[kavinsky's dark eyes flatten, then brighten again. that insult doesn't hurt his feelings, exactly, but he lives his life according to some masculine bullshit not entirely unlike prison rules. if there were anyone around, he'd have to escalate. save the face he'd lost. even if the insult was, insinuations aside, definitionally accurate.

there's no one around. for better or worse.]

Okay. You picked the right faggot to kick it with. He'll take you out to dinner.

[then he spits on the ground between jesse's shoes, to punctuate the statement. he doesn't recoil from the way his hand was struck off. instead, he reels it in kind of slowly, like it's an afterthought, and switches his flashlight over.] It'll get worse before it gets better. Lynch's advice: kill yourself.