[Usually he was aloof, honestly. He didn't have the time or the effort to spare, between the jobs he worked and classwork. Most people didn't understand why he lived on his own or why he used to miss school only to come back with bruises. Typically he liked it better when people didn't understand, when he could smudge out the truth, but it meant he was always invisible.
Kavinsky had made an effort, invited him, and hasn't seemed to get bored of him. He still has his focus, and Adam doesn't want to give it up. And sure, he's a jerk and a ]
And Evo's use transponder keys. Even if I wanted to spend the rest of the night disassembling the steering column to get to the pin, it wont run power to the engine without them.
[Which is a fancy way of saying that Kavinsky is right, and he really would need the keys. His Henrietta accent creeps into the edge of his voice, and he might be talking about the other boy's car, but the words still sound like flirting. Or maybe a little bit more. Adam's fond enough of that car he wouldn't actually take it apart just to hotwire it - but it makes a sweet sort of threat to breathe into the space between them.
He leaves the bottle on the table, and his eyes flick over the other boy. What do you want, Adam? Physical contact is always charged for him. So often it meant pain and hurt and that numb feeling where he pulled every piece of himself into a ball where his father couldn't touch it. But it also made him vulnerable to the opposite: pleasure, contact, heat- anything that felt good, that meant something.
He reaches out, carefully splays fingers against Kavinsky's shoulder like he's anchoring himself, pressing against fabric. It's a terrible idea, of course, and Adam has no excuses. He skipped all the intoxicants except for Kavinsky himself. But there's no school and he doesn't have work until late afternoon, and technically it's been his birthday since midnight. He's close enough he could shift and press knees into his hips, or press up next to him, but he doesn't. Just that one touch, fingers soaking up the heat, pressed against his too-bony shoulder, leaning in close.]
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Kavinsky had made an effort, invited him, and hasn't seemed to get bored of him. He still has his focus, and Adam doesn't want to give it up. And sure, he's a jerk and a ]
And Evo's use transponder keys. Even if I wanted to spend the rest of the night disassembling the steering column to get to the pin, it wont run power to the engine without them.
[Which is a fancy way of saying that Kavinsky is right, and he really would need the keys. His Henrietta accent creeps into the edge of his voice, and he might be talking about the other boy's car, but the words still sound like flirting. Or maybe a little bit more. Adam's fond enough of that car he wouldn't actually take it apart just to hotwire it - but it makes a sweet sort of threat to breathe into the space between them.
He leaves the bottle on the table, and his eyes flick over the other boy. What do you want, Adam? Physical contact is always charged for him. So often it meant pain and hurt and that numb feeling where he pulled every piece of himself into a ball where his father couldn't touch it. But it also made him vulnerable to the opposite: pleasure, contact, heat- anything that felt good, that meant something.
He reaches out, carefully splays fingers against Kavinsky's shoulder like he's anchoring himself, pressing against fabric. It's a terrible idea, of course, and Adam has no excuses. He skipped all the intoxicants except for Kavinsky himself. But there's no school and he doesn't have work until late afternoon, and technically it's been his birthday since midnight. He's close enough he could shift and press knees into his hips, or press up next to him, but he doesn't. Just that one touch, fingers soaking up the heat, pressed against his too-bony shoulder, leaning in close.]