DON'T FUCKING WHAT, [says kavinsky. he's searched all the small pockets of his backpack, unnecessarily, their zippers still gaping open as he yanks the thing back onto his narrow shoulders. beside him, moonshined looks slightly querulous. more than slightly. whether or not she actually retains memories from eudio isn't clear, but she's learned to recognize kavinsky's crazy eyes and can feel a pair coming on as he turns, cigarette in hand, a scowl carving down his narrow eyes and too-full mouth.] DON'T F--
[--ucking.
the since hits kavinsky like a stone. he stares at the boy and his dog. the other boy and his dog, that is. he's pale to begin with, but he gets fractionally paler. after a moment, he says,] Holt? [his voice is dry, but it doesn't crack.]
no subject
[--ucking.
the since hits kavinsky like a stone. he stares at the boy and his dog. the other boy and his dog, that is. he's pale to begin with, but he gets fractionally paler. after a moment, he says,] Holt? [his voice is dry, but it doesn't crack.]