[magically, he means, but kavinsky's smirk is wry and inevitable. he doesn't comment on it, entirely because he is distracted by what he just saw today. a wee, pessimistic voice in his head j'accuses billy of some form of deception, but most of him is too certain that it had been true. so many subtle cues and changes.

so much weird light. and fingers inside his chest.]

I'm a cunt, but I'm a cunt who likes weird fucking magic tricks, [kavinsky says, cheerfully. not-so-subtly, he runs a hand up his own chest, assuring himself that his ribs and nipples are where they used to be, and nothing in that way is amiss.] Come on. Let's go back and write a pro-faggot slogan on the sand.