That's right, it's a kid fic
“There you are,” his mom said. “This is my son, Joseph.” He thought maybe the ladies would coo at him, like his aunties used to, but they just looked at him with their eyes and lips all different colors. “What are you all the way over there for? Come say hi.”
He came forward; the boy smiled wider. One of his teeth was missing. “Hi, Joseph.” This made him frown. Probably his mom would call it a scowl, and tell him to stop it, except this time she didn’t. She didn’t seem like she was paying that much attention.
“This is Svetlana’s son, Ilya. Take him up to your room, okay? Be nice.” He didn’t know who Svetlana was, but then he guessed it was the lady who was touching Ilya’s shoulder. He didn’t want to take him to his room, but he already knew that if he tried to refuse, his mom’s face would darken, and she’d get upset, and then maybe she’d tell his dad.
Quickly, he reached out to snatch Ilya’s hand. “Come on.”
It occurred to him that Ilya could refuse, but luckily, he let himself be pulled away from the ladies and to the stairs. Joey glanced back distrustfully once he’d stepped onto the first one, but Ilya was just smiling, still. Quickly, he looked back in front of himself, letting go of his hand.
Joseph and his mom had been speaking Ukrainian to each other, and when Ilya spoke, it was in Ukrainian as well. “How old are you?”
“Five.”
“I’m six and a half.” Again, Joey scowled. Up close, it was obvious Ilya was bigger than him, but he hadn’t thought he’d be older, too.
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everyone on this site is like “be gay, do crimes!” until the gay is Joseph Kavinsky and the crimes is speeding, underage drinking, using drugs, selling drugs, forgery, drugging your mom, kidnapping someone’s little brother, killing your father, killing your best friend,
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K is tired.
it sits deep inside his bones, with claws like something he’s pulled out of his nightmares sinking into his tissue, replacing his blood with the slow flow of concrete.
fuck this.
at times like these, his vitriolic mood has a tendency to turn even more caustic, kicking and biting around itself inside his own chest until it turns into something approaching self-pity. fuck this. he tries his best to pinpoint the origin of the feeling, unravel it like a tangled piece of thread until next to nothing remains, but he can’t find where it starts, just knows it has grown throughout his whole body while he wasn’t looking and now it’s made a home in his joints. they feel like crushed ice. he feels like clawing his way out of his own skin. fuck this.
he considers calling Swan. Swan with his big, strong arms and steady voice would surely be a better choice than… other choices. but Swan is with Skov because Swan never strays far from Skov, and K is usually actually quite happy for them but it’s hard to channel that happiness now through the stained glass tableau of bitter resentment. despite that bitterness, he doesn’t take Swan away from Skov.
Jiang is out of town, therefore out of question (and probably in D-Lynch’s pants. or something.)
the thing is, K would love to take something but he’s out of everything and there is no way in hell he’s falling asleep to dream something up right now. fuck this.
he’s gonna deal with this shit by himself. nevermind that he’s spent so long collecting specific people so that he wouldn’t have to deal with this shit alone. maybe it’s made him weak. it’s not self-pity if it’s self-loathing first, right?
he’s not gonna call Proko.
because Proko would come. because he’d hold K against his body and place one warm hand on the small of K’s back and the other on the back of K’s neck. he’d hum an old folk song or a lullaby, slightly out of tune but painfully familiar nonetheless. he’d press his skin into K’s; such visceral, primordial comfort that would warm K’s ice-cold veins, as long as he would touch him.
embarassing, broken little pleas whispered in the middle of the night when the real world is a nightmare but the ones lurking inside K’s head are even worse than that and he can’t fall asleep, he can’t, he can’t, he mustn’t
(don’t let me, please, don’t let me, don’t let me fall asleep, don’t let me go)
fuck this.
he’s not weak. he’s got this. he’ll fight this off and live to fight another day because that’s what he’s always done and he’s a god and he won’t be scared of his domain.
(he’s trying not to think about how maybe all gods are)
he’s not gonna call Proko. Proko, who has seen K at his absolute worst and still remains by K’s side like an immovable force of nature. K isn’t sure if he loves or hates him for it.
the hours stretch and K’s anguish with it. it’s the middle of the night. he’s shaking.
he’s not gonna call anyone.
turns out he doesn’t have to. because sometimes comfort finds you whether you want it or not. whether you deserve it or not. the thing with finding solace within other people is that they come with their own free will, instincts and feelings tangled up inside, even if you’ve dreamt them up.
one day, K thinks, he’ll deal with his own shit by himself. he tells Proko, even as Proko takes off his jacket, wet with rain, and wraps himself around K, solid and warm and uncompromising. alive and breathing despite it all. it’s them against the whole world.
a living boy and a boy alive. a dreamer and a dream.
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Once Ilya died, K locked his room. No one could go in there and touch his things because Ilya wasn’t there to give them the permission to do so. Though if Skov wanted in there, who was K to say no? But K realizes quickly how complex Ilya truly was when he goes in there for the first time. Finding annotated books (when the hell did he find time to read that?), journals with scribbles and drawings Skov obviously put there (K doesn’t understand poetry for shit, but loves readings Ilya’s), finding dreams of a life where the boys were okay.. and the only time K pulled something out of a dream was for fun. His bedsheets where a sickening smell of pure sweet (was that his cologne mixed in?), but his bed was comfortable and if K closed his eyes, he could feel Ilya’s presence. Ilya Prokopenko died too young. He had so much going for him and an acceptance into Harvard (He was looking at apartments for him and K). Why did this happen to good people?
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What dou you think a Gansey/Kavinsky/Proko threesome would look like?
Ok so obviously Proko would be getting spitroasted while Gansey and K hatefuck each other with their eyes and spew death threats duhhhh
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