everymonstrousthing | (no subject)

"I'm sure you have." A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and he glances up at Jesper. "But you know me. Never bothered visiting the girls."

"Always wondered about that," Jesper admits. Had always hoped that it meant he might have a shine for men but Jesper knew better than to advertise such a preference too loudly, both because Ketterdam is only tolerant to an extent and because Kaz would have been merciless about it.

"I bet you did." It had, in the end, become part of the myth, the legend of the Bastard of the Barrel. If nobody ever touched him (and gods knew that he couldn't stand anyone to touch him before Inej reminded him how warm living flesh is) then nobody could ever carry the truth back - that there was nothing wrong with the palms of Kaz Brekker's hands, but everything wrong with his brain, with his heart. "Just never saw the point. Other things to do."

Jesper huffs a laugh and pours the cocktail into a glass through a strainer. With that continued bit of flourish, he sets it in front of Kaz before returning to pour one to himself.

"You're not an easy study," Jesper says, taking the seat opposite Kaz.

After a moment, Kaz leans forward and lifts the glass, taking a sip. It's sweet and sour at the same time, with a reassuringly alcoholic kick. He studies Jesper for a moment.

"By design," he says. There's not enough alcohol in the world to get him drunk enough to tell Jesper all of his secrets, all of his truths, but it feels close to impossible to going back to being a tightly locked door.

"Never doubted that," Jesper says, finding he doesn't like how Kaz appraises him over the rim of his glass. He has the sudden fear that he might end up devoured and doesn't like it. Tamping down on the thought, he diverts his gaze to his drink, swirling with novelty glitter vodka that tastes deceptively sweet.

"I can't picture you without that design," he admits. "Figured that hell spat you out the way you were a few years back and you carried on."

"You're not that far from the truth," admits Kaz. He can be honest about that much, at least. He looks down into his ridiculous drink again, knocks back another swallow. "And nobody knows what's under that design except her." He looks down at his hands. "What do you think is under the gloves?"

Jesper shrugs. "I saw them, at the Ice Court. They were hands." Long-fingered, elegant, and dextrous. If there's dirt on them, they're not on Kaz's skin, nor are there any scars.

"I think it's a sure bet that you won't tell me."

"Not like you to recognise a sure bet," he says. He isn't ready, probably will never be ready, to tell Jesper about Jordie, about his father, about Pekka Rollins. He keeps those secrets inside like scars. Still, he takes another sip of his drink and then sets his glass down. One by one, he carefully peels off his gloves.

It's something, at least.

Just as before, Kaz Brekker's ungloved hands are simply that. The bones are visible and there's a faint tan line that had only just begun to fade, the gloves leaving their pale impression on his skin. Clever hands, beautiful hands.

He sternly instructs himself away from that line of thought.

"Still hands," he says.

"It's not what you'd hear in the Barrel," says Kaz, and he allows himself a smirk, flexing his fingers. "Scars, claws, bloody palms." He shrugs. "Every monstrous thing in the world." He tilts his head. "So why don't you ever look as scared as they do, Jesper?"

They both know he knows the answer to that.

"Skin, bones, veins," Jesper says. He starts to reach out and then remembers himself. No one touches Kaz Brekker and comes away with whole fingers, except for maybe Inej and her absence is the problem.

His breath catches before he can school it. In the Barrel, in the whole of Ketterdam, people had known better than to touch Kaz Brekker. It was a sure way to lose a hand. Here, though, things are different. Here, though, he's remembered that not everything is cold and waterlogged and dead.

And once that breath has shivered out of him, he can't take it back.

Jesper looks at him, brows raised and uncertain. That breath, small and afraid, is not what he'd expected. A slap maybe, a broken arm from that cane, but not a look that speaks to Jesper of fear.

"Are you going to talk about it? Or not talk about it? Your call."

"Talk about what?"

He picks up the glass to give him something to do with his hands, takes another sip of his drink.

Jesper smiles a little too sharp and nods, having his answer then.

"Another drink?"

Kaz nods. He drains what's left in the glass and then holds it out to Jesper, eyebrows slightly raised. He's achingly aware of the fact that he's not wearing his gloves.

For once, Jesper displays an excess of caution, a form of respect he really only affords Kaz, and doesn't touch him as he takes the glass.

"What kind of cocktail?"

"Surprise me," says Kaz, absurdly grateful when Jesper doesn't even let their fingers touch. "Something strong. I don't feel numb yet."

"If you regret it, I'm going to remind you that you gave me that free pass," Jesper says. He disappears into his kitchen to mix another drink, briefly flipping the bottle in his hand.

He fights, as hard as he can, to relax. To let go of the hard, cold ball of anger in his chest. He tries to forget how warm she'd been to the touch.

"You're the only person left that I trust," he says. "So I guess I'll have to forgive you."

He drops the bottle then, barely catching it before he hits the floor, and stands up straight.

"Come again?"

The fumble amuses him. He almost smiles.

"You know I'd trust you with my life, Jesper," he says. "It's happened often enough."

Jesper supposes he could get pedantic–he was supposed to be a scholar once upon a time–and tell Kaz that his life and his secrets, his fragilities are different things.

He mixes a cocktail instead, this one sweet with grenadine to hide the tequila.

Kaz holds out his hand for the glass, looking at Jesper expectantly. The first drink settles through him, warm and comforting. He's slightly concerned that he's not going to know where to stop.