Ugh, jesus christ-- this is just about the last thing Reggie's in the mood for at the moment. He's laying in bed on his stomach, phone screen facing down (except, of course, for when he lifts it to check his messages), and Reggie lets it drop back face down and then does the same, burying his face in the pillow for a few seconds -- minutes, maybe -- as if he's bemoaning his alarm clock going off rather than responding to a text.
But whatever. He rolls onto his side, picking up his phone again to type.
[ As if that's really so obvious, though-- Noah had been by earlier, for instance, and Derek had also been here not too long ago.
Reggie isn't exactly fit for company right now; after Derek left Reggie pretty much just crashed, not even bothering to shower off the sex and sweat, and slept until... well, pretty much just now, when Kavinsky texted him. ]
[ Reggie is not much of a pot-smoker, but right now, honestly, that sounds kind of perfect. Normally he is skeptical of Kavinsky's intentions by default, but it's hard to really care about that.
The apartment's currently a little bit of a mess, and so is Reggie, but again: kind of hard to care about that. ]
Kavinsky shows up at the apartment and carefully lets himself in. Nick told him he warded the place at some point, but-- yeah, he's good. Okay.
"Reggie?" he calls out as he closes the door again. He's got weed in his pocket and a bottle of vodka in his hand as he loos around the apartment. He wants to make sure Nick's shit is safe, the stuff he uses in his spellwork.
Reggie is still in the bedroom, but he drags himself off the bed and into the living room when Kavinsky arrives, mostly because he doesn't want to hang out with Kavinsky in there.
There are still a few chairs and other pieces of furniture upturned throughout the apartment, and there's a broken mirror on one of the walls, but most of the broken glass and porcelain has at least been cleaned up off the floor by now.
Reggie himself, meanwhile, is dressed... actually pretty similarly to when he and Kavinsky first met, in his boxers and an open hoodie with no shirt underneath, except this time he has a mess of curly bedhead hanging half in his face to top off the look.
"Sup?" he says, casual as anything, before reaching for the vodka bottle. "Give me that."
Kavinsky rolls his eyes but he lets Reggie take the bottle. He tosses the weed onto the nearest surface. Maybe he'll let Reggie drink before he starts snooping around to secure Nick's shit.
But where the fuck is Nick?
"You checked the hospital and shit, right?" he asks, almost absently as he sets a glass pipe and a lighter down with the weed. Reggie can have whatever he wants.
"Duh, obviously." Reggie sounds annoyed, though in a kind of apathetic sort of way; he doesn't even look up, opening the vodka bottle and taking a couple deep swigs from it before putting it down on a table.
He swishes the vodka around in his mouth for a few seconds, like mouthwash, then swallows.
"You think I'd be here if I hadn't already looked everywhere? Give me a break," he adds, rolling his eyes and picking up the pipe. "What are you really doing here?"
"Yeah, you said that already. I just don't believe you," Reggie says, with a roll of his eyes. Not that he's sure he particularly cares to try unpacking Kavinsky's motivations, because if Nick isn't even here, what could they possibly be?
He looks at Kavinsky, then at the pipe, and shakes his head, passing it over.
"I've only ever had it in joints," he admits, with a shrug. "Or in brownies."
Accepting the pipe back, Reggie takes a slow drag off it as well-- he coughs a couple times into his fist, but then mostly holds it down. He takes another hit and passes it back, the very act of it somewhat soothing even if there's no way Reggie's actually feeling the weed yet.
"What do you mean? What's wrong with your apartment?"
"I don't want it to end up looking like this," he answers simply as he takes the pipe back for another hit. Losing his shit in his own apartment means he has to either fix it before Tate gets home or explain why he lost his temper in the first place.
He doesn't want to deal with any of that right now.
Reggie doesn't think he likes what that response implies, raising his eyebrow slowly but then choosing to ignore it. Whatever it means, he doesn't want to deal with that right now, because if he lets himself get mad he might just completely lose control of himself.
"Whatever," is all he responds back with, hissing a bit sharply as he walks stiffly into the kitchen -- because god, he's sore all over -- careful to avoid whatever shards of broken dish remain on the ground as he gets glasses and something to cut the vodka with.
Orange juice? Yeah, that'll work. He just woke up, so no matter what time it really is, this still counts as 'morning.'
"I dunno what else to tell you," he adds once he's back, starting to pour his drink.
Kavinsky gets off the couch and looks into the kitchen, which is also a wreck. "Shit, man. What the fuck did you do?" he says, almost to himself. "You gonna get this shit cleaned up or just cut your feet open next time you forget it's on the floor?"
He takes another hit off the pipe and looks around the apartment again. Maybe cleaning will give him the chance to find and secure Nick's shit.
"Big deal, so I dropped a plate or two." Reggie rolls his eyes a little, feeling another spike of impatience bristle through him. He takes a sip from his drink to take the edge off, hand on his lower back to help him stretch it, then walks back over to grab the pipe from Kavinsky.
"And I cleaned up most of it. I'll get the rest later." If he has to be awake right now, the last thing he has any interest in doing is cleaning. He takes a hit from the pipe, coughing again. "I mean, what's the freaking rush?"
He talks about it like a when rather than an if because if Kavinsky lets himself think it's an if, he'll start smashing shit, too. He sets the bowl aside and gets some of the broken ceramic off the kitchen floor; he kicks other pieces under the fridge or counter overhangs. What? He's not a fucking maid.
Kavinsky carries the bowl back out and takes another hit before he sets it down, leaving it for Reggie as he moves around the suite, absently righting furniture.
"What about when Nick comes back?" Reggie has to stick to when, too, lest he drive himself any closer to a full-on meltdown. "He can just cast a spell and then the whole place'll be spotless."
He follows Kavinsky, getting more annoyed as he goes around idly tidying up the apartment. Reggie isn't even sure why that makes him mad, but it just fucking does; Kavinsky doesn't live here, this isn't his mess to waltz into and claim.
Reggie grabs his arm.
"Stop touching everything. Just leave it the hell alone."
Reggie glares back, his expression dark, and tense, and tired, but right now all there is for him to do is stand his ground. He takes the chair Kavinsky just righted and kicks it over again.
"No, I'm not freakin' sitting down," he snaps. "I was sleeping when you texted me, like, after being up all night I'd rather be doing that than babysit your ass in our apartment, but--"
Sure, he gets Kavinsky isn't happy about this either, but Reggie can barely deal with his own feelings about it, let alone have somebody else's also become his problem. His body is bruised and sore, his head hurts, he's barely slept and hasn't showered, the idea of one more thing on his plate only makes him want to go back into the kitchen and smash more.
But he takes a step back to internalize that rage, hands raised just to briefly strangle at the air before he throws out them in exasperated resignation. He's too tired to fight.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
text; un: bulldawg
But whatever. He rolls onto his side, picking up his phone again to type.
not here.
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Kavinsky frowns at his phone. Nick should be home. Not that he-- has any reason to know when Nick is usually home.
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I havent seen or heard from him in 2 days
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what the FUCK
where are you?
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I checked around @ anywhere he might go
and I waited
and waited
and nothing
I'm at home
why
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do you want like
company
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yeah I'm alone
[ As if that's really so obvious, though-- Noah had been by earlier, for instance, and Derek had also been here not too long ago.
Reggie isn't exactly fit for company right now; after Derek left Reggie pretty much just crashed, not even bothering to shower off the sex and sweat, and slept until... well, pretty much just now, when Kavinsky texted him. ]
idk
why
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to give you weed
pick an option, i'm coming over
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The apartment's currently a little bit of a mess, and so is Reggie, but again: kind of hard to care about that. ]
fine
bring weed
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"Reggie?" he calls out as he closes the door again. He's got weed in his pocket and a bottle of vodka in his hand as he loos around the apartment. He wants to make sure Nick's shit is safe, the stuff he uses in his spellwork.
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There are still a few chairs and other pieces of furniture upturned throughout the apartment, and there's a broken mirror on one of the walls, but most of the broken glass and porcelain has at least been cleaned up off the floor by now.
Reggie himself, meanwhile, is dressed... actually pretty similarly to when he and Kavinsky first met, in his boxers and an open hoodie with no shirt underneath, except this time he has a mess of curly bedhead hanging half in his face to top off the look.
"Sup?" he says, casual as anything, before reaching for the vodka bottle. "Give me that."
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But where the fuck is Nick?
"You checked the hospital and shit, right?" he asks, almost absently as he sets a glass pipe and a lighter down with the weed. Reggie can have whatever he wants.
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He swishes the vodka around in his mouth for a few seconds, like mouthwash, then swallows.
"You think I'd be here if I hadn't already looked everywhere? Give me a break," he adds, rolling his eyes and picking up the pipe. "What are you really doing here?"
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Kavinsky sighs and pushes his fingers through his hair. Okay. So Nick's missing. What the fuck ever, right? He doesn't--
He doesn't care.
Shit.
He drops his hands and makes himself sit. "You know how to pack that?"
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He looks at Kavinsky, then at the pipe, and shakes his head, passing it over.
"I've only ever had it in joints," he admits, with a shrug. "Or in brownies."
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"It's not that different," he says. "You inhale while you hold the lighter to the bowl."
Once it's packed, Kavinsky demonstrates what he means and takes the first hit to get it going. He holds the smoke in as he passes it back to Reggie.
"I'm here so I don't flip shit in my own apartment," he answers, voice tight from the smoke as he exhales.
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"What do you mean? What's wrong with your apartment?"
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He doesn't want to deal with any of that right now.
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"Whatever," is all he responds back with, hissing a bit sharply as he walks stiffly into the kitchen -- because god, he's sore all over -- careful to avoid whatever shards of broken dish remain on the ground as he gets glasses and something to cut the vodka with.
Orange juice? Yeah, that'll work. He just woke up, so no matter what time it really is, this still counts as 'morning.'
"I dunno what else to tell you," he adds once he's back, starting to pour his drink.
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He takes another hit off the pipe and looks around the apartment again. Maybe cleaning will give him the chance to find and secure Nick's shit.
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"And I cleaned up most of it. I'll get the rest later." If he has to be awake right now, the last thing he has any interest in doing is cleaning. He takes a hit from the pipe, coughing again. "I mean, what's the freaking rush?"
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He talks about it like a when rather than an if because if Kavinsky lets himself think it's an if, he'll start smashing shit, too. He sets the bowl aside and gets some of the broken ceramic off the kitchen floor; he kicks other pieces under the fridge or counter overhangs. What? He's not a fucking maid.
Kavinsky carries the bowl back out and takes another hit before he sets it down, leaving it for Reggie as he moves around the suite, absently righting furniture.
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He follows Kavinsky, getting more annoyed as he goes around idly tidying up the apartment. Reggie isn't even sure why that makes him mad, but it just fucking does; Kavinsky doesn't live here, this isn't his mess to waltz into and claim.
Reggie grabs his arm.
"Stop touching everything. Just leave it the hell alone."
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"Fuck you," he says very simply. "Sit the fuck down and drink or do whatever the fuck it is you wanna do like a goddamn lost puppy."
He has to do something. Reggie has taken care of the aimless destruction Kavinsky would normally be prone to so he has to find something else.
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"No, I'm not freakin' sitting down," he snaps. "I was sleeping when you texted me, like, after being up all night I'd rather be doing that than babysit your ass in our apartment, but--"
Sure, he gets Kavinsky isn't happy about this either, but Reggie can barely deal with his own feelings about it, let alone have somebody else's also become his problem. His body is bruised and sore, his head hurts, he's barely slept and hasn't showered, the idea of one more thing on his plate only makes him want to go back into the kitchen and smash more.
But he takes a step back to internalize that rage, hands raised just to briefly strangle at the air before he throws out them in exasperated resignation. He's too tired to fight.
"Don't tell me what to do."