This time, Hue is standing in Kismet's doorway, watching him in silence. Though the look on his face says he'd rather be just about anywhere else.
There's a notebook in his two hands, straining with folded yellow edges of sticky notes peeking out from between the pages.
He waits to be noticed before speaking, and even then, refuses to cross the threshold. A vampire that doesn't actually want to be invited in.
Hue isn't the only one feeling apprehension.
B understands that even the most innocuous interaction between them poses an existential risk.
Kismet is not like Obelus, content to match his energy and leave it at that. He's a whirlwind of ravenous hunger B has only ever recognized within himself. Whatever he wants, he is likely to eventually get, even if only through persistence alone. And like B, K has a bad habit of wanting everything.
Knowing this does not inoculate him from the temptation of the ghosts of his past walking alongside him in adult bodies.
"You got Saturn in your class?" Hue asks gruffly.
Destiny's Child's Lose My Breath blares from a CD run speaker sitting on top of the scattered desk that is the history professor's office. Textbooks all but abandoned at this point and assignment drafts half finished, clearly this song took priority to his ongoing drudging of actual teaching material. A pen swings in the air with the rhythm, much less conducting as it is 'feeling the music'.
Kismet's eyes are closed, head swaying while his expression reads one of deep relation to the song.
"Hit me hard, make me lose my hah, hah," he hums to himself passionately when his eyes open, and there is a figure that definitely was not there a minute ago.
He does a fast double take, make sure he isn't actually seeing things, and immediately hits the pause.
'No fucking way.'
It was K's lucky day. A grin is plastered all over his face. He really does get everything he wants.
"Depends, you gonna sit n' stay a while or bolt with my answer to go?"
prev beyondthebackup:
"Comin' back to an orphanage for the 'crazy'. Sounds like rock fuckin' bottom to me. I almost feel sorry for you.â
âPlease,â Kismet rolls his eyes as he kicks his feet up on top of the desk in casual leisure, âIâm as much of a target as they are, something Iâm more than sure youâre privy to by now. I see no harm in providing a little returned attention where and when itâs due.â
The bite in his colleagueâs words hold not much conviction against a man with such a love for degradation. In fact, he doubts much of anyone has even held any kind of conversation with cold Hue for this long, despite its contents. Theyâre even staring into each otherâs eyes now. This is practically flirting.
Kismet is no stranger to aggressive, mean flirting anyway. That was most of the attention he got from his best mates B and by extension Obelus as kids, and it almost always ended in them in some entanglement of hot, close bodied desire; whether that be for violence or pleasure. Didnât so much matter to him, both were physical enough and pulled the attention right where it always belongsâon himself, of course. Name calling, hair pulling, throwing punches, kicks to the stomach, or burns on his flesh and glass in his skin is all just foreplay. It is a language he knows how to speak quite fluently.
âAww. Like me? I think I can arrange that for you again. I have a nasty habit of reverting people back into their worst selves. I think Iâd quite like to meet that you, Hue. And I think youâll let me. Eventually.â To say, he will wear him down, like a tiger stalking a running gazelle. Given the motive of never ending hunger, K is difficult to make run out of steam for his prey.
They are already a bit the same, after all. Two burn outs not quite dulled of spark enough to be ignored being called upon by the prestigious genius orphan academy that still held standard for both producing and providing the best of the best. And here they were, on equal playing field, both a head of their respective teams in a similar regard. An outsider and an inside man.
âIâm sure youâll regret me too. Most people do. But youâll have a ball in the meantime. I make sure of that, too.â Supple neck exposed, he can only think about sinking his teeth in the same spots an inked, buzzing needle had probed previously in coating his neck. K would coat it in bruising, blood, and saliva if given even the slightest opportunity.
Rock bottom. Yeah right. No one hits rock bottom when they live down there. This was Kismetâs chosen pit, and he chose to roll in it. He was thriving at the bottom; what does Hue know? What does anyone know?
âNo need to wrinkle your pretty little head with sorry, donât worry about that. The top is where the real suckers are at. I suppose you might know something about that too, esteemed art world savant turned esteemed high school teacher. I can show you the real pleasantries that squalor provides, trust.â Even just for a night. That is all he needs, really.
Kismet's audacity is as breathtaking as it has always been.
Maybe he hasn't been frozen in time all these years; maybe he actually came back worse.
How much worse? B would be lying if he said he wasn't itching to find out.
The difference is that K is no longer the teenager he once was. The foolishness of youth, tragic upbringing, boys-will-be-boys, and other such excuses for his bad behavior he weaponized so effectively back then are forfeit.
He is the adult now, a professor with the authority to pass, fail and punish, encourage or degrade - to mold any young mind misguided enough to take him seriously. As ill-suited as K is to power, influence and responsibility, here he is, lounging on the other side of the desk as blithe and poised to kill as any carnivorous animal. All sanctioned by this oh so reputable institution, nonetheless.
Not a single thing about Kismet implies professionalism or good judgement. One look at him or his classroom with everything haphazard and half-assed makes Hue out to be a square in comparison. Still, constant rumors of indiscretions aside, Wammy's House sees him perfectly fit to assist in the grooming of their freshest batch of juvenile tools.
B supposes this should be reassuring to him.
Hue can serve his purpose, poke and prod around, gather the information he needs about the declining second generation and the up-and-coming third so that B can effectively sabotage them both. Wammy's House will produce nothing but failures again, and with a scapegoat like Kismet around, it doesn't even look like B will need to be on his best behavior to pull that off.
It seems they're still using each other, even now.
Someone else weighs on B's mind. Whether he can be anything more than a liability now is questionable.
"You and Obelus both, right?" Hue sneers, apparently giving up on debating ethics with someone who has no interest in examining his actions in the first place. "I've heard the rumors. He isn't even bothering to hide how much of a hopeless drunk he is these days. And he seems to think you're the best of friends. You come up with this bullshit together? It's an even playing field 'cause you used to be them? Does he quote Freud?"
B stops himself there. Hue thinks they're repugnant enough to cut into with such mockery, sure, but he has to be careful not to let his own jealousy bleed through. Kismet would smell it like a bloodhound.
"Wow...you are persistent, I'll give you that; delusional, too. You think I'd give up my sobriety for community dick? Bet you never worked hard for something a day in your life," Hue lets out something resembling a laugh, dry and gravelly as it is. "If anything, being around you losers just makes me wanna give up cigarettes and booze, too. Go full teetotaler and just be done with it all so we won't have a single fuckin' thing in common."
Hue drops his arm and lets it hover limply over the ground, creating distance between himself and the cigarette as if to prove his point. He watches it burn, basking in the waste. Eventually, though, he fails to resist turning his eyes back on his peacocking counterpart.
'I have a nasty habit of reverting people back to their worst selves.'
His worst self has a few ideas about what he'd like to do to him right now. It wouldn't be that hard to wipe that cocky look off his face and make him pathetic and yielding again. A little attention is all it takes to make K soft and amenable. Obedient, even. At least to a point.
He misses those desperate little puppy dog eyes. Who does he think he is, playing like he's the one in control here?
Hiding and fleeing do not suit B.
Would it really make any difference? One night, call it a drunken mistake, go back to ignoring him at every available opportunity. It would be fun. He knows it would be fun. Why be so worried about something so inconsequential on its face? In fact, giving in might just get K off his back. He'd become another name in that little black book of his. He'd lose interest.
He'd lose interest.
B's blood runs cold. It's in his best interest if K loses interest in Hue. Much like Obelus deciding he wants nothing to do with him. Less eyes, less attention from people who knew B well enough once to recognize something familiar in Hue. More freedom, more focus.
It's in his best interest for them to lose interest.
Yet the thought makes him want to put out this cigarette right on Kismet's pretty face.
'I think I'd quite like to meet that you, Hue. And I think you'll let me. Eventually.'
B bites down on his tongue, setting Hue's jaw as a consequence.
"That me is long fuckin' dead, Kismet. Sorry to disappoint. I don't think your little boyfriend would appreciate that, anyway, and you two really do deserve each other. I'd hate to get in the way."
Does B regret Kismet? Does he regret Obelus? Does he regret refusing to leave with one, only to leave the other behind in that all too familiar cycle of abandonment? Does he regret coming back for revenge and looking them both in the face again behind a disguise?
No. Of course not.
Hue smirks. He and B are both being rewarded for their efforts. The change in tone is imperceptible to the average person but impossible for B to miss. K has been a wonderful sport, taking Hue's worst like a good boy without swiping back in earnest. This is his first proper jab, light as it is. It means he managed to get under that thick skin even if only for a moment.
This is still so much fun.
As if he's finally decided to get comfortable in Kismet's presence, Hue stretches out long and lazy into his chair.
"Everyone's a sucker for something, Kismet. Some are just better at hiding it than others," he yawns, pinching the burning stick between two fingers and holding it above his face for inspection.
He watches it burn and watches it burn and watches it burn.
"...But you're not wrong. The people that bought my art were at the top; vapid parasites who didn't know or care about a thing. It was about tax evasion or blowin' smoke up their own asses in front of their friends. Suckers."
Finally, Hue pops the nub back into the corner of his mouth and takes one last puff before it's snuffed out. It hangs there, limp and ineffective as a bad habit.
"And I was a sucker, too. Doin' my little song and dance for 'em. Artist from the dirt. I was for sale. Nice thing about these kids is that they can't buy me. If the old man doesn't like how I do things, I walk. But you? This is home for you,"
He shrugs.
"Maybe this is all you know."
âBest of friends? Did he say that? Huh.â His expression switches up to something very intrigued and amused with a wide eye spark glinting into his irises. That was clearly news to him, and good news at that.
Little boyfriend⌠the way Hue is talking almost makes him want to bound out of there and hear it off Obelusâs lips himself. Best friend might not be a label that would mean much to Hue outside of a childish habit, but Kismet knowing Obelusâs previous prestigious best friend knows that title does not come lightly and what that position might entail for him. The idea tantalizes him with thoughts threatening to set him adrift onto a different float. Focus stops him, however, both needing to hold up his pride and work in wearing down the man in front of him.
All in due time. Though patience is not a virtue that comes easy for Kismet.
âListen,â he starts, stretching his arms above his head as sobriety looms its weight inside of it. Ash ticks down onto his lap that is simply brushed to the floor. âI get it. Why bother with the low-life, right? All Iâm suggesting is it pays to have some kind of acquaintance in here for better or worse. Iâm really not as bad a guy as Iâm cracked up to be, really. You could understand, Iâm sure, as a misunderstood and under appreciated artist type. I do work hard. Iâve worked plenty hard. I think the issue is for people like us either people donât appreciate the kinds of things that you or I put that time and energy into to find it deserving of calling it hard work, or maybe the real hard work goes into making all the struggle look effortless so it goes unnoticed or unrecognized. Workinâ hard or hardly workinâ, am I right?â
At least for long enough for it to count. Kismet takes a long drag from the end of his cigarette, and watches the billow of smoke in front of his eyes imagining again a similar sight of engine smoke pouring out from the crushed front end of a staged yet all too real car crash from years ago. The weeks leading up to a fateful day spent lamenting to concerned teachers, slowly draining pints of his own blood and storing it cold until it was needed, scoping the perfect crime scene, scoring discrete getaway means, and hardest of all playing innocuous all that time to some incredibly perceptive eyes.
What a rush it added up to. Late night speeding, stone sober yet feeling as high as ever on delirium, the cold bite of the salty air at night and fog fading him and his life back into the safety of obscurity once again to be molded back with his own hands. So good, it was almost as if he really did kill Kismet. Yet here he was, back again in the flesh, given the shock of life and dragged in by the shell of his ear.
The cigarette is put out on an empty square of desk and flicked into an overflowing waste bin. It miraculously lands to sit on top of it all. A throne of garbage. Top of the refuse.
âI donât know if youâve noticed, but Wammyâs isnât exactly your average group house, Hue. It isnât a home for anyone; itâs a death trap. Something I apparently picked up a little faster than the top mind of a generation. And they call me the attention whore, hah.
So, what? Yeah, I left. I wasnât about to waste the peak years of my youth behind tattered wallpaper and a boring game that wasnât interested in my talent. Then, yeah, I get the opportunity to come back, on my own terms, and get to be on the other side of how the showâs running? Sign me up. I can walk any time I want too, and I will. Youâre not special for that. But why would I now? The goingâs good while theyâre scrambling to fill the shoes my generation left behind, Iâm treated like the prodigal son, and as soon as things start turning southâ which it will have to eventually, given the sinking hole in the pit of it all they keep trying to fillâIâll be long gone again. Because home isnât a singular place for me; itâs where I make it. Itâll be an entertaining watch in the meantime though.
I can show you how much I really know, if youâre interested. Maybe over drinks? I used to get paid big bucks just being conversational company, ya know. Maybe we can trade New York stories, see where our lines might have ever crossed? We could get to know each other, like real coworkers.â
Like a date.


















