are you led to the assumption that your company is something that I need?

[more_magic]

To say that he and Alex have come to an understanding about the kind of work she’s chosen to pursue is something that seems to carry implications about his character Darlington’s not sure he likes. They’re deserved, maybe, given how poorly--and wasn’t that an understatement--he’d reacted at first, but deserved doesn’t mean at all that he has to like them. But they’ve talked, the two of them, and tried to acknowledge each others’ perspectives with clearer and more level heads than they’d managed before, and while it all should have happened much sooner than it did, at least now they’ve settled into something the both of them can live with.

It doesn’t entirely stop his concern, nor his tendency to sleep a little shallowly on nights she’s working until she’s home and curled up beside him, and certainly hasn’t lessened the way he still bristles at any mention of Joseph Kavinsky’s name, but perhaps nothing ever really will.

By choice, he hasn’t been back to the club--and as far as he thinks Alex knows, that’s the only time he’s ever been--since the night he’d come to apologize, the night when he’d let go of the difficult, stubborn parts of himself he’d clung to for reasons he stopped believing in almost as soon as they occurred. He’d have happily kept it that way, at least for the time being, but Alex had texted about an hour and a half into her shift; a short message about having forgotten a pair of heels she needed for a set at the back of her closet and asking him to bring them by. And, well, saying no to Alex Stern is something he’s never been particularly good at doing anyway.

So he goes, finding the shoes and putting them in some tote bag one of them got for free at a city event, hailing a cab outside the Bramford and once again weathering the smirking, winking look the driver shoots him in the mirror when he rattles off the address. The cab turns onto Paper and pulls to a stop outside the club; Darlington pays, already typing out a message to Alex--Outside now; where should I meet you?--as he gets out of the car and starts towards the front doors.

Comments

[mitsubishievo]

When Alex told Kavinsky to go wait for Darlington, he'd laughed. He was between sets, and there group time wasn't until later. She rolled her eyes at him and just sauntered off to go to her stage. Well, she was lucky he'd wanted to put eyes on this kid for a while now, especially since the tattoos had shown up and they'd really gotten a chance to talk about Darlington more than just a passing sort of thing comparing their partners--Newt's broad, happy acceptance of Kavinsky's curious hobby, and Darlington's staunch conservatism about it.

Kavinsky was outside, smoking one of his black paper splifs, looking every bit like some cheap sort of rent boy centerfold. It was slowly getting warmer in Darrow, but the nights were still fucking cold. Regardless, he hadn't put a shirt on, just wearing his acclimating leather jacket, and some skinny jeans slung low on his hips, snapback turned backwards on his head. He still dressed, at least at the club, like he was seventeen and not now twenty-two, but that was neither here nor there, was it?

When Darlington got out of the cab, staring at his phone still, Kavinsky whistled at him rudely.

[more_magic]

There's no response from Alex, though maybe she's simply on her way, or had been hanging about just inside until he got there--not that he can see anyone at all pushing open the door of the club and stepping outside. In his black overcoat from home with a sweater and jeans beneath, he's warm enough that he doesn't mind waiting a minute or two, and he's about to put his phone back in his pocket when someone whistles sharp and piercing in his direction.

He recognizes him, because of course he does: from the picture that's flashed up on Alex's phone the few times he's seen a call come through; a few glimpses of him at the Valentine's party not long ago, pouting into a glass at the bar and drained of color almost as completely as any of the Grays back home. And, of course, that first performance (if it was even worthy of the term) he'd ever seen of Alex's, when Kavinsky had been exactly as louche and unpleasant as he appears now.

Where the hell Alex is, he wishes he knew. His phone remains silent and inert in his pocket, and after another long moment, Darlington turns to look towards the other man.

"Kavinsky."

[mitsubishievo]

Darlington looked like he was going to purposefully ignore him for the longest moment, which was, frankly, hilarious to Kavinsky. He couldn't articulate why, exactly, except that it played into everything he'd hated so much about Aglionby. The permaculture of superiority, the contempt, the righteous indignation and belief of realms of belonging.

Kavinsky was different because he just strongly disliked everyone. There was no superiority of one kind of person over another, just different kinds of bastards.

"Sup, motherfucker," he said with an indulgent, lazy grin, looking Darlington over like he was something to be consumed. Kavinsky didn't see the appeal. Alex could have him. "You come for a good time?"

[more_magic]

There's an aggressive, unpleasant pretense in the way Kavinsky looks him over, a weighing and quantifying that Darlington's aware is not going to equate to anything positive in the other man's mind. They do, at least, have their opinions of one another somewhat in common.

"No," he says, and almost leaves it at that. It isn't as though there's anything more Kavinsky needs to know; any additional information Darlington's interested in imparting. But Alex still hasn't made an appearance, and as loathsome as he is Kavinsky's still her colleague, of a kind. Not that he's expecting to glean anything useful from continuing their conversation, such as it is. He sighs.

"Alex left a pair of shoes at home," he says. "I told her I'd bring them by."

[mitsubishievo]

"Yeah, no shit."

Kavinsky grinned, because the best fucking part of this was that Darlington seemed so convinced that Alex was going to come save him, perfectly convinced that she wouldn't have sent someone else for this exchange that wasn't even an exchange.

"Are you gonna run this like a fuckin' deal, man? She's on stage for the next three sets and I'm on with her for the last one, so if you could stop being a prude about it, that'd be fan-fuckin'-tastic."

[more_magic]

"Oh, for Christ's sake, she sent you?"

Of course she would have done this, and of course she wouldn't have told him. Why would she, when instead she can orchestrate some kind of face-to-face meeting between him and the person he presumes is the closest thing in Darrow to Leonard Goddamn Beacon, and see what results? Had he known, he still would have come, still would have brought the things she'd asked for; he's fairly certain of that. But that doesn't require him to be pleased with the situation at hand.

"Fine." Darlington crosses the short distance that still lies between them, then holds out the tote bag. "Here you go."

[mitsubishievo]

"Christ, you really do have a stick up your ass," Kavinsky said.

He reached for the tote, and rather than just taking it, he closed elegant fingers over the other young man's, holding him on the handles for a moment so that he could not escape. He scrutinized him, dark eyes taking him all in.

He smiled, all teeth. It was the smile of a boy that had arrived in Darrow barefoot and shirtless and coked out, of a boy that didn't understand the first thing of what Alex and Darlington did but knew exactly what he could do.

"You ever want help with that, I bet I can get a permission slip from my husband."

[more_magic]

He's had worse said about him--and done to him, the Manuscript party a humiliating case in point--that it's not overly difficult to let the insult pass by unacknowledged. Hell, he's even heard it from Alex, if in a slightly less sneering tone. It's almost disappointing that he'd only come up with something so bland.

Kavinsky wraps thin fingers over his, grinning that sharp, sharklike smile, and Darlington's aware it's another kind of test. He doesn't pull away, just raises one dark eyebrow at what the other man says next. That too should be an insult, and at least in his grandfather's view, a graver one; though Daniel Tabor Arlington III never quite admitted it in so many words, much of the work he'd put in making Danny a citizen in the world had found its impetus in trying to reverse mistakes made years ago, after Danny's father had been packed off to Exeter and come back a pussy. Darlington's view, however, is not quite the same.

"How you and Newt structure your marriage is hardly my affair."

[mitsubishievo]

Kavinsky rolled his eyes. He was hoping for a little more reaction than that, because that was hardly a reaction at all. Instead, he shifted his hand to the strap of the bag to take control of it.

"I don't understand what your problem is--with me, or with her doing this shit," he said. "You know a disapproving stare isn't going to make her stop."

[more_magic]

He knows it's not a victory, that roll of Kavinsky's eyes and the shift of his hand, but it's a pleasing enough reaction anyway. He lets go of the bag, leaving it fully in his charge, his hands returning to the pockets of his coat.

"Does it matter to you, what my problem is?" he asks, and despite the lingering chill in his voice, the question is genuine. "With you? With this?" The latter half of Kavinsky's retort actually has Darlington smiling, though it's thin and brief, the kind of thing you might miss if you weren't paying attention. "I know very well there isn't a person alive who could make Alex Stern stop doing something she wanted to do."

[mitsubishievo]

"I mean, with this, yeah. She's my friend. If you've got shit to say about what she's doing, then I've got a problem with it."

There was something smarmy about him, some cocky bullshit that Kavinsky hated so much. There was nothing he could do about it. He wasn't even sure that he really wanted to pick a fight about it, except that he always wanted to pick a fight.

And besides all that Kavinsky could say a lot about Alex stopping things she might not want to, because there was an expectation. They'd had a good long talk about the move from Van Nuys to New Haven, how to change there. Kavinsky just didn't give a shit one way or another.

[more_magic]

"You have a problem with that, sure," he says, aware with every word that he ought to simply walk away. He'd done what he'd been asked, Alex would most likely get her shoes once Kavinsky was finished mistaking slouching unpleasantly in the shadows for having a personality; he was free to leave, his task effectively complete. More than that, he'd always striven to be polite, no matter the situation, no matter the audience--and in the moments when he couldn't be, at least controlled enough not to say anything regrettable.

Of course, this very topic had broken that control of his once before, led him to say things he'll spend however long he and Alex have together trying to make up for, but the fissures of that earlier break are still there within his resolve. It's easier, maybe, for it to crack a little again now.

"But no issue spitting on her for the delectation of an audience, though, right? Bringing her tattoos back, treating her like dirt. Just what any friend might do."

[mitsubishievo]

Kavinsky laughed.

It was an unkind thing, that laugh. Dismissing the concern in the question because it didn't read like concern. Instead, it just read like misunderstanding and not wanting to listen to Alex, who Kavinsky was sure would have explained it, if Darlington was willing to listen.

He crossed his arms, shoes dangling from his fingers.

"Yeah, we're both really upset that a bunch of dumb fuckers are into watching us get rude at each other, and generally making six-hundred in tips a night, each. It's terrible to have such a great rapport and trust and understanding with someone, and be able to exude sexual energy with each other when the thought of fucking is actually laughable."

[more_magic]

That laugh is the kind of response he'd expected from the man, something harsh and unpleasant, derisive and dismissive. Even so Darlington bristles at it, the line of his jaw and the set of his shoulders going rigid in a way he knows will be little hidden, if at all, by the dark of the night around them.

The explanation that follows that laugh is not dissimilar to what Alex had said when they'd sat down at last to hash things out and come to some agreement; all this talk of power and control, of negotiation and understanding, of the weird thrill of deceiving an audience with more money than sense. But here--and maybe it's the messenger, and maybe it's the location, and maybe it's that he knows at the back of his mind that his disgust is irrational--all he hears is the sneer in Kavinsky's voice. "Her other routines, her other nights, seem to be lucrative enough," he says. "So you'll forgive me if an extra, what, hundred? Two hundred? If that seems like a piss-poor kind of excuse."

[mitsubishievo]

"Yeah, half again her profits is definitely a shit excuse," Kavinsky said, rolling his eyes slightly. He rocked the heels back and forth, still just smiling and considering the whole situation.

Was this really how it was going to be? He wasn't sure he really cared, at the end. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he knew it was Alex saying she needed her shoes or just checking in that he hadn't been eaten alive out there in this weird conversation with Darlington.

He didn't pull his phone out. Just stared him down.

"Anything else you wanna get off your chest? Or you just need to feel big and good about yourself for thinking so little about what your girl does with her free time and who she does it with?"

[more_magic]

They continue their standoff, such as it is: Kavinsky smirking and eyerolling as he toys with Alex's shoes, Darlington tense with irritation and fury and all too aware that he should simply turn and go, that he should have done so well before now. But to leave feels like conceding ground, acknowledging that in some small way he's been bested--and by him, of all people--and so he stays.

"Is that all you think it is?" he says when Kavinsky gives his stupid, snide verdict on Darlington's supposed motivations. "A need for me to prop up my ego at her expense? At yours?"

The worst part is, there'd been a time when that particular assessment wouldn't have been far from the truth; when all Alex had been to him was a sheaf of papers in a manila file folder, a gory assortment of black and white crime scene photos, a hollow-eyed unfortunate handcuffed to a hospital bed and given an opportunity he hadn't thought she deserved. He'd considered it doing the magnanimous thing, giving her some kind of chance--and yes, it had made him feel like the bigger person, the gentleman of Lethe and the lord of Black Elm, and he'd liked the feeling of it.

She'd become more to him than that, and yet more still here in Darrow--but it hadn't prevented him from sliding back into that cold and condescending position, had it? She'd made a choice he hadn't expected, hadn't wanted for her, and once more he'd responded in a way she hadn't deserved. Not that he'll concede as such now, and certainly not to him.

"I only ever wanted to make sure she wasn't harmed. If she didn't need to be. If I could prevent it, this time."

[mitsubishievo]

Kavinsky raised his eyebrow in a deep, arch, unspoken question. People didn't get this weird and defensive when it wasn't a matter of pride and ego and possessiveness. He knew that because he had dealt with all of those things. He had dealt with the insecurities and the nervous anger of it all. Lashed out, and made peace later.

Kavinsky wasn't sure that Darlington was at making peace. Alex seemed more at ease than she had been when Kavinsky had accidentally revealed the tattoos, but that didn't mean anything at all, did it?

He stepped toward Darlington, still arch and derisive.

"You're not her keeper and you don't get to decide what's good for her because that's up to her," he pointed out. "And she's not being hurt by a little stage fighting twice a week. No more than I am when she kicks my ass for tips instead."

[more_magic]

Darlington sees the skepticism in that lifted brow and the smirk still evident on Kavinsky's face, and he could answer it; could admit that he was wrong, and he knows he was wrong, and knows he'll be spending his life making up for so many of the things he'd gotten incorrect. Maybe if he did, it would bring this to some kind of detente, something that would allow the both of them to get through what ought to have been a minute-long handoff of a pair of shoes without coming near to snarling at one another. But to do so would be to let him in, even slightly, to reveal himself and admit to vulnerability--and Darlington learned, years ago, that such a privilege should only be extended to a select few. Even if it wasn't, he doubts someone like Kavinsky would've made the cut anyway.

He and Alex understand one another about this. That's what matters, and if she hasn't seen fit to explain it to Kavinsky--if Kavinsky hasn't seen fit to listen, if she has--then there's no need for Darlington to attempt the same, is there?

Kavinsky steps towards him, the shoes dangling from one hand, and Darlington stays where he is. "Not her keeper, no," he says. "But we're each the only other person we have from home. Which means something to me, even if it's of little consequence to you."