everymonstrousthing | (no subject)

So it's Kaz's decision, Kaz's fault that, when he takes the glass, his fingers brush Jesper's before the drink is fully in his hand. He takes a sip, ignoring the wave of something a lot like terror that spikes through him.

"You're right," he says. "I can't."

"I warned you," he says and only after the words are out of his mouth does he realize what's just happened.

Kaz does not casually touch people. He touches when he wants to harm and for no other reason.

Saints.

"You did," says Kaz, flexing the fingers of his free hand against his thigh, still feeling the touch of Jesper's skin against his. He sips his drink. He breathes.

"I didn't soak them in acid, you know," Jesper says, flexing his own fingers in the air to demonstrate his point. There's no need to be defensive but Jesper almost doesn't know what to do without the veneer of casual tension.

"I can see that," says Kaz, looking down at his own hands. "I don't..." He shrugs. "Ever. Except Inej. Not for years and years."

"Is there a reason? Or are we all just that far beneath you?" Jesper tries to hide it in humor, uncertain of how to actually cope with an unvarnished Kaz.

"You're miles and miles away," says Kaz, and it's truth, honestly, because that's how it feels, sometimes - like there's the rest of the world and then there's Kaz Brekker, stalking the edges alone. But isn't that how he always wanted it? Wasn't that what he always strived for?

"A lot of it is habit," he says, knowing that Jesper didn't seem him faint in the wagon. That that was a secret that Inej had kept.

"Well, we can't all be you."

Jesper goes back into the kitchen and opens the folding shade so that there's a small window between it and the living room. Without looking, he tosses a tumbler into the air and catches it on the back of his hand, pouring a shot of bourbon.

"What formed that habit? Or is that another untold story in the legend of Dirtyhands?"

"Don't ask me that yet." He's aware, achingly so, that yet isn't the same as never or not at all. His jaw ticks and he watches Jesper's clever hands for a moment. "Ask me something else."

"Have you ever been in love before that?" he asks again, because he doesn't need to bother asking if Kaz loves Inej. He'd seen those tattoos. The geraniums and the fresh G inked next to a faded R.

He's pushing his luck, but it's very good bourbon he's drinking.

With money, yes. With his own reputation, yes. But with another living, breathing, warm human being?

He shakes his head. Takes a sip of his sweet drink.

"Never."

"Figured," Jesper says and it doesn't matter if it's true or not because it's at least the answer he expects. "It's probably safer for you that way." Safer for all of them.

He tries not to think of Wylan.

He tilts his head, studying Jesper for a moment.

"What do you mean, safer?"

Jesper frowns and tries to push aside the thought of Kaz's reaction again, of the last time he lost Inej. "The less you love, the safer you are. Always seemed like your chief concern."

"My chief concern was staying one step ahead," he says. "And making money. And look where that got us." He drains his drink and then stands, walking into the kitchen, setting it down on the counter at Jesper's elbow. "Ask me another."

"Ask you another or pour you another?" Already, he's picking up a bottle by the neck, giving it a dramatic twirl through his fingers before pouring .

"Is there anyone you will touch?"

His hand still remembers that brief pass of Kaz's fingers.

He's distracted, for a moment, by the movement of the bottle, the swift deftness of his long, slim fingers. When the drink's poured, he picks it up and takes a sip. The bourbon burns.

"Just her," he says. "Since I was nine years old."

Not perfectly dextrous; Jesper realizes he's gotten a few drops of bourbon on his palm and licks it because there's no reason to waste good alcohol.

"And what happened when you were nine?" He can't believe he's asking and distracts himself by getting the last bit of bourbon from a fingertip.

"That's the same question you asked before by another route," says Kaz, and he actually smiles against the rim of his glass, just barely. He shakes his head. "Not yet."

Jesper shrugs and pours tequila and grenadine together, two tall glasses. It's a mistake; alcohol in Darrow is stronger than the liquors of Ketterdam and he knows he's well on his way to drunk.

But tonight seems to be the night for it.

Kaz smiles and Jesper finds he doesn't know what the hell to do with it.

"When was Kaz Brekker born, then?" Jesper tries. He's nudging on the same question but trying yet another route.

"A few years later than Kaz Reitvald," he says, and it's the closest that he's ever come to being completely honest with Jesper and it shakes something, deep inside of him. He knocks back the rest of his bourbon in one go. "Kaz Brekker crawled out of the harbour, like all of the best Barrel boys."

Reitvald. It's not a name he's ever heard but then Jesper thinks of the R tattooed on Kaz's bicep. There's that answer.

"And Kaz Reitvald?"

"Was nine years old when he came to Ketterdam." It's a big truth. He doesn't look at Jesper when he says it. He pushes one hand back through his hair, focusing on the feeling of short shaved hair against his palm as he smooths the longer strands back into place.

"And Dirtyhands came along." It's not a question. Jesper's a shit scholar but even he can add two and two. Whatever happened to make Kaz Reitvald into Brekker also kept him from touching anyone else except in violence.

"When there was rough work to be done," says Kaz, shrugging. "Ketterdam wasn't a good place for a kid like Kaz Reitvald as it turns out." He looks up. "You know what coming to Ketterdam is like."