everymonstrousthing | (no subject)

"Then we'll have pizza and get drunk and fuck around," Jesper says, as if that's that. It's what Kaz wants and Jesper will certainly enjoy it.

Which is why he came here, isn't it? Kaz feels something warm relax inside himself. He takes another sip of his drink.

"Don't pretend you're not into having your wicked way with me again, Jes."

"Oh, I'm wicked now, am I?" Jesper asks, smiling. Of course he is; they both are. Relaxing further into the chair, Jesper finishes his drink.

"Why else would I be here?"

There are plenty of reasons why he'd be here. There's no one left in this foreign, ridiculous world that knows him like Jesper does.

"Not my pleasant company, that's for sure." Jesper keeps his smile on but he's relieved, too, when a knock on the door sounds the arrival of the pizza. Jesper comes to the door again and pays the man, tipping generously for the lateness even when he ought to put some of that money aside for the sake of his debts.

Kaz drains the last of his drink and leans forward. He fidgets with his gloves, debating putting them back on to eat. He might be better, a little, with skin touching his, but he's still fastidiously clean, dislikes the idea of grease on his fingers.

Jesper gets plates from his kitchen and, noticing how Kaz fidgets, also knives and forks. He intends to simply eat his out of the box but leaves the cutlery available for Kaz to take advantage of, making no comment while he eats his first slice.

Gratefully, he reaches for silverware, using them to eat. It keeps his hands clean, even if it doesn't look quite as easy as Jesper eating it straight out of the box.

"They might not know how to cook potatoes, but this is good," he comments.

"I'll have to see if I have a skillet. Maybe I'll learn." He can cook, actually. Back in Novyi Zem, he and his father both shared the duty and they'd managed simple things. Enough not to starve to death anyway.

"I haven't gotten them right, yet, but I'll keep trying," he says, taking another bite of his food and chewing thoughtfully, trying to ignore how content he feels.

Jesper laughs at the thought, if only to suppress how nice it would actually be to sit around like this all the time, trading jokes and cooking. His father had often told Jesper to get himself a wife so that he'd stop landing in trouble and have a reason to be home early. He's never found one and doubts that anyone could keep him home and domestic.

He goes into the kitchen to mix yet another drink to shake the thought away.

The food is good and Kaz feels himself warming, settling. He watches as Jesper moves around the apartment. He doesn't say anything, but he watches.

Jesper hands Kaz another drink, this one mostly sweetened red wine, and pours one for himself. When he sits, this time, it's on the sofa next to Kaz with their thighs pressed together.

"Cheers."

Jesper sits close and Kaz doesn't pull away. He finishes his pizza and sips at his wine. He leans into the touch a little.

"This is good," he says, raising the glass.

"I try." It feels good, having Kaz lean into his touch like that. It's the smallest form of affection, but it's still more than most can claim from Kaz Brekker. Pushing his luck, he traces a fingertip over the back of one of Kaz's hands, finding the shapes of bone and veins beneath the skin.

It's the tiniest touch, but Kaz's breath catches, all the same. He flexes his fingers, just a little, just so Jesper can feel the movement in the back of his hand.

Of the two of them, Jesper would say that Kaz's hands ought to be Grisha ones. His own hands are smudged and burned from a lifetime of work and gunfire but Kaz's are elegant, not dirty or scarred or deformed, no matter what the legends insist.

"They call you Dirtyhands, but you ate with a knife and fork. Very proper."

"I don't like the feel of the grease on my skin," he says, uncharacteristically honest, his nose wrinkling. He shrugs. "The myth of it was useful though."

Jesper knows what Kaz is capable of.

"What myth? You're plenty deadly. That's no legend." He smiles and enjoys the sight of Kaz Brekker wrinkling his nose like a disgusted student.

"That I was some kind of devil, instead of just a barrel boy like the rest of them," says Kaz, with a shrug. "That I had claws or my palms dripped blood."

He turns one hand over so that Jesper can see his palm.

Jesper traces the lines of Kaz's palm, as if he's some Suli fortuneteller who can read Kaz's life in them. In truth, all he can see is that Kaz's hands are elegant and fine to touch and not much else.

"Only the blood you've shed," he says.

Then, because all of this is going to his head, Jesper bends and kisses his palm.

Kaz's eyelashes flutter at the brush of Jesper's lips against his palm.

"All these things that I have done."

"They don't bother me," Jesper says. He hears the slight pause in Kaz's breath. His lips move up his palm to the length of one of Kaz's fingers, listening for a reaction.

Every brush of Jesper's lips causes an answering shiver in Kaz's belly. He swallows.

Turning his head, Jesper glances up at Kaz. As he does it, as he holds Kaz's eyes, Jesper opens his mouth over that finger, lips parted only slightly so the tip of his tongue can slide over the first knuckle. Let him be reminded, Jesper thinks, of the first time Jesper's mouth was on him.