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[mofi]

hey, this is murphy. i didn't pick up because i don't want to talk to you.

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pre-apoc dreamscape drabbus! (slightly nsfw, mouseover for translations) (sorry i fed up code)

[pillz]

football;

Kavinsky does not care about softball. He doesn't care about kids, or families, or the mundane and dubious pleasures of suburban life. But he has a lot of money and an image to rehabilitate, so his philanthropy has set up the De Chima Vista High School with a new football field, and here they are in late October.

He's sitting on the bleachers. Murphy's on the row below him, sitting between his knees. Kavinsky's mouth is in his ear, explaining the rules, what that line means, it's ten minutes to half-time, every player has a position.

But the distractions occur inevitably: it's more of an excuse to spend time together than it is a real investment in the great American past-time, after all.

Murphy's ears get cold, and Kavinsky rubs them in his fingers, breathes on them, finds excuses to run his mouth through his hair. Kavinsky pulls out the panels of his stretchy jacket and folds Murphy up in them, and asks sarcastic little things like, Wasn't it freezing fucking cold in the radiation death of outer-space? I thought you was tough, sweetheart. But Murphy can tell there's no bite in them, burrowing backward into their huddle. Murphy zips up the jacket in front of himself, making a two-headed gremlin of them.

"I love football," Murphy proclaims.

"Do you even know which side is winning?" Kavinsky asks, amused.

"It's me. I'm winning." Murphy knocks his head back on Kavinsky's chest and closes his eyes. There's a piece of popcorn stuck inside his shirt, scratchy, but he can't be arsed to move and get rid of it. Around him, the crowd roars. He says, "This is the most amazing sport in the world."

party;

There's so much detail in these dreams, some of it must have been taken from his life with the John Murphy before. But they're carefully, politely edited: no indication of monogamy or of Trigedasleng, which Murphy does not yet know. Generous, if vague references to Kylo Ren, Ronan Lynch, the Meadows. A watercolor distillation of a life more ordinary.

Less ordinary?

In this one, Kavinsky takes him to a mansion garden party, which Murphy is tipsily surveying from a balcony now. Waiters serve hors d'oeuvres on small trays and half the cocktail conversation seems to be about stock portfolios. Real diamonds stud the patrons' watches, their shoes. Murphy's out of place. He has never remembered so keenly before as now, that he had dirt on his cheeks and one change of clothes in a forest just a year ago. He was afraid he would say something to humiliate himself, knowing nothing of dividends or the price of grain in Spain.

But the liquor fortifies him, and maybe so too, is the apparent fact that Kavinsky had brought him to show him off-- and to enjoy smoked bacon, foreign cheeses, dry-aged steak bites. Silk lining cuddles the spaceboy inside the fitted contours of his jacket; his tailored shirt-- now half-buttoned, drunk woooooo!-- has pinstripes. But if you look really closely, they're birth trees, fogged through, the stark elegance of Mother Nature. Plus, there's a cheese fountain.

"обичам те."

By now, Murphy knows just enough Bulgarian to know what that means. He doesn't have to turn around to know Kavinsky is checking on him. He gets a kiss in passing, Kavinsky leaning over his shoulder to tuck one into the corner of his jaw. Murphy says, "You promised me we'll dance later," as Kavinsky steps away to go to his next chat.

Kavinsky's voice is light: "I got you. I could never forget."

home;

In this one, they're back in Murphy's room. The one with the big window that overlooks the forest; the one that Kavinsky had shattered, a couple of months ago. But the wan, misty timeline behind the dream insists that Joseph Kavinsky stays here sometimes and has for months. (And with a different spaceboy, it had been true.)

They'd had sex not long ago. Easy to tell; Kavinsky had slapped down a towel over the sticky patch where Murphy came, the excess that Kavinsky hadn't managed to catch with his mouth. They should go shower, probably, but enough orgasms rounds will have soporific effect on anybody. Murphy's body is heavy on the mattress, lazy and sated.

"You want anything?" Kavinsky asks. His face is so near that Murphy can see only one of Kavinsky's eye in his right eye, and only the other one in his left. There's nothing in his field of vision except for Kavinsky's face. "Cheese fountain. PJs. Fuzzy slippers. Weed? LaCroix."

"I hate LaCroix, man. It doesn't taste like anything. It's just better than three hundred-year-old recycled Ark water."

"Hot choc. Orange soda." Kavinsky smiles. He makes fun of Murphy, sometimes, about the orange soda. It's for kids! But he drinks it with him, then dreams replacements for the stuff they spill citrus stains onto. "I'm serious," Kavinsky adds. "Anything."

Murphy closes his eyes and tries to think past the sleepy haze, but even the latent tingle of the spectacular bite mark on his hip has faded by now. He might as well be floating. In the good way. "Nah," he says. "I can't think of anything right now."

"Sure?"

"I'm sure."