Work Text:
Joseph Kavinsky is 9. 9 years old, and he is full of wisdom beyond his years. Mature for his age, his parent’s friends fawn over him. Think he’s just darling, but oh so clumsy. Forever breaking a bone, bruising himself, emerging out of his father’s study with flushed cheeks. Always in the ER, or with a new cast fresh for autographs. ‘What a rambunctious child!’ his aunt Jillian always chimes.
Today, Joseph is 11 years old, acting like a full-grown adult rather than a child. No time for childhood, bent between his father’s thighs. Washing the dishes, and scrubbing the bathroom as his mother screams in Bulgarian, words he doesn’t know. Words that can still sting, even without knowledge of their meaning. Coke on the coffee table, waiting for nostrils to partake, watching his mother take hits until her nose drips blood on the white carpet. Taken away by his father, to the study again. Bent over the desk, pants pulled down. Heavyweight pressing down, heat, searing pain flooding his senses. Until the weight is gone, and he’s left shaken, half-naked. Fails fifth grade has to repeat the year. Hospital with severe contusions from falling down the stairs the day after, oh so clumsy.
Today, Joseph is 13 years old, giving blowjobs in an alley behind his father’s bar. Vodka poured down his throat, setting him aflame, willing for the next invasion of his innocence. Inside later, giving lap dances to men that his father does business with, sometimes more if it’s demanded, sometimes to more than one at a time. His mother shooting heroin at the next booth, slipped between two men, licking her cheeks. Obscured vision as he’s pushed down on his knees now, for another man. “What a good slut,” the man purrs, as he swallows every drop like his father taught him.
Today, Joseph is 15 years old, the first day at Aglionby Academy, when he meets a boy that causes his heartbeat to increase and stomach to twist into knots. Nicoli Prokopenko, the son of another mobster, from the Czech Republic. His eyes are the color of burning coal, and most times Joseph is lost in them, hoping to be pressed into a hardened diamond if he stares long enough. Punched in the nose, during lunch, for staring at the boy. The punch is excellent, he can tell the boy learned to fight. He learned to fight in a different way, defensive rather than offensive. Thrown against the bathroom stall after the period, hot breath inches from his collarbone, and a soft kiss is placed above his heart. It is the most intimate connection he’s had, and he moans in pleasure at the touch.
Today, Joseph is 16 years old, with Proko wrapped around his fingers. Free of his father, at last, hundreds of miles from home. On his knees, giving Proko a blowjob between periods in the boy’s room. Proko stealing kisses by his locker, long stolen moments that Joseph responds to with fire in his sternum. Skov, Swan, and Jiang constantly surround the two forming a pack. Forged with blood, fighting each other in the basement to try out moves, and now he can throw a solid punch. Now other boys are afraid of him, even his teachers, there is a ferocity lying beneath his eyes begging to be stoked. Cocaine snorted in thin lines between classes, water bottles filled with vodka passed around during their classes, weed in the boy’s room. Pills of all kinds, entering his bloodstream, always a surprise to what the effects will be.
Today, Joseph is 17 years old, and his father unexpectedly visits the mansion he inhabits. Fucked over the back of the couch, cum staining the woven material. He crumbled to the floor after his father left. Proko finds him, and doesn’t say a word, takes him upstairs and bathes him, dressing him in a frayed t-shirt and a pair of boxers. The clothing he was wearing is burned outside in a barrel, and Proko drives away. He sobs uncontrollably when left alone, allowing himself to feel the humiliation. The next day, Prokos knuckles are blood-stained and swollen, but none of their boys are beaten. Proko kisses him gently and holds him. Afraid he’ll break. His father is found dead on the freeway, and he doesn’t ask Proko, because he isn’t sure he wants the truth.
Today, Joseph is 18 years old, graduating high school with Proko. Throwing his cap into the air, kissing Proko hard in front of his class. The next day, they leave for their road trip across the United States. Instead of hotels, parks and empty fields become their resting places. When they arrive in Las Vegas, the two get married for the hell of it. For once, Joseph feels like he is home when their lips connect at the altar. Happiness floods him, and he is safe.