#blgrntrsh

brett freezes on kavinsky’s statement, his focus turning away sharply from kavinsky’s utter resentment towards being called ‘ good ’ to the implications of consuming meat on animal rights. despite his attempt to squash the turning sensation in his guts, it reaches up until his entire face is scrunched.  

" are we talking about a real chicken, or are we talking metaphor? ” a brief paused later, he follows up with a confused question, “ is the chicken a person? "

henrietta lacks, the first ever human being to have her cells immortalised. ever since, HeLa cells have been saving humanity in ways imaginable and not. thanks to it, polio was eliminated — and these superhero cells keep on living. of course, the book brett is reading informs, that henrietta lacks herself never granted permission of such theft.

whether she liked it or not, part of her remains eternal.

＊＊＊

the book popped up on brett’s feed a month ago, and has been the slow read he turns to when he needs a distraction. 

after all the near deaths — he actually died, but he didn’t tell anyone — his parents decided to leave for a better place. they ended up in rural virginia, somewhere the nemeton cannot reach.

upon arrival, brett knew something was off about henrietta. unlike the beacon hills, there is no death-calling stump — rather, there is something hidden in their dreams.

this is where he meets kavinsky, the hurricane that swept brett off his feet.

＊＊＊

kavinsky’s dream is to go out in a bang — like fireworks, beautiful and transient. that is to say, he exists in a place that represents the exact opposite of his trajectory.

＊＊＊

“ it’s okay! he’s with me. ” 

kavinsky’s announces with a dagger-edged grin, arms spread wide like a pair of wings. they are at a club where everything is intoxicating, the music, the lights, the scents — but nothing compares to kavinsky’s sing-song command, which happens to be both persuasive and instigating.

brett wants to warn him — if reading and minding his own business got brett into trouble, gods know what will happen if kavinsky interferes with his unyielding nature — but the strangers pulls his fist back. now released from the stranger’s aggressive hold, brett’s eyes dart to the side, catching a glimpse of kavinsky’s expression despite the dim-lit environment. 

irritation bounces off kavinsky like sparks, looking for something — anything — to burn.

＊＊＊

here in henrietta, kavinsky is a king. well, a false king, but powerful nonetheless. when he speaks, people listen. well, most people do.

but ronan lynch is not most people. 

＊＊＊

kavinsky drops on the couch and takes the spot next to brett, the residue of his unhappy conversation with ronan lynch earlier still heavy in the air. kavinsky pulls out a cigarette and lights it fire red, then he stares off into the distance while brett stares at him.

“ not gonna lie, ” when he speaks, kavinsky glances at him, his sultry gaze enough to pierce a hole in his chest. volume turning down another notch, brett admits, “ that was pretty cool. ”

a familiar shark grin spreads on kavinsky’s face, and brett is suddenly underwater. he watches, in slow motion, the glass kavinsky slots into his hand, then the reverted baritone of kavinsky’s low mumble pressing close to his ear, leaving on his skin a probing question. 

“ are you going to say no too? ”

＊＊＊

kavinsky has many flaws, all of which he wears proudly as medals along with a heart made of glass. brett cannot understand how ronan missed the point — that kavinsky was chasing after him — when kavinsky was so transparent.

＊＊＊

kavinsky, sleeping-with-a-gun-in-hand kavinsky. finger is always on the trigger, always ready to shoot — he simply hasn’t decided at whom yet.

＊＊＊

“ i told you i don’t drink. ”

brett reiterates for the umpteenth time. kavinsky laughs, downing the shiny liquid himself then slamming the empty glass on the small table. brett didn’t want to add to kavinsky’s tally of rejection but it can’t be helped — or can it?

somewhere to the right, prokopenko snorts. brett knows prokopenko knows, and prokopenko knows brett knows — they are in the same chase after kavinsky.

“ fine. but you’ll come to fourth of july with me. ”

kavinsky grins even harder, as though he is trying to split his face apart. brett continues to stare — maybe he can also steal a piece of kavinsky and keep it forever.

＊＊＊

kavinsky’s dream is to go out in a bang, which means brett’s mission is to prevent the bang from ever happening. 

unfortunately, cancelling fourth of july isn’t an option.

＊＊＊

just before the dragon explodes, brett moves and puts himself between kavinsky and his creation. 

werewolves aren’t invincible, especially not against fire raging fire; but he is more durable than kavinsky, body and soul, so he decides to take a chance. he has died and come back, after all; maybe he can do it again.

many of kavinsky’s quotes kept brett awake at night.

there was a time when kavinsky’s aggravating presence left him speechless. their discussions would relay in his head even hours later, no matter where he was, whether he liked it or not. he would come up with better comebacks in the shower. he would overthink a certain word the other used.

countless nights, he fell asleep to the mystery of kavinsky, the boy with the white mitsubishi, the dreamer who barely slept, the addict who was always hanging by a thread. ( or a line. that would be a too dark joke. )

the attention he gave kavinsky soon transformed. it softened, from sour lime to pale rose, then deepened, from lukewarm ash to warm yellow. the sight of kavinsky’s shark grin stole his breath, and later his heartbeat. kavinsky’s words, honeyed with dangerous, irresistible charm, stuck to his mind like a hook to a fish.

he would pick apart every sentence the boy said, and every action he made, hoping to find a story behind that reasons with logic. he would play his questions on repeat. he would wonder if he could’ve answered differently. answered better.

he changed slowly. naturally. willingly. instead of looking for answers, he familiarised himself with kavinsky’s riddles. he soothed the bomb when it started ticking. he got used to his antics, his troubles, his woes. he waited for the puzzle to solve itself.

brett knew he fell for him. he knew because he took that pill he offered. he knew because he said yes when the mitsubishi beckoned his presence. he knew because the way kavinsky’s face fit inside his palms felt like destiny. he knew because when their lips kissed, he heard bells everywhere. he stepped over the edge with eyes wide open, and kavinsky caught him, despite the meandering path, and saved him from the crash.

one day, kavinsky decided to go to rehab. brett still couldn’t believe he survived those months. it was a sunny day when kavinsky left the facility, as though the universe knew to put on a party for the king’s return. brett, too, beamed as hard as he could, but nothing could’ve stopped his emotional tears when kavinsky dashed right into his hold.

            “ After this, nothing could make me feel safer than to be loved by you. ”

whatever sparked between them -- sandstorm, tsunami or wild fire -- had the power to destroy, and equal the charm to lure them close. fear, brett figured, was addictive. not knowing what awaits only fed his hope, and that hope ballooned so fast it threatened to burst every time kavinsky was close.

and at last it did.

one press of lips lead to another, and more and more and more. the experience better felt then told, and even days after, brett still wanders back to where it happened, staring down the empty hallway expectantly. several more sundowns later, brett decided he should take the hint: kavinsky made sure they never shared the same space again, and that was enough a stance.

part of him understands why kavinsky avoided him, because he felt it too. had they indulged a second longer in that moment, they would have never gotten out. you don’t step into quicksand, knowing well you will sink. it’s pure survival instinct, simple as that.

but being passengers on the same ship made it impossibly hard. he is anxious to see him, and he is anxious when he can’t. the force seems to be off balance, too, screeching like a strangled animal.

strangled. that’s a word to describe the look on kavinsky’s face now. prokopenko has long fled the scene, and brett made sure to close the door behind him despite the heat. the engine room is no place for conversation, but this is what is left for them.

“liar,” brett heard himself whisper. visibly tensed, though not entirely disgusted, kavinksy meets his gaze with forced valour, stars scattered across his face and twinkling in his eyes. he swallows and steps forward slowly, one hand raising steadily and reaching for the other’s cheek.

surprisingly, brett chooses the affirmative.

                 “Fine. As long as coach says yes.”

“ i’ll let you in on a trade secret: the answer to the question ‘can you fix this’ is always yes.”

brett can’t deny kavinsky has charisma. shining like the protagonist when he’s dressed like the villain. there is something so tempting about the bulgarian boy, whether it was his dreamy white mitsubishi, or the way he flicks his half burnt cigarettes. his arrogance, his edge, his reckless abandon.

opposites attract, they say. only if you’re magnets, brett argues.

he knows he ought to turn away. don’t give him the time of day. don’t walk his path or you’ll end up on his side — but it’s impossible for him to deny the thrill of talking back. to risk a chance of his bite.

“ take my hand. ”

the aftermaths of beacons hills is this: supernatural residents finally come to their senses and migrate across the country in search for a new home. months into the move, brett feels it again — the same tug that drew his kind towards beacon hills — but this time it was in sleep.

wandering into a dream is easy. finding your way out is hard. like all dreams, logic is nowhere to the found. his imagination served as the backbone of this mystical scape and his consciousness the security system. it should have woke him up when something intruded his dream. it should have warned him in bright red : 

                                            DO NOT WALK INTO THE WOODS!                                             YOU KNOW NOTHING GOOD                                             EVER HAPPENS IN THE WOODS. 

he would’ve listened. he wanted no more danger, no more life-or-death decisions. but the week was long and insufferable, full of helpless navigation through rich aglionby boys; and the woods promised a long, restful sleep in a dark, bottomless lake. who is he to refuse the hand that extends its skeletal grip?

then, a thief slips into his world. urgent and sure, a voice beckons brett to look back. if anyone told brett at the beginning of the semester that kavinsky would be the one to save his life, brett would have laughed. what a joke, he would say, have you seen that boy? but has brett really seen kavinsky clearly himself? who is that boy past the revving engines and popping pills? who is he with the shark grin, the firm grab, the strong pull?