He hated that the words felt like comfort in their familiarity. Kav had said them all before, in one way or another, for as long as he can remember. Were those his memories or Kavinsky's? He'd never know. Maybe it didn't matter.

He moved again, as much as he could, a push of his hips or a flex of his foot. He could feel Kavinsky's breath on his neck and his eyes fluttered, nearly closed. His breath caught.

Proko hated him for all of it and wanted him desperately.

"Kav," he breathed.