[Really, Elijah is just glad that Kavinsky is okay. Even if it means that he knows what he is on so many layers, he'd rather have that than have the boy get hurt, have to face him, have to face Skov and the others and tell them it was his fault. So as exposed and naked as he feels-- he knows it's not the worst way this night could have gone.
There's something about the way that Kavinsky stares at him. He looks at the scars, sure, but largely his attention seems to be on his tattoos, the ink- dreams- on his skin. He's not looking at him like he's- less. Like he might be different from the boy that had fallen asleep in his bed, but not in a way that means scorn or rejection. The very thought of it- that K might know and not hate him for it makes his throat feel tight, his heart race unevenly.
There was a reason he'd transferred after the surgery. So far away that no one knew who he was. A boy's academy so no one would question it. It had been a mess to get all his documents in order, but his father had lawyers for things like that. They handled the court orders, and the polite and not-so-polite requests to update his name and gender on all the records that Aglionby had needed. Just a boy, just another rich asshole.
He takes the tee-shirt, murmuring a quiet thanks as he does, rubbing his fingers against the soft fabric for a moment and then awkwardly pulling it on over his head. He wants to curl up in a ball, or maybe curl up in K's lap, but he tries to look like he's okay, even if he isn't. He feels small standing there in a tee-shirt and boxers in the ruins of K's room, his heart racing.]
You needed a bigger bed anyway- this just gives you an excuse.
[It's clearly supposed to be a joke, or maybe a vague sort of flirtation, but his voice doesn't quite carry it. Uneasy, unsure, and he swallows awkwardly. There's an I'm sorry there between the words, but Elijah doesn't know how to say it outloud when he already feels so undone.]
This is why I don't sleep.
[His voice turning softer, but more honest as he says it with a sigh, rubbing a hand through his sleep-messy hair. Which is clearly an excellent solution to the problem. The fear and the sleeplessness making his dreams more prone to horrors when he finally gives in, making him less able to control what happens to his dreams when he wakes. But he was alone with his dreams, unable to control them, and he didn't know how to handle it any better.]
no subject
There's something about the way that Kavinsky stares at him. He looks at the scars, sure, but largely his attention seems to be on his tattoos, the ink- dreams- on his skin. He's not looking at him like he's- less. Like he might be different from the boy that had fallen asleep in his bed, but not in a way that means scorn or rejection. The very thought of it- that K might know and not hate him for it makes his throat feel tight, his heart race unevenly.
There was a reason he'd transferred after the surgery. So far away that no one knew who he was. A boy's academy so no one would question it. It had been a mess to get all his documents in order, but his father had lawyers for things like that. They handled the court orders, and the polite and not-so-polite requests to update his name and gender on all the records that Aglionby had needed. Just a boy, just another rich asshole.
He takes the tee-shirt, murmuring a quiet thanks as he does, rubbing his fingers against the soft fabric for a moment and then awkwardly pulling it on over his head. He wants to curl up in a ball, or maybe curl up in K's lap, but he tries to look like he's okay, even if he isn't. He feels small standing there in a tee-shirt and boxers in the ruins of K's room, his heart racing.]
You needed a bigger bed anyway- this just gives you an excuse.
[It's clearly supposed to be a joke, or maybe a vague sort of flirtation, but his voice doesn't quite carry it. Uneasy, unsure, and he swallows awkwardly. There's an I'm sorry there between the words, but Elijah doesn't know how to say it outloud when he already feels so undone.]
This is why I don't sleep.
[His voice turning softer, but more honest as he says it with a sigh, rubbing a hand through his sleep-messy hair. Which is clearly an excellent solution to the problem. The fear and the sleeplessness making his dreams more prone to horrors when he finally gives in, making him less able to control what happens to his dreams when he wakes. But he was alone with his dreams, unable to control them, and he didn't know how to handle it any better.]