to end.

There are things a man just has to give up to stay alive.]

I'm so good.

Didn't say makes, man, I said made.

[ Because Sam'll believe that, believe that Kavinsky doesn't let anyone make him feel like that anymore.

The thing is - Sam's not a motivational poster. The thing is that Sam knows that shit like hang in there and buck up is useless garbage. And while he might believe that it does get better, he knows that telling someone that when they don't wanna hear it is just as useless. There was a time when Sam himself punched someone for it, when he broke someone else's nose for getting up in his face.

And Kavinsky might not be a soldier, but that doesn't matter. He has the same look, the same feel, of someone who's seen too much, done too much. Who thinks there's no coming back from any of it and so he just keeps going, going and going and going, chasing bigger thrills and bigger highs and doing everything he can to feel even the slightest bit alive, until the time when one of those thrills is his last.

He isn't good. ]

That's the biggest load of bullshit I've heard in a while. You're surviving, all right, and you're doing a damn good job of fighting whatever it is on your own terms - for now. But this ain't living. It's dying.

[Kavinsky stops taking part in the conversation and starts taking stock of the situation. Sam, conveniently, has him trapped. Kavinsky has no trouble walking away from men on solid ground, but hovering many feet above it leaves him with few options. He can either continue to argue his case, or he can do the one thing that sets meddling adults at ease.

Like kids, they're easier to work with when they think they have the upper-hand.]

Okay.

[Two syllables, but he estimates they'll calm Sam down from his frothing goodwill.]

I'm not a good boy. I do bad shit and you don't like it. But since we can't take a bro out roadtrip right now--see, we're in space? A spaceship? Okay. I'll think about what you're saying if you put me down.

[Such civil communication would have made any of Kavinsky's school counselors weep with joy--what a breakthrough! None of them, however, had the priviledge of sharing a Nest with a young man that revels in his ability to manipulate others through rule of cool.

Step one: never let anyone see you sweat and live to tell the tale.]

[ It doesn't calm Sam down. The frothing goodwill cannot be contained, Kavinsky. ]

Do whatever bad shit you want, man, that's not what I care about.

[ But Kavinsky's decided already, Sam has a feeling - Sam is one of those well meaning adults, stuck on the straight and narrow and who doesn't understand anything, who just sees a kid acting out and wants to scold him and tell him to do better.

As if Kavinsky wasn't already doing the best he knew how, as if that wasn't the problem in the first place. That this is the best he knows how, and no one ever gave enough of a shit to try to figure out why, to try to get through him in a way that didn't involve lecturing or talking down to him. He can damn near feel it, humming across their connection.

Sam slides the hand he's got on Kavinsky's cheek up, tangling it in his hair and tugging, just a little. Just enough to angle his head so Sam can rest his forehead against Kavinsky's, close his eyes and breathe out nice and slow through his nose. Before he pulls away he presses a kiss to the corner of Kavinsky's mouth, quick and barely there. Then he powers down the jets a little, starting back down towards the ground. ]

You don't gotta be a good boy. Just remember when you're fighting your demons that you don't gotta do it alone, all right? That's what I want you to think about.

[The last time someone's lips touched his own, she was drunk, he was high. They'd wrestled for the pipe and he'd won, so he held it over his head as the girl smeared her lipstick off on his mouth. Sam's another breed and his kiss is a peck, muted, almost like one of those European greetings that make grown American men fluster.

Kavinsky quells his reaction. By the time his feet touch the solid floor, he's a built up fortress. His mouth is a line. His eyebrows parallel.]

I'll put it on my to-do list.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

sometime after day 5

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject