[Most people seemed to think Dimitri and Kavinsky should be rivals, but he doesn't get close enough to him for that, and actually tries to avoid getting on K's bad side. They were both drug dealers, but Dimitri actually had a certain sort of manners where Kavinsky was concerned-- he never tried to sell at K's parties, and just generally kept his head down where the other boy was concerned.
Dimitri's father had been Russian mafia, wealthy with a successful life of crime that had long run in the family. And then one night he never came home. A man with a smile like death told the blond that his father had disgraced himself, and he's been in over his head ever since. He's a scholarship student like Parrish, although he lives in the dorms rather than a trailer. His family had gone from living in luxury in a house in St. Petersburg, and now rented an apartment on the rough side of NYC. Dimitri only attended prep school out of his mother's hope that it would make it so that he could give her back her life of expensive dresses and weekend spa trips.
So the rumor about K's father being mafia is enough to keep him playing nice, to not get too close, and to keep him out of the other boy's dreams.
The rumor that circles about Dimitri is this: he should be dead. The summer before he transferred to Aglionby he crashed during a race, and the airbag didn't deploy. Blood and broken glass and the scream of warped metal. There was nearly a funeral -- or so the story goes. He grins like a joke he isn't telling and shows off the inked sleeves of his tattoos, shows off where he says it covers up scars, lets people feel for them. But it's still a lie.
So he never tells the Dreamer that for Dimitri even reality is colored by dreams, that he walks in the dreamforest, shapes castles and impossible racetracks, every desire that kindles in his heart. He couldn't see any reason to say it-- Kavinsky seemed to be fine, even if he had enough of his own sort of trouble.
But the other boy looks at Ronan the way that he used to look at Elijah: like the only fucking thing that matters. Like he would burn the world just for his attention, and he knows it'll end in flames. Dimitri remembers the feeling, and he knows how losing that can turn you inside out, how it burns. It sparks something in him, maybe even empathy. Or maybe it's just thinking that Kavinsky deserves better than being left alone with the bitterness.
Which is how they get to this moment right here: Dimitri pulling up in his bright red Mustang, all after-market parts and LED lights amidst a hundred white Mitsubishis. He doesn't so much as bat an eye at the dreamt cars, just gets out and pockets his keys in his cargo shorts. His tee-shirt on the other hand declares "my sexual preference is often" because he's seventeen and thinks shitty tee shirts are amusing.
He figures anyone that actually knows Kavinsky probably is smart enough to avoid him in the mood he's in. Instead here he is, playing the world's biggest idiot. He wouldn't be entirely surprised if the other teen started off by punching him in the face. But well, there's a certain familiarity, a certain catharsis in violence, and Dima's never turned down a fist fight. And he figures that even a fight might be better for K's mood than just leaving him alone with it.]
Hey. Kavinsky?
[He calls his name and there's an urgency to it. After a pause, he curses under his breath as he drags a hand through his blonde hair, because he doesn't really have a plan. He isn't even entirely sure which of the cars he's in, and there's too much here for him to feel it out. So he looks for him the old-fashioned way: walking among the cars, letting his fingertips drag against the spoiler of the cars he passes, that jolt of dream on dream at every touch.]
at the dream field;
Dimitri's father had been Russian mafia, wealthy with a successful life of crime that had long run in the family. And then one night he never came home. A man with a smile like death told the blond that his father had disgraced himself, and he's been in over his head ever since. He's a scholarship student like Parrish, although he lives in the dorms rather than a trailer. His family had gone from living in luxury in a house in St. Petersburg, and now rented an apartment on the rough side of NYC. Dimitri only attended prep school out of his mother's hope that it would make it so that he could give her back her life of expensive dresses and weekend spa trips.
So the rumor about K's father being mafia is enough to keep him playing nice, to not get too close, and to keep him out of the other boy's dreams.
The rumor that circles about Dimitri is this: he should be dead. The summer before he transferred to Aglionby he crashed during a race, and the airbag didn't deploy. Blood and broken glass and the scream of warped metal. There was nearly a funeral -- or so the story goes. He grins like a joke he isn't telling and shows off the inked sleeves of his tattoos, shows off where he says it covers up scars, lets people feel for them. But it's still a lie.
So he never tells the Dreamer that for Dimitri even reality is colored by dreams, that he walks in the dreamforest, shapes castles and impossible racetracks, every desire that kindles in his heart. He couldn't see any reason to say it-- Kavinsky seemed to be fine, even if he had enough of his own sort of trouble.
But the other boy looks at Ronan the way that he used to look at Elijah: like the only fucking thing that matters. Like he would burn the world just for his attention, and he knows it'll end in flames. Dimitri remembers the feeling, and he knows how losing that can turn you inside out, how it burns. It sparks something in him, maybe even empathy. Or maybe it's just thinking that Kavinsky deserves better than being left alone with the bitterness.
Which is how they get to this moment right here: Dimitri pulling up in his bright red Mustang, all after-market parts and LED lights amidst a hundred white Mitsubishis. He doesn't so much as bat an eye at the dreamt cars, just gets out and pockets his keys in his cargo shorts. His tee-shirt on the other hand declares "my sexual preference is often" because he's seventeen and thinks shitty tee shirts are amusing.
He figures anyone that actually knows Kavinsky probably is smart enough to avoid him in the mood he's in. Instead here he is, playing the world's biggest idiot. He wouldn't be entirely surprised if the other teen started off by punching him in the face. But well, there's a certain familiarity, a certain catharsis in violence, and Dima's never turned down a fist fight. And he figures that even a fight might be better for K's mood than just leaving him alone with it.]
Hey. Kavinsky?
[He calls his name and there's an urgency to it. After a pause, he curses under his breath as he drags a hand through his blonde hair, because he doesn't really have a plan. He isn't even entirely sure which of the cars he's in, and there's too much here for him to feel it out. So he looks for him the old-fashioned way: walking among the cars, letting his fingertips drag against the spoiler of the cars he passes, that jolt of dream on dream at every touch.]