❝ Do we have anything lined up for tonight’s festivities? ❞
Kavinsky asked like he didn’t know, but he knew, and it’s why he was sprawled across his couch with Proko on the other side - or the floor - or … actually, Kavinsky had no idea where Proko was, This was because of the stars he was seeing. They (the stars) were a welcomed side effect to the drug he inhaled through tightly rolled paper. All constellations and wonder.
Perhaps Proko was the only person who got to see Kavinsky without his usual barrage of witty one liners and drawn out words. It was time wasting. Kavinsky didn’t even think of sending out texts to see where the other boys were at - he just wanted this; limbs relaxed, drugs in full abundance (thank you, dream world), and no plotting or scheming to be decided on.
❝ We should go fucking swimming, see how long we can hold our breath, see how long it takes for our body to burn without oxygen. See how much we can t a k e. ❞
A laugh. An inhale. A smoke ring. A death wish.
“ you and i both know you can get whatever you want. “
a blanket statement to a question that required no reply. if k had wanted something or someone else to be here, proko damn well knew they would be. pushing a pill between his lips, he let his head loll off the arm of the couch. these were the easy nights when the show wasn’t required, without pretense or trepidation: careless and content, with the taste of something sour staining his lips. his body - usually a live wire, always ready for bloody knuckles and gnashing teeth - fell still. peaceful; or at least the closest thing to peace he could ever pretend to be.
“ never took you for the drowning type, k. too quiet. no flash. no BANG. “ but maybe that was what would’ve made it perfect. eyelids fluttered shut, trying momentarily, to glimpse into k’s mind. a fruitless endeavor. “ i don’t feel like gettin’ wet. all you gotta do to make your lungs burn is hold the smoke in a little bit longer. too long. ‘s like playing the choking game with yourself. “
if anyone had learned about their lungs capacity ( or lack thereof ) it was proko. from nights with the neighbor-boy’s hands wrapped a little too tightly around his neck until the world fell silent, still, and black, to holding his breath as he hit the gas a little too hard, to his chest tightening, limbs twitching, heart racing, and vision fading after a little too much coke. that time he did stop breathing and he supposed - at least that version of him - had never started to again.
biting lazily at the tendrils of smoke escaping from k’s lips, the laughter proved contagious. he wasn’t sure what was funny. he reached out towards k clumsily, not so much in a solid grasp, but something closer to the jostle of one shoulder colliding with another. affection and appreciation.
“-besides, if you go and get yourself killed, who else is gonna get me this shit ? “
