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“Where are you?” Is the first thing Skov asks when the call connects and Proko immediately picks up on his panicky tone.
“Dorms. What’s going on?” He asks, already sitting up from where he was lounging on his bed and pushing away his unfinished econ homework. He was procrastinating it anyway.
“It’s K.”
Proko doesn’t need to hear more. He snatches the car keys and rushes out. “What happened?” he asks as he practically sprints to the car, praying that whatever it is, it doesn’t involve the hospital. Or morgue.
“No idea. I mean, someone called him, I think? And then he just started breaking shit and screaming. He was absolutely besides himself.”
Proko curses. He doesn’t have to be a genius to figure out who called K. He finally gets into the car and throws the phone on the dash, starting the engine. “I’ll be there in a minute. Where’s he now?”
“He stalked to his room. Based on the noise, he’s trying to break the walls.”
Proko sighs. “Can you make sure he doesn’t hurt himself until I get there?”
Skov makes an outraged noise. “Are you kidding? He is gonna kill me if I get too close.”
Proko tries very hard not to think about all the stupid things K could do. There were several knives in his room and mountains of drugs. “Fuck. Just get Swan and do something,” he hisses and disconnects the call.
The drive from the dorms to K’s house usually takes about fifteen minutes. Proko makes it in five. He parks sloppily next to K’s Evo and runs inside. He pays no attention to the mess in the living room and goes straight upstairs, where he can hear Swan’s voice followed by K’s yelling. It’s mostly curses, not all of them in English.
There’s a bloody print of K’s fist on the wall in the hallway. Proko makes a mental note to tell K to give his housekeeper a rise.
The good thing is that when he gets to K’s bedroom, there’s no knife anywhere in sight. Both Swan and Skov are there, standing at a safe distance from K, who looks, well, bad. Both of his hands are bloody and he’s yelling at them something about getting the fuck out. If Proko wasn’t so concerned, it’d be funny to see how Swan, who is almost a foot taller than K, crouches under K’s death glare.
They all turn to him when he gets there, Skov and Swan with relieved expressions, K almost accusatory. At least he looks sober.
“Go. I got this,” Proko tells them, eyes fixed on K the whole time.
“We can’t leave you here with him alone,” Swan protests. “Look at him.”
K snarls at him something in angry Bulgarian, which really isn’t helping his case there.
“I wasn’t asking. Get. Out,” Proko hisses at them through gritted teeth.
“What if he hurts you?”
Proko pries his gaze off K at last and glares at Swan. “He won’t,” he announces firmly.
Swan finally gives up and they leave, shutting the door behind them. Proko exhales in relief and turns all his attention back to K, who’s watching him with an unreadable expression.
“Was it him?” Proko asks softly.
K fixes his eyes on the floor but nods.
Of course, it was. There’s only one person in the world, whose calls could result in K’s breakdown. His father. “He’s coming over?”
Another nod.
“When?”
“Soon.”
Proko sighs. “You can stay with me in the dorms. You don’t have to see him,” he suggests.
K smirks. “You know too damn well it doesn’t work like that.”
“I don’t care.”
“He wants to have dinner. He wants you there too," he says bitterly.
Proko blinks. That was unusual. It’s true that K’s father liked him for whatever reason, but he rarely specifically requested his presence. “Oh. Okay.”
K frowns at him. “Okay? Have you lost your fucking mind?!” He takes a step toward him and Proko has to force himself not to move back. He knows K wouldn’t hurt him, but it was still scary watching him like this.
“It’s just a dinner, Joey. There’ll be people around. He won’t do anything,” he says softly.
“I don’t want you in the same fucking space as him,” K spits, curling his fingers into fists again and Proko moves without thinking, stepping to him at once and grabbing his wrists to prevent him from punching another wall.
“Hey. I know, okay? I know. But I’ll be fine. Joey. C’mon, look at me.” He patiently waits for K to meet his eyes. “It’s going to be okay. I promise.” It’s a lie and they both know it.
K sighs deeply but stops fighting against his grip. “I fucking hate this,” he mumbles, sounding tired and frustrated and helpless.
Proko lets go of him and pushes his hair out of his face before putting his arms around K’s neck, pulling him close. “Me too.”
K buries his face in Proko’s shoulder and just breathes for a few seconds.
“Did you have to punch a wall though?” Proko asks with a hint of a smile.
“Shut up,” K replies but it has no bite to it.
“You scared the shit out of Skov and Swan.”
K chuckles. “They’ll get over it.”
Proko rolls his eyes. Of course, they will. “Tell me what you need.”
K looks at him, cataloguing his face. “Right now?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go for a drive.”
Proko isn’t sure if driving is a good idea in K’s self-destructive state, but it usually managed to calm him down. “Okay, but let me clean your hands first.”
K looks down at his hands as if he only just realised the mess he made. “It’s nothing,” he says dismissively.
“Still.”
K sighs. “Fine, whatever.”
He obediently follows Proko to the bathroom and sits on the edge of a tub as Proko searches through the aid kit. At this point, it was routine for them. Proko cleans all the blood and disinfects the wounds and K holds still the whole time, ignoring the stinging pain.
When it’s done, K gets the keys from the Evo and doesn’t look if Proko’s following. He knows he is.
Swan and Skov are hiding in the kitchen and when they see K, they both look ready to bolt. Proko smirks. “We’re going out,” he announces.
“Are you getting food?”
Proko has no fucking idea where K wants to drive, but that doesn’t really matter. “No. Order in or something, I don’t care.”
K is impatiently waiting for him by the car door, twirling with the keys, the look in his eyes impossibly distant. Proko hates seeing him like this.
They don’t talk much throughout the drive. The music plays but it’s not as loud as usual. K keeps his eyes fixed on the road but reaches over the centre console to take Proko’s hand. Proko interlocks their fingers and gives him a reassuring squeeze.
“Joey,” he says softly, cautiously. At this point, they’re miles away from Henrietta.
K hums.
“We can talk about it. If you want.”
K’s expression doesn’t change. “I don’t.”
Proko sighs. K couldn’t ignore it forever. “Are you really just going to let him come into your life and fuck things up whenever he wants?”
K’s hand tightens on the steering wheel, his knuckles going white. “Proko,” he hisses warningly.
For once, Proko refuses to budge. “You know I’m right.”
K clenches his jaw. “So what? What do you expect me to do? Tell him to fuck off and leave me alone? The last time I tried, he broke my nose and half of my ribs.”
Proko winces at the reminder of that. K showed up at his doorstep that night with his face covered in blood and Proko took him to the ER, despite his protests, making up a lie about a fight at a party. “Maybe you could try to reason with him.”
K snorts. “Yeah, like that’s gonna work. You’re acting like you’ve never met him.”
Proko sighs. “Maybe if you really tried –”
“Ilya, stop,” K snaps.
The tone shuts Proko up in instant. It was the no-bullshit tone that K avoided using on him. Proko isn’t stupid enough to push him more, especially considering the fact that they were already going at way too high speed.
K sighs, pulling Proko’s hand into his lap before bringing it up to his lips, kissing over his knuckles. “Sorry,” he mumbles apologetically.
Proko shakes his head in dismissal. “Nevermind.”
“I really don’t want to talk about him.”
“Okay.”
K sighs again. “Do you wanna get something to eat?”
Swan and Skov probably ordered enough food for all of them, but who knew when they’d be getting back home. “Sure.”
They stop at a random diner and Proko orders for both of them, even though K insists he’s not hungry. He never was. The drugs took away most of his appetite and whatever was left was destroyed by the anxiety.
When the food arrives, K spends eternity just pushing it around his plate, apparently lost in thought.
“You have to eat at least something,” Proko points out gently.
K makes a noncommittal sound but obediently stabs the fork into a piece of pasta. Proko watches him as he chews mechanically, his eyes fixed on the wall behind Proko. He wishes he could say something to make him feel better. He reaches over the table to take his hand.
K looks at their joined hands and then at Proko’s face. He offers him a tired smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Let’s go home,” he says.
Proko nods. “Okay.”
They get back home late. Swan and Skov are nowhere to be found, but they did leave food for them.
K makes no indication he noticed. He walks right back to his bedroom while Proko puts it away in the fridge so it wouldn’t spoil. He wonders if he should give K some space. He was never sure what to do in situations like these because K always insisted he was fine and that he didn’t need anything.
In the end, he caves and knocks on K’s door. There’s no reply, but there never is, so he opens the door ajar and peers inside.
K’s already in bed, his back to the door, but Proko knows he’s not sleeping yet.
“Get your ass in here,” K mumbles without turning around.
“I can sleep in my own room,” Proko offers.
K snorts. “Don’t be an idiot.”
So Proko crawls into the bed, lying next to him and wrapping his arm around his waist. K instinctively shuffles closer. Neither of them falls asleep for a long time, but that’s okay.
…
“So, a dinner,” Skov says while Proko scammers through his clothes, desperately trying to find something presentable. He kept very few clothes in their dorm room because he spent the majority of his time in Kavinsky's house anyway, but he was sure that he kept some nice shirts here. Apparently not.
“Yep.”
“With Kavinsky’s father.”
“Yup. And I still have nothing to wear.” He sighs and gives up on the pile of clothes, lowering himself onto the small bed next to Skov.
“Where are you going anyway?” Skov asks and Proko is glad Skov’s not asking him anything about K’s breakdown the other day. Both he and Swan just pretended like nothing happened and K was happy to play along.
Proko shrugs. “Somewhere fancy surely. I don’t think I even own any fancy clothes.”
“Just wear some shirt and jeans that aren’t ripped.”
If only it were that easy. “I grew out of all my good shirts.”
Skov rolls his eyes. “Dude, your boyfriend is literally drowning in money. Make him buy you some.”
Proko gives him a pointed look. “K already pays for me way too much.”
“There’s never too much when you have that kind of money.”
“Shut up.” But he picks up his phone and calls K nevertheless.
It takes an eternity for K to pick up. “Someone better be dead that you’re calling so fucking early,” he hisses, sounding sleepy and irritated.
Proko smirks. “It’s two in the afternoon,” he points out.
K is clearly not amused. “Your point?”
“Nevermind. I need to borrow a shirt.”
“What for?”
Proko rolls his eyes. “For tonight? I assumed we’ll go somewhere posh?”
K is silent for a second. “You can wear whatever the hell you want.”
Proko isn’t in the mood to argue with K over a goddamn shirt. “Can I please just borrow a shirt? I don’t want to give him more reasons to be angry.”
K sighs. “Jesus, fine. I’ll go pick you up and you can go through every shirt I own for all I care.”
“Aren’t you a sweetheart,” Proko sneers.
“Fuck off. I’ll be there in ten.”
Skov watches him with an amused expression. “Are you just not afraid of him at all?”
Proko frowns in confusion. “K? No, of course not. Why would I be afraid of him?”
Skov shrugs. “I don’t know. His mood swings, anger issues, violent tendencies, you don’t have to choose just one thing.”
Proko glares at him. “He would never do anything to hurt me.”
Skov doesn’t look convinced. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Proko doesn’t tell him it’s because he knows K would do anything in his power to avoid being like his father. “I just know.” His tone makes it clear he’s done with that conversation.
K does show up ten minutes later, wearing Proko’s sweatshirt and pants that definitely saw better days. Proko genuinely hopes this isn’t his outfit of choice for tonight.
It takes Proko one look at him to tell he’s in a terrible mood, so he quickly takes his phone and keys and follows him back to the car before K decides to drive away without him.
“When is he getting here?” he asks cautiously when they get in the car.
K shrugs. “Evening. I don’t know. We’re meeting him at the restaurant. The reservation said seven.”
“Oh. Okay.”
K glances at him from behind the wheel. “Ilya. You don’t have to go.”
“I know. I want to be there for you. It’s the least I can do.”
K sighs and doesn’t comment on it.
When they get to K’s house, K leads him to his bedroom and wordlessly hands him a hanger with a freshly ironed shirt. It’s pale blue and surprisingly nice. It doesn’t look like something K would ever wear.
Proko takes it and inspects it. “This isn’t yours, is it?”
K shrugs. He’s not quite meeting his eyes.
“Did you dream it for me?”
K shrugs again.
“Joey.”
“It matches your eyes,” K mumbles while glaring at the shirt as if it was all its fault.
Proko smiles. He carefully hangs the shirt before going back to K, wrapping his arms around his neck and kissing him. “Thank you.”
“Shut up,” K replies but kisses him back and Proko can feel how some of the tension slowly eases off him, so he pointedly kisses his way across K’s jaw to his ear and asks: “Wanna fuck?” in the sweetest voice possible.
K smirks. “Is one nice shirt all it takes to get you in my bed?”
“It takes way less than that,” Proko assures him amusedly. “C’mon, you’re all tense.”
K doesn’t exactly need to be persuaded. He obediently sits on the edge of the bed and Proko sinks to his knees in front of him, enjoying the way K’s pupils immediately dilate at the sight.
“Just relax, yeah?”
K hums in reply.
Proko offers him a sly smile and pointedly keeps eye contact as he undoes his pants. K practically doesn’t blink.
Proko knows that K isn’t in the mood to be teased, so he sucks him down in one practised move, smirking when he sees how K’s eyes roll to the back of his head. He knows very well how good he is at this and how much K enjoyed it.
“Fucking hell, baby,” K mumbles, tangling both of his hands into Proko’s hair, holding him in place. Proko most definitely doesn’t protest. Instead, he happily throws one of K’s legs over his shoulder for better access, feeling how his heel digs into his back as he tries to bring him as close as possible.
He throws in every dirty trick he knows until he has K positively keening, most of the words leaving his mouth being curses or pet names, all slipping out in his sloppy Bulgarian. God, Proko loved it almost as much as K did. He was sure he could come just from K calling him a “pretty little thing”.
It takes very little time to make K come and Proko happily notes he looks way more at ease.
K lets go of his hair and instead twists his hand in Proko’s T-shirt, pulling him up towards him on the bed. Proko lets himself fall into the lush sheets and smiles at K when he crawls over him, bracketing his arms on either side of Proko’s head.
K’s talking, but it’s all slurred, Bulgarian and English and Proko even catches something in absolutely butchered Ukrainian, so overall he isn't sure what is K saying, but he’s still tugging him close and taking off the rest of his clothes, so he has a fair idea.
The only time K stops babbling is when he decides to attach his mouth to Proko’s neck and Proko almost – almost – lets him. “Joey,” he says, meaning it as a warning, but it comes out as a sigh that does nothing to stop him. “Wait, wait,” he manages next and even pulls away a bit to get away from K’s teeth.
K gazes at him, his eyes half-lidded and brows furrowed in confusion.
“No hickeys anywhere visible.”
K rolls his eyes but doesn’t try to argue. Instead, he takes off Proko’s T-shirt and attacks his collarbones as if in revenge.
Normally, K was anything but patient but now that he already got off, he’s taking his sweet time and it drives Proko fucking crazy. K obviously knows what he’s doing, because he’s all sharp smiles.
“Joey,” Proko hisses, reaching for his hips, trying to pull him closer, to speed things up.
K, fortunately, doesn’t resist. He practically doesn’t bother with prep and Proko is too horny to argue with him. After all, it’s going to be K, who’ll have to sit on his ass the whole dinner. Maybe he does it on purpose, to have something else to think about when facing his father. Proko can’t really blame him.
And then he’s sinking down on him, definitely too fast and Proko is momentarily worried he’ll come on the spot. K looks glorious like that, wearing nothing but a gold chain around his neck, his skin covered in tattoos and shining with sweat. Proko traces the tattooed P on his hip, forever fascinated that K would mark himself for him.
When he gets a hold of himself again, he snaps his hips up, clawing his nails over K’s thighs, hips, ass, anywhere where he can reach, trying to get as close as physically possible and getting frustrated when it still isn’t enough.
In a moment of distraction, he manages to flip them over. K curses at him but stops complaining as soon as Proko picks up the pace.
This is what Proko loves the most, the closeness, the way K wraps his legs around his waist and his arms around his neck and shouts profanities at the ceiling. And the best part? He is the only one who gets to see K like this, the almighty Joseph Kavinsky, begging, for him.
“I love you,” Proko says, barely a whisper, his lips ghosting the shell of K’s ear. K involuntarily shivers, his grip on Proko automatically tightening. Proko repeats it again and again until he’s sure K is completely lost in it, until he knows his mind is blank, free of the intruding thoughts of his father and anything else.
K screams when he comes again and Proko isn’t far away from it either. He collapses on K’s chest, feeling the rapid heartbeat and K absently pets his hair.
“Shower?” Proko asks when he manages to find his voice again.
K shakes his head, wrapping his arms around him to keep him from getting away. “Later. There’s a nap I need to finish first.”
Proko snorts. “Fine but set an alarm.”
K groans. “Fuck the dinner. What’s gonna happen if we don’t go anyway?”
Proko sighs. “He’s gonna come here and see us naked in your bed and kills us both right here.”
K chuckles. “What a way to go, huh?”
Proko laughs and kisses him. “Idiot. Set the alarm.”
K does and then curls to Proko and falls deep asleep.
When the alarm rings, neither of them is anywhere ready to leave the warm bed, especially not to meet with K’s stupid father. K tries very hard to get Proko to fuck him again, but there’s no time for that, so no matter how much would Proko love to, he has to decline.
“What are you wearing?” Proko asks when they get out of the shower, and he puts on the new shirt.
K shrugs. “Maybe I’ll go just like this.”
Proko eyes the towel haphazardly wrapped around his waist and snorts. “Nice.” But he still stalks to K’s closet, throwing the door open. All of K’s clothes were expensive, usually ridiculously so, but the price didn’t equal fanciness, so finding a shirt is quite difficult.
Proko does manage to get a simple black shirt along with some black pants and hands both to K, who frowns, but takes both.
The drive to the restaurant is longer than necessary. K was the king of speeding but now he drives within all the speed limits, to the point other cars overtake them. Proko pointedly doesn’t comment on it. If K wants to stall, so be it.
They still make it to the restaurant on time. K parks and kills the engine, but doesn’t move, his hands still on the steering wheel, gripping it so hard his knuckles turn white and Proko’s worried he’ll reopen the wounds there, so he reaches for him, gently prying his hands off. “It’s going to be okay, Joey,” he promises. “We’re just gonna eat. Ignore whatever bullshit he says, yeah? Don’t let him get to you.”
K nods absently, holding onto Proko’s hands now. Proko can feel how K’s own hands shake.
“Hey. We can go there just for a moment and then I can say I’m feeling sick or something and you can take me back to the dorms and stay there and –”
K closes his eyes and leans his head back on the headrest. “Don’t,” he says softly.
Proko sighs. He doesn’t know how to make this better. “I’m sorry.”
K shakes his head. “Let’s just get it over with.” He finally lets go of Proko’s hands and resignedly opens the car door, so Proko follows.
K’s father is already seated when they arrive and Proko doesn’t fail to notice how K’s whole body tenses at the mere sight of him there. He resists the urge to take his hand again.
Kavinsky senior bore little resemblance to K. They had the same nose and dark eyes, but his hair was grey, and he had maybe half a foot and twenty pounds on K.
He’s wearing a charcoal grey suit that must’ve cost a fortune. Proko still isn’t quite sure what was K’s father doing exactly to earn that kind of money. He often wondered if K himself knew, if he cared.
Kavinsky’s mouth twists into an ugly smile when he spots them. “Joseph,” he greets K, his Jersey accent mixing with the Bulgarian one.
K pointedly avoids his eyes. “Father,” he mumbles in reply and sits down without prompting. Proko notes the obvious irritation on Kavinsky’s face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. He turns to Proko next.
“Ilya. So glad you could make it.”
Proko shakes his hand in greeting, forcing a smile on his face. “Thank you for the invitation, sir.” He sits down as well, making sure he’s not too close to K.
Kavinsky waves his hand at that as if inviting him was a sure thing. “So, how are you doing?”
Proko assumes the question is pointed at K, but he’s still stubbornly avoiding any eye contact and makes no indication that he heard the question or that he plans on answering it.
“Good,” Proko answers for him. “Great.” He kicks K under the table because he has no idea how to carry the conversation. K merely frowns at him.
Fortunately, the waiter comes to his rescue, asking about their drinks order.
Without looking at the menu, Kavinsky asks for a bottle of some expensive-sounding wine, which name Proko knows he wouldn’t be able to pronounce.
“We’re terribly sorry, sir, but we do not have that particular bottle available right now,” the waiter says, looking like he’s kind of afraid of Kavinsky’s reaction. Proko deeply sympathises with him. He offers some other French wine instead, which sounds to Proko exactly the same, but based on Kavinsky’s clearly offended expression, it is very much not.
“That’s fine,” K cuts in before his father can say anything. He doesn’t look up from the table, but there’s a tiny smirk on his lips. Proko almost rolls his eyes. K just loved to flirt with death – racing, drinking, doing drugs, pissing off his father, it was all same to him.
The waiter nods and hurriedly walks away before anything else can happen. Kavinsky’s glaring at his son, but K casually picks up the menu and ignores him. Proko sighs. This is going to be a long night.
“You should get the lobster, it’s their speciality,” Kavinsky mentions when it’s clear K isn’t going to offer any kind of apology or anything.
“Ilya’s vegetarian,” K points out.
Proko kicks him again. He is vegetarian and the mere idea of eating a lobster made him nauseous but he would eat it if Kavinsky told him so.
Kavinsky raises an eyebrow. “Still? That’s unfortunate.”
“It’s not something you grow out of,” K points out bitterly.
Kavinsky gives him another death glare. “Apparently the same could be said about your bad attitude.”
K puts the menu down with more force than necessary and finally looks at his father. “I’m sorry, did you expect me to be happy about you being here?” He asks, his voice dripping venom.
Oh, fuck, Ilya thinks. He desperately looks around, trying to locate the waiter and silently begs him to get them their wine already.
“I expect you to show me some respect,” Kavinsky hisses.
Proko is sure the next words out of K’s mouth are going to be “fuck you” and he doesn’t want to imagine what is his father going to do then. He kicks K again, hard. K hisses in pain but fortunately keeps his mouth shut.
The wine arrives. They order food. Proko wishes for the sweet release of death. It’s fine.
“How’s your girlfriend, Ilya?” Kavinsky asks suddenly.
Proko almost chokes on the stupid wine. “My girlfriend?” he repeats, unsure if he heard correctly. Girlfriend?!
Kavinsky looks at him as if he was stupid. “Yes. Joseph said you had some previous arrangements with her today and he wasn’t sure if you’ll make it.”
Proko pointedly doesn’t glare at K. Instead he plasters another fake smile on his face. “Oh, right. We rescheduled. It’s fine. She’s doing good.” Jesus, he was a terrible liar.
“What’s her name? Is she from Henrietta?”
“Yes. Her name’s…” shit, he has no fucking idea, “Joanna.”
K, who’s been busy toying with his wine glass, shoots him an unamused glare. Proko ignores it.
Kavinsky doesn’t notice. “Take her with you next time.”
Proko blinks. The last thing he needs is to look for some fake pretend girlfriend. “Oh. I’m not sure if it’s going to last, to be honest. Her father really doesn’t approve of our relationship.” Now it’s K’s turn to kick him. It does nothing to stop Proko though. “He’s a real asshole.”
Kavinsky hums in reply. “Shame. When are you going to find some nice girl, Joseph?” he asks K with a pointed look.
K stills. “I’m not looking,” he mumbles.
“You can’t hang out just with Ilya forever.” He chuckles a little but his eyes stay cold. “Or people will start thinking the wrong things.”
K clenches his jaw. “I don’t give a shit what will people think.”
“Joseph.”
K looks like he’s once again seconds away from saying something stupid, but instead, he just gets up and walks away.
Proko watches him go and sighs deeply. He offers Kavinsky what he hopes is an apologetic look. “I’ll go check on him,” he says and scrambles to follow.
He finds K outside, a few paces away from the entrance, smoking and ignoring the ugly look the woman at the reception is giving him.
“What the hell, K?”
K ignores him as well.
Proko isn’t in the mood to play games with him. He snatches the cigarette from him, taking a long drag. He doesn’t point out that he specifically told him to ignore whatever shit his father says to him. Instead, he asks: “A girlfriend? Really?”
K rolls his eyes. “I was trying to get you out of this shitshow.”
Proko doesn’t blame him for that. “A little warning would’ve been nice.”
“I forgot about it. Plus, I didn’t think he would bring it up.” He steals the cigarette back. “Joanna, really?”
Proko groans. “Shut up, I panicked.”
K smirks and passes him the cigarette again. “Wanna ditch it? Let him choke on his stupid lobster?”
Proko sighs and stomps the cigarette with his shoe. “I fucking wish.”
They return back soon after that. Neither of them offers any kind of apology or explanation. Kavinsky doesn’t look pleased but fortunately doesn’t make a scene.
The food arrives and they all pretend to be too preoccupied with it to force conversation. Proko is too busy shooting worried glances at K to really enjoy his food because he knows that once they finish eating they’ll inevitably part ways and K will be left alone with his father. K keeps his eyes fixed on his plate but doesn’t really eat much.
The rest of the evening passes by without much drama. K orders a dessert, which he then wordlessly pushes to Proko, bluntly ignoring the look his father gives him when he does that. It’s strawberry cheesecake, Proko’s favourite, and Proko’s equally thankful and mad at him for doing it.
When it’s finally over, Proko thanks Kavinsky for the dinner, shaking his hand, before walking back with K to the car.
K drives him to the dorms in silence. Even the always-present music is turned down and Proko can see how nervous K is about going back home.
“I can go with you,” he suggests, almost pleading, when K stops the car.
“No.” There’s no hesitation in the answer.
Proko sighs. “Joey.”
“We’re not having this conversation again,” K says through gritted teeth, staring straight ahead.
Proko knows better than to push it. “Okay, okay. Fine. I just wish I could do something.”
“There’s nothing you can do.”
“I could kill him,” Proko says lightly like it would be easy. Like he didn’t absolutely despise violence. Like he means it.
K looks at him at last and when he sees the resolute look in his eyes, he smiles a little. “Just go.”
Proko sighs again but obediently opens the car door. “Call me if you need anything, yeah?”
K nods, but they both know he probably won’t. He wouldn’t risk dragging Proko to their house with his father still there.
“Joey?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.” It feels like saying goodbye.
K reaches for his hand before bringing it to his lips, kissing his knuckles. “I love you too,” he says quietly, mumbling the words against his skin before letting go of him. “Go now.”
Proko resignedly climbs out of the car and watches as K drives away before slowly walking up to his dorm room. It’s blissfully empty and Proko flings himself onto his bed, screwing his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to think about what’s going to happen to K.
He sleeps like shit that night. He wakes up several times and always considers calling K or at least texting him to ask if he’s okay, but he’s too worried that his father would somehow notice and it would only make things worse for K. He ends up sending just a single question mark, around 4 am. He falls asleep waiting for a reply.
…
Proko frantically checks his phone in the morning. K texted him a little after six am, saying only ok. It’s not much, but it still makes Proko breathe a little bit easier.
He meets with Skov and Swan when leaving the dorms and they walk to school together.
“How was the dinner?” Skov asks.
Proko shrugs. He really doesn’t want to talk about it. “The food was good if that’s what you’re asking.”
Skov gives him a pointed look. “I don’t really care about the food.”
“It was… manageable. K was pissed but…” he shrugs. “I don’t know. There was no scene.”
Skov accepts it and doesn’t pry further, especially when he sees how Proko looks over the parking lot in order to spot the Evo.
He finds the car parked farther back than usual and by the look of it, K is still sitting inside. Proko leaves Skov with Swan and walks to the car, forcing himself not to rush.
He slips onto the passenger seat and looks over K. He’s wearing the usual sunglasses and for some reason, there is a turtleneck underneath his Aglionby shirt. He’s still holding onto the steering wheel. His knuckles are bloody again.
“Hey,” Proko greets him softly and reaches over to take off the sunglasses. K avoids his look but lets Proko tilt his head so he can inspect the damage. His eyes are bloodshot, the left one is blackened and the circles under his eyes are almost as dark as the bruise itself.
Proko takes a breath and moves to push down the collar of the turtleneck. He is met with raw red bruises in the shape of fingers, covering the whole expanse of K’s neck. Proko saw him in bad shape before, but that still didn’t help with the feeling of nausea rising in his throat.
“It’s nothing,” K says dismissively, his voice raspy, and fixes the collar so the bruises are covered again. He takes back the sunglasses as well but makes no move to get out of the car.
“We don’t have to go to school,” Proko mentions. He doesn’t say they should get to the hospital to get him checked out, because there’s no way K would go.
K smirks. “He’s still in the house.”
“Well, we can just drive around the city or something.”
K shakes his head. “It’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
He doesn’t answer but opens the door and gets out before Proko can argue.
Needless to say, the school is hell. K is clearly on edge. He doesn’t really talk to anyone, the pack included and when someone forces him to answer, he just snarls. There are a few people who make fun of the turtleneck, but K ignores that, so Proko tries to do the same.
It’s around lunchtime when K finally turns to Proko and announces: “Let’s get out of here,” in Bulgarian.
Proko doesn’t protest.
When they get to the parking lot, K throws him the keys to the Evo. “Drive.”
Proko obediently sits behind the wheel, watching how K slumps on the passenger seat, leaning his head against the window, eyes closed. He resists the urge to ask if he’s okay. He already knows the answer, so there’s no point in forcing K to pretend otherwise.
He drives them home in silence. The driveway is empty. K doesn’t bother taking his bag or anything from the car, just marches inside, leaving Proko to follow. He leads him upstairs and once they’re behind the closed door of K’s bedroom, K kisses him. He tastes more like blood than anything else, but Proko learnt ages ago not to mind the taste.
They get undressed in hurry and Proko pretends he doesn’t see how more and more bruises appear on K’s ivory skin. He’s careful to not press against any of them even though K makes no indication he cares. Every time he tries to say something, anything, K just kisses him to shut him up.
“Fuck me,” K says, trying to put on a resolute tone, but it still comes out pleading. K doesn’t seem to mind. He pulls Proko closer, clawing at the skin on his back. “Please. Ilya.” He pulls him to the bed, eyes unfocused. “Just fuck me,” he repeats, more quietly this time.
Proko knows that if he says no now, K will find some other way to get himself to calm down, something more brutal, more harmful. He’s hyperaware of the knife in the drawer of the nightstand, laying casually next to the bottle of lube.
“Okay,” he promises, and some of the immediate panic disappears from K’s eyes.
He’s extremely cautious and slow because he knows K is already in pain and doesn’t want to make it any worse. He’s aware that normally it would drive K crazy, but now he’s obedient and pliant in his arms, letting Proko do whatever he wants. It scares Proko a little, how easily K gives up any control when normally he would fight tooth and nail to keep it.
He fucks him slowly and rhythmically until all the tension leaves his body and the haunted look in his eyes shifts to blissful.
“Better?” Proko asks afterwards and K’s only response is a muffled agreement as he curls up in Proko’s arms, closing his eyes. He falls asleep within seconds.
Proko spends what feels like an eternity just petting his hair and gently tracing the bruises on his arms and back, wishing they could stay like this forever, that he could hold K like this and protect him from everything.
At some point, his phone chimes in with a message from Jiang, asking if they can come to the house and he seriously contemplates saying no, but then figures out K will sleep anyway, so he texts a simple “sure”, before detangling himself from the sheets. K doesn’t even stir.
Jiang gets there first and by the time he walks to the kitchen, Proko is already sitting there, stirring a cup of coffee.
“Where’s K?” Jiang asks cautiously.
“Asleep.”
Jiang blinks in surprise. “Asleep?” he repeats in disbelief. He moves to the coffee machine and starts fixing himself a cup.
Proko shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Yeah.”
“How did you get him to sleep?”
Proko shrugs again. “I fucked him.”
“Oh.” Jiang gives him a curious look. “Is that a usual occurrence?”
Proko raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. “Are you asking me about our sex life?”
Jiang shrugs. “Just curious. I wouldn’t take K for a bottom.”
Proko smirks. “Yes, it’s a usual occurrence. But don’t tell him I said that.”
“Right. Was it that bad? The dinner?”
Proko bites his lip, wondering how much he can tell Jiang. “The dinner not so much.”
Before can Jiang ask more, Skov and Swan walk inside, looking around as if worried K is going to jump at them from somewhere.
“He’s sleeping,” Proko says. “So don’t be loud.”
“Is he feeling better?” Skov asks as he sits on the barstool next to Proko and steals his cup to take a sip. Proko lets him.
He doesn’t know what to answer to that, so he just shrugs. He doesn’t want to imagine how K must feel.
…
K wakes up feeling like shit. He blindly reaches across the bed for Proko, but his hand slides over empty sheets. He curses quietly. He was hoping he’d sleep for a little bit longer, but without Proko there he doesn’t bother trying.
He peers at the clock, noting that he slept for a few hours at last, before forcing his body to get up. His muscles ache, his throat still feels like it was crushed and he almost wishes for Proko to have fucked him harder, so he could blame the pain on that. But of course, Proko was careful to not hurt him further. He was always too fucking considerate.
He pulls on a pair of sweats he finds on the floor and Proko’s hoodie, closing his eyes for a moment and breathing in the familiar scent. Fuck. It smells like home. It’s stupid how much in love with him K is.
When he makes it to the stairs, he can hear voices downstairs, talking quietly. He sighs. The last thing he needs right now is to deal with the pack.
He walks down anyway, ignoring all of them as he does so. They all collectively turn to him and when they see his bare neck, their jaws drop.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Swan mutters.
K glares at them but doesn’t say anything, just shoos Skov from the chair closest to Proko and sits down, unable to hide a wince of pain as he does it.
“I can get you something for the pain,” Proko mentions in Ukrainian, his voice unbearably soft.
K considers him for a second before nodding.
Proko immediately gets up. “You didn’t take anything?”
“No.”
“Good. You want the dreamt ones?”
“Sure.”
“We can watch a movie or something,” Proko suggests, switching to English as looks for the right pills.
“Yes, please,” Skov agrees. “I don’t have energy for anything else.”
“We should order some food,” Swan adds. “Pizza?”
They turn to K for confirmation, but he makes no indication he heard them. Proko eyes him with a worried expression and nods to them. They all scramble to get ready, Skov and Jiang bickering about the movie options, Swan busy with the food order. K stares at his hands on the table, absently picking at the cuts on his knuckles until they bleed.
Proko steps to him, handing him the pill bottle and a glass of water. K doesn’t meet his eyes as he takes it but murmurs a quiet thanks, before readily popping two of the pills into his mouth.
“Do you want a coffee or something?” Proko asks him, sitting next to him and placing his hand on his shoulder. K doesn’t have the energy to push him away.
He shakes his head. “Let’s just go and watch the stupid movie.”
Proko gives him a soft smile that makes K's stomach do a lot of funny things. He ignores it. “Okay.”
They move to the living room and K sits next to Proko before changing his mind and laying down, placing his head in Proko’s lap and closing his eyes. He’s distantly aware that Skov and Jiang stop talking and when he peers at them, they’re staring at him with wide eyes.
“Are you seeing this?” Jiang asks Skov in low voice.
“I am. Are you?”
“Fuck off, both of you,” Proko hisses at them, his voice surprisingly firm. K suppresses a smirk.
He pays no attention to which movie they end up picking. He just curls closer to Proko, humming in agreement when Proko starts lightly threading his fingers through his hair. He doesn’t care the others are probably still staring at him, unable to process how vulnerable he looks right now. He’s too exhausted to give a fuck about anything else that isn’t Proko right now. He didn’t sleep much last night.
The pizza gets there but K ignores that too.
“You should eat something,” Proko tells him in quiet Ukrainian and pushes some of his hair off his forehead.
“I’m not hungry,” K mumbles in reply. His stomach rumbles in protest. The last time he ate was yesterday at dinner, although he promptly threw up the remains of that in the morning. Still, the thought of food made him nauseous all over again, especially something as greasy as pizza.
As if reading his mind, Proko says: “I can make you something else.”
K turns to look up at him, wondering how did he get so fucking lucky. “It’s fine. I’ll eat something later, yeah?”
Proko sighs but doesn’t protest. “Okay.”
He almost ends up falling asleep. He’s dimly aware of the movie ending and the pack scattering to leave, but since there’s no following sound of cars, he figures they just moved upstairs, giving him and Proko some space at last.
He blinks up at Proko, noting the way the afternoon sun dances across his skin. God, he’s impossibly beautiful. Especially when he meets his eyes and smiles, a low private smile, reserved just for him.
“What are you thinking about?” Proko asks him softly.
“You’re beautiful,” K answers truthfully.
It makes Proko laugh. “You’re sweet.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“C’mon, let’s make you some food.”
K rolls his eyes but obediently sits up. “I told you I’m not hungry.”
“I don’t care. When was the last time you ate? Yesterday?”
K pointedly doesn’t meet his eyes, which is an answer enough.
Proko gives him a tired look. “Just tell me what you want and I’ll make it for you, but you have to eat something.”
If it was anyone else, K would tell them to fuck off. “Just… some toast or something. Whatever.”
“Okay.”
He reluctantly follows Proko into the kitchen and forces a few pieces of plain toast down his throat. Proko even makes him one of those awful herbal teas of his, that K pretends to be disgusted by, but which are actually quite nice for his throat and stomach right now.
Proko sits next to him, keeping a casual distance. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
K looks up from the toast, cataloguing Proko’s face. “The dinner or the afterwards?”
Proko shrugs. “Either.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. The dinner was a shit show and he was being a dick.”
“So you decided to match his energy?” Proko sneers.
K glares at him. “Like father like son, I guess.”
“I didn’t say that, don’t twist my words.”
K sighs. He doesn’t have the energy to fight. “Whatever. The after was… like usual, I guess. He threw me around a bit. Called me a disappointment, nothing new there.”
“And this?” Proko asks cautiously and touches K’s neck.
K smiles sharply. “I might have called him a cunt,” he says proudly. He knows it was stupid, but god it felt good.
Proko blinks and then snorts, shaking his head in disbelief. “Joseph Ivan Kavinsky, you are truly unbelievable.”
K smirks. “That’s why you love me so much.”
“True, but still.” He eyes K’s neck with a pitying expression. “Do you have a death wish?”
K rolls his eyes. “I wouldn’t have called him a cunt if he wasn’t acting like a one.”
“I’m fairly surprised he hasn’t killed you for that.”
“He certainly didn’t lack the motivation,” K mumbles bitterly and sips his tea. There were a few moments last night when he was almost sure he would die. He doesn’t tell Proko that. “Can we go to bed?” he asks instead.
Proko eyes him. “Do you wanna fuck or sleep?”
“Both. In that order preferably.” When he sees Proko’s hesitation, he sighs. “C’mon, I ate the stupid toast. I’m feeling fine.”
“Your neck begs to differ.”
“Fuck off, it’s just a bruise. I’ve had worse.”
Proko sighs. “That’s not very reassuring, you know?”
K just waves his hand at that and leads Proko upstairs. He can hear Swan and Skov talking through the closed door of their room and he considers barging inside and telling them to get the fuck out, but he’s too tired to deal with them, so he lets it go.
He pulls Proko to bed, but Proko pushes him towards the bathroom. “Shower first.”
K rolls his eyes. “Come on, there’s no point. We’ll end up dirty anyway.”
Proko gives him a pointed look. “Just amuse me, yeah?”
K grumbles but there’s literally nothing he wouldn’t do for Proko, so he takes the stupid shower. He supposes it’s nice to get rid of all the dried blood. Afterwards, he doesn’t bother with clothes, just flops down on the bed, eyeing Proko expectantly.
Proko still looks like he’s not sure if sex is the greatest idea right now, but he doesn’t ask K again, just obediently joins him on the bed. They lie next to each other, shoulders touching, staring at the ceiling for a while.
“Ilya?” K asks.
Proko turns his head to look at him. “Yeah?”
K closes his eyes, already bracing himself for a no. “Can you make it hurt?”
Proko sighs. “You’re already hurt enough.”
“That’s different,” K argues stubbornly. They’ve had this conversation before as well. Normally, Proko had no problem with it, but he was always reluctant when K was injured. K hated how much he cared.
“Joey. You need to give yourself some time to heal. I know you don’t like to believe it, but your body has a breaking point as well and it would kill me if it was me who would discover it.”
K smiles humourlessly. “Rather you than him.” He would let Proko break him any time.
Proko doesn’t seem amused. “I don’t want you to use sex with me as another self-destructive technique of yours.”
“I’m not,” K snaps, more defensive than he anticipated.
“Yet,” Proko points out bitterly. “So far you’re only using it as a distraction.”
K wants to deny that as well, but he knows he’d only be lying to both of them. He sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“Joey, I don’t need you to apologize to me, okay? I just want you to be alright.”
Fuck, K definitely didn’t deserve someone as great as Proko. He shuffles closer to him, feeling equally happy and pathetic when Proko wraps his arms around him. “I love you,” he says quietly.
Proko starts running his fingers through his hair. “I know,” he assures him. “I love you too.”
“I’m tired,” K admits, even though he slept through most of the afternoon.
Proko kisses his temple. “That’s okay, just sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”
And well, that’s all K needs to hear.