[there's something wrong with my eyes, kavinsky wants to say. but he doesn't. partly because he doesn't trust his voice, which he thinks, will sound scratchy and weak and stupid. and partly because nico's doing an okay job with whatever the fuck this is. kavinsky accepts the shirt that's given to him. he always liked the way that the death god smells, anyway. it's not too deathy. no rot or any shit like that.

he rubs his face with it. and then, ever the paragon of super maturity and gratitude and wholesome friendship, he pinches it shut around his nose and blows, hard as he can. juicing half a lungful of snot out of his gullet and into the borrowed garment.

mucus isn't his preferred brand of gross, but he'll settle for whatever small stupid power play he can get. nico understands. (it's actually alarmingly clear, how well nico actually understands.)] What I can't tell right now, [he says,] if this shit right here is some consolation prize-- hey I'm only second best, take two, but I'm supposed to think that's okay— or if you're gonna like. [he sniffs loudly, his nose twisting in the middle of his face. turning toward the bed to sit on it.] Have beer with him and fuck him later, talk about what a piece of shit I am.

Like I'm a animal sacrifice to make your gay love stronger. They did that in oldschool Greece, right? Animal sacrifices. You get it. [the bed creaks when he sits.]