[He follows the sound of the other boy's voice, and seems rather unconcerned by the tone that Kavinsky takes. He'd known that he would be in a black mood- the fact that he's only mildly snapped at him feels like a better result than he was expecting. He looks him over; assessing for damage, even if he tries to hide it under something casual and only mildly interested. He leans against the passenger side of his car, rests his left arm lightly against the roof.]
Nothing like that- not even if you said please. Just thought I'd make sure you weren't going to set yourself on fire.
[It's what the dream felt like, but he doesn't say that- dreams were liars sometimes too, anyway.
Dmitri means for it to come off as a joke in return, but his tone is a little strained as well. Tinged with a flicker of something genuine; like somehow he knows that Kavinsky might be more serious about that then he wants to admit to. And he's willing to not point it out, but he's also not here to put a gun to his head. So. Subject change.]
Oh. You meant how I found this place?
[He shrugs his shoulders, rakes fingers through the messy strands of his blond hair. It's a brief pause, the reflexive instinct to lie, to shape the truth into something easier for people to swallow, easier to sell. Of course, Kavinsky is a Dreamer, so maybe that didn't mean normal in the first place. He hadn't exactly planned on giving away something as complicated as an honest answer to that question, though. The one that at its heart asks: what are you? The temptation is to slip away from the subject, dodge the question, as reflexive as a kneejerk.
Instead he slips his cigarette case from the back pocket of his jeans-- something to do with his mouth that isn't saying shit he doesn't really want to talk about. Or that he might want to talk about, but doesn't quite trust. Despite the case, he smokes shitty Marlboros; he has it mostly so he can tuck a few pills, a small baggie of coke, and a few joints in it too. He holds it out to K along with the lighter, and it's at least not the one that says if you want to get lucky smile.
The silence hangs for a few moments, a tension in what Dimitri isn't saying. But Kavinsky is a Dreamer, and the point in coming here wasn't to lie to him, even if that's who he is. Lies and smiles, stories -- he's a Dream that normal people can understand. A secret given skin once, and then dreamt back to life. He sees dreams when he's awake, too, so he's sensitive to them.]
Fuck it. This place- there's so many dreams here, I can feel it from just about anywhere in Henrietta.
no subject
[He follows the sound of the other boy's voice, and seems rather unconcerned by the tone that Kavinsky takes. He'd known that he would be in a black mood- the fact that he's only mildly snapped at him feels like a better result than he was expecting. He looks him over; assessing for damage, even if he tries to hide it under something casual and only mildly interested. He leans against the passenger side of his car, rests his left arm lightly against the roof.]
Nothing like that- not even if you said please. Just thought I'd make sure you weren't going to set yourself on fire.
[It's what the dream felt like, but he doesn't say that- dreams were liars sometimes too, anyway.
Dmitri means for it to come off as a joke in return, but his tone is a little strained as well. Tinged with a flicker of something genuine; like somehow he knows that Kavinsky might be more serious about that then he wants to admit to. And he's willing to not point it out, but he's also not here to put a gun to his head. So. Subject change.]
Oh. You meant how I found this place?
[He shrugs his shoulders, rakes fingers through the messy strands of his blond hair. It's a brief pause, the reflexive instinct to lie, to shape the truth into something easier for people to swallow, easier to sell. Of course, Kavinsky is a Dreamer, so maybe that didn't mean normal in the first place. He hadn't exactly planned on giving away something as complicated as an honest answer to that question, though. The one that at its heart asks: what are you? The temptation is to slip away from the subject, dodge the question, as reflexive as a kneejerk.
Instead he slips his cigarette case from the back pocket of his jeans-- something to do with his mouth that isn't saying shit he doesn't really want to talk about. Or that he might want to talk about, but doesn't quite trust. Despite the case, he smokes shitty Marlboros; he has it mostly so he can tuck a few pills, a small baggie of coke, and a few joints in it too. He holds it out to K along with the lighter, and it's at least not the one that says if you want to get lucky smile.
The silence hangs for a few moments, a tension in what Dimitri isn't saying. But Kavinsky is a Dreamer, and the point in coming here wasn't to lie to him, even if that's who he is. Lies and smiles, stories -- he's a Dream that normal people can understand. A secret given skin once, and then dreamt back to life. He sees dreams when he's awake, too, so he's sensitive to them.]
Fuck it. This place- there's so many dreams here, I can feel it from just about anywhere in Henrietta.