[in the middle of these eloquent and kindly intended sentences, kavinsky is busy rubbing his arm across his face. angry about his own eye slime. angry about feeling anything at all. how many times must he go through this? crawling in his skin, these wounds.

they'll never heal. this has seemed truer and truer ever since the world ended. kavinsky tends to pay little mind to the fact that he's also been off his meds, drinking again, and thinking now and again of cocaine. these seem like negligible matters, when he's thinking about vex every fucking hour of the day.]

Fuck.

[he spits to make himself feel better. it goes-- with remarkable accurcy— through the quarter-open window.] The fuck are you pretending to care for? [is what he asks after. he almost looks at nico, but his eyes are sore; he knows they're red.] I know you're just gonna go crawling up his little fairy asshole again. Like those fish in National Geographic. We both know whose anus your fucking loyalties lie within, dipshit. You made that real fucking clear.

[translation: you chose him and i'm butthurt about it in addition to five thousand two hundred and eighty nine other things, ]