Kevin is as beautiful as he is repellant. Even when he foregoes his usual apathy, when he flickers on the charm; there is wariness that descends whatever room he skulks in. A sharpness in the whetted curve of his smirk. That is all you can think, as you walk into your home with your boyfriend's lithe form stretched out on your sofa, like a lounging panther. Normal? Perhaps, if he hadn't just shot up ten of your classmates, and then some).

“Oh, come on. sweetiepoo.” Kevin’s smile is serene, the mocking caricature of an endearment rolling off his tongue. "Don't tell me you're mad at me." Caving to that statement would probably be music to his ears. If there's one thing you know about Kevin; (which is not saying much, considering the impermeability of his slitted eyes is akin to the surreptitious eclipse of black hole), is that he thrives off pissing in people's cereal. Lives for it, even. Since the day he clawed out his mother's womb two weeks too late, wailing at the top of his lungs.

Screeching with Herculean effort is needlessly exhausting. He prefers finesse, nowadays. Pulling a bowstring taut doesn't muddy his hands.

"Why the long face?" His tone is deceptively mild, sharp eyes crawling up your form with that unnerving gaze of his. As if he could peel back the layers of your skin and dig his greedy, sticky fingers into that fascinating brain of yours.

He grants you the pleasure of a sly up-and-down. He doesn't bother pretending to appear bored. He wants you to know he's interested by you (not in you, mind. There's a difference).

Nothing ever good has come from Kevin being interested in anything.

He's not making an effort because he likes you, make no mistake about that. A little boy yanking on pigtails for attention--how fucking trite. No, even if hearing you squeal like a pig would be fun. Kevin is in this for the long game.

Lucky you.