He has definitive proof that he is way off baseline, way outside the parameters for which he was designed; you don't look like you on the inside. But Jesus is struggling.
K meets that smile not with one of his own, but it's not a harsh or a blank look either. Simply receptive. Taking in what Jesus is telling him and what he's not.
"That I help," he answers, and it is the most basic truth about him.
"Because..." He struggles for a moment to put it into words that aren't just repetitive, aren't self defining for something he's never thought to try to explain.
"I've seen what happens when people are hurt. Hurting. When they don't have what they need. I don't want to contribute to that. I want to alleviate it."
He knows K is seeing and deciphering things that he'd probably be better able to hide from other people. K always seems to pick up on it, though, so he doesn't try. He likes K; there's no reason to pretend he doesn't.
That's the thing that is galling him here. The thing he is meant to be here is an experiment, the only thing he can really offer is his body--and not the way he's learned to use it to make things better.
But he doesn't want to think about that and so he has more questions for K. "What place do you think you hold with me?"
It's the kind of discomfort K has seen in multiple people, that multiple people want to see in him - but he's used to being something other than an equal, something other than free. He doesn't like it, he doesn't want it, but he knows that neither of these things matter.
His answer for Jesus is immediate: "We're friends." Even if he doesn't really know exactly what that means in turn, Jesus has already said it. He has said that they're friends, and K believes him.
"We are." His tone is calm but firm on that point, because he knows there's a gap in K's definition. He knows that he doesn't know how K defines it. "What is that like for you?"
"I don't like being held by definitions. What's right in one friendship maybe isn't in another." He's flexible about these things. "I just want it to be something you want to keep."
He's not entirely sure which of these is correct in this case, but regardless, they're all true. It also pulls at something in him, half memory, half instinct, and he doesn't stop there.
"What it means is that I feel better when I see you. I feel... safer. I want to talk to you, to spend time around you."
"It's different with you." In ways he honestly isn't sure he trusts, because K is so honest and his silences aren't the bitter pauses Jesus is used to from people who have every reason to be bitter. He shakes his head and clarifies, "It feels better around you, too. We should do more."
"I'd like that," he can agree readily, especially since there's no case load here to make demands on his time first and foremost. He has no duties to interfere, unless it's at Marked, or Scratch.
He hesitates, though, before clearly making the decision to continue with, "I liked - it's easier. With someone else around, and I liked that night of camping."
"I did, too." And he needed to hear that, but it's not something he knew to ask for. "That day was good," all of it, the bathhouse and the night in the tent. He has no regrets even if he doesn't want it to change their dynamic, either.
"Yes, all of it," he adds quickly because he had definitely enjoyed the bathhouse - the pool itself, the conversation, the sex and the showers. He'd like to try again sometime.
But like Jesus, that's not what he's thinking of foremost: "If you're looking to push back against the program, it seems to me that sharing quarters might help."
He smiles more at the eagerness than the question.
"Less that and more that I'm not willing to give up spending time with who I want to because I've been told I can't by someone who won't even say why. Whatever they feel they need to do about it is what they need to do."
K, who remembers how satisfying it can be to hear the door slide shut behind him and seal him off from the chaos and the smells of the city outside, nods his willingness to accept this at face value.
"I'm... Learning that I like it too. Being close." He smiles a small, almost shy smile except how there's no shame in it whatsoever. "I brought my toothbrush, just in case."
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He has definitive proof that he is way off baseline, way outside the parameters for which he was designed; you don't look like you on the inside. But Jesus is struggling.
"Do you know what's most important to you?"
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He looks at K with a wan smile, another little shrug. "What about you?"
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"That I help," he answers, and it is the most basic truth about him.
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"Why?"
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"Because..." He struggles for a moment to put it into words that aren't just repetitive, aren't self defining for something he's never thought to try to explain.
"I've seen what happens when people are hurt. Hurting. When they don't have what they need. I don't want to contribute to that. I want to alleviate it."
It is, as he said, important.
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"You help me."
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He tips his head as if it might help him hear what isn't being said, brow furrowing faintly. He almost forgets to answer.
Almost: "I hope so."
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"What helps you?"
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He shakes off the studious cast to his gaze - literally shaking his head to refocus - and his brow creases more deeply, thoughtfully.
"Understanding what place I hold."
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But he doesn't want to think about that and so he has more questions for K. "What place do you think you hold with me?"
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His answer for Jesus is immediate: "We're friends." Even if he doesn't really know exactly what that means in turn, Jesus has already said it. He has said that they're friends, and K believes him.
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For someone who has never had a friend before.
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"I have... memories of having friends. At work, at home. But those aren't real. You are."
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He's not entirely sure which of these is correct in this case, but regardless, they're all true. It also pulls at something in him, half memory, half instinct, and he doesn't stop there.
"What it means is that I feel better when I see you. I feel... safer. I want to talk to you, to spend time around you."
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He hesitates, though, before clearly making the decision to continue with, "I liked - it's easier. With someone else around, and I liked that night of camping."
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But like Jesus, that's not what he's thinking of foremost: "If you're looking to push back against the program, it seems to me that sharing quarters might help."
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"You're working to be cited over it?"
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"Less that and more that I'm not willing to give up spending time with who I want to because I've been told I can't by someone who won't even say why. Whatever they feel they need to do about it is what they need to do."
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"There's an extra bed anyway. Or," a curious glance. "You could share mine."
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He remembers how tense Jesus had been shoulder to shoulder with him in the tent, how attuned to every movement and sound.
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"I like having you close."
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"I'm... Learning that I like it too. Being close." He smiles a small, almost shy smile except how there's no shame in it whatsoever. "I brought my toothbrush, just in case."
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