#outbound.

kc, though things draw his attention, rarely is he interested and rarely can they hold it. he sees the screen for all but two seconds before his eyes are on his brother, chin over the seat of the couch. if he takes a seat he’s invested, if he stays on his feet he’s ready to move on. 

why do you want one? why do you need one? can you take care of one? 

kc doesn’t know how to pull things. not like the easy pull of a cigarette. not like a pull for poison and pleasure all at once. he doesn’t know how to dig through a soul like words do. that’s supposed to be his brother, getting things from people, learning. kc just opens and lets come what come. 

in that sense they’re alike.

he doesn’t know what to do after. he doesn’t stop the flow whether it makes sense, whether it’s timely. he lacks finesse, timeliness, etiquette. he lacks the drive to really be gentle with the soft parts of the mind. it’s why when tanner gets up and lets it strain him to wit’s end, kc watches him for a moment, watches until he’s following, cigarette still between his lips.

he does get it though. in a more morbid, more active way. not cigarettes on his skin but guitar strings turned into blades.he gets it, someone seeing euphoria as destruction. people are always trying to destroy someone’s utopia if he doesn’t get it. they didn’t get his, didn’t get the time spent on the guitar and what he could pull from it. kc doesn’t shake at the memory anymore, but he does wish he had his guitar to hold. instead he shoves his hands in his pockets, finds his pick deep within them and follows tanner to the roof.

the roof is crisp but not crisp enough, too silent. so he fills.

“could’ve given a crappy answer or been real weird and stuck it on your skin yourself.” this isn’t really lightening the mood, this is just kc. kc in all he tries to do.