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Why not?

[because it could fail. because he could die. because billy could freak out and drop them into the sea, miles from shore. because he could drown for decades and nobody would find him or know.]

How you gonna know if it's some shit you wanna try on Grey. If you don't take it for a test drive? [his eyes glint. manic. he's come out on the other side of fear, and not necessarily for the better.]

Because if I mess up you could be gone for good, dude.

[Because souls aren't physical bodies, the nanites can't rebuild them. Because Billy likes Kavinsky, for some reason, enough that he would be upset if Kavinsky were totally gone.]

[isn't that a prospect. promises promises.]

Maybe nobody'd even notice.

[kavinsky bends an elbow into billy's ribs, encouragingly. what's a soul for, if not cutting and burning?] Come on. Pull it halfway, maybe. See if you can.

[He turns, then. Halfway, enough to sit cross-legged.]

I swear to god, you need to yell if it hurts.

[Which is a yes.

Billy holds his hands out and thinks of how to structure this spell. He meant it when he said that they're not really spells. Sometimes, when he's feeling very maudlin or very scientific, he thinks of his magic like science. Everything is possible - just 99.999999% of things aren't likely. What he's doing must be something akin to affecting the probability of things. Making it more probable.

That isn't what he's thinking now. Now he's thinking of Kavinsky's soul. What it would look like in his hands, shiny and bright. What it must look like in general. Does it look like Kavinsky thinks it does? Are souls tainted by morality or is that a construct made up by hack writers?

Dorian's soul looked like light. Kavinsky's glows, too, and Billy reaches into Kavinsky's chest, careful. For a moment they occupy the same space, impossibly (improbably) and then Billy is grasping something. His eyes are glowing blue, and he pulls, slowly.

Carefully.]

[is it supposed to hurt? is it supposed to make things hurt less. kavinsky does not have a strong concept of what a soul is supposed to mean or do or change in its absence. at best he thinks he'll die, which is morbid and a little pathetic, but such sentiments always drive death metal. why would they not drive joseph kavinsky as well.

he looks down to watch billy's hand. at some point in the process he realizes he's not seeing the magician's hand outside of him and encroaching in, so much as he's seeing it inside of himself, tangible and unnameably strange. his heart kick steps faster, anxiety where there should be agony. maybe billy will pull out a burning lump of coal, or a parasite, he thinks.]

Is it big? Above average.

[he can't not ask. he can't not joke. he doesn't blink.]

I don't know what average would entail.

It's warm.

[It's a squirming thing, but it twines around Billy's fingers like string, until Billy is pulling it out, slowly, and then it's there in Billy's hands. It's a light, pulsing between them, like a heart in Billy's hand, only there are strands of it going back into Kavinsky.

They are in the air, in nothing, in the dark with the ocean below them, and Billy is holding Kavinsky's soul. It's peppered with sprays of bright color, beating carefully, and Billy cups it suddenly in both hands.]

You okay so far?

[to be honest, average would likely entail billy ripping out a lot more souls and fiddling with them for a proper comparison. for now, kavinsky loses that dirty stupid train of thought though, looking down at the thing the sorceror boy has extricated. despite his idiot joke, it's larger than he thought it would be. for some reason, he had been picturing a coal-charred peach pit or something.

and brighter. full of more light, more color, more life than he had imagined. part of him suspects that means morality doesn't show on the soul the way that billy's power manifests it-- it's probably some boringly mathematical, neutral energy concept or something, another symptom of an amoral universe. but despite knowing this, despite even thinking for a moment that maybe billy put a magic screensaver his eyes to force a pleasant illusion or some shit, kavinsky stares and is unmistakably impressed.

and maybe even a little moved, watching the threads swing from his chest like a cobweb in the wind. he counts the pulses. it's just not as ugly or stupid as he thought it would be.]

What happens if you pull it too far away?

I don't know, we're pretty much working on a who the fuck knows school of what happens next.

[He reaches for Kavinsky's hand, and holds it to the light. Every time Billy's fingers move it lets off tiny bursts of light.

He stares at it a little more. Maybe he thought it would be ugly, too. Or strange. Damaged. It looks fine. It looks perfect.

But then Billy doesn't have a lot to compare it to.]

I don't think it can just float around on its own. I mean. I think I would need to make a vessel to move it further away from you. It keeps pulling back to your chest.

[maybe it's smaller than average. kavinsky tilts his head, still staring. he has even less to compare it to. a little bit enraptured, his curiosity dimming only fractionally with a shift in his mood, then intensifying again. he swipes his fingers at some of the threads pulling from his chest, but there's no more substance to his touch than empty air.]

You should check what happens if you squeeze it.

[it's decisively said, edging onto bossy. kavinsky expects billy to say no. he opens his skinny arms, stretching them wide. his eyes wild and bright.] C'mon, Kaplan. Better to know.

[The thing is, Billy doesn't think he can hurt it. So he looks at Kavinsky a moment and squeezes, and it winds tight around Billy's fingers like a live thing, like some affectionate creature. He looks up at the other boy, then. His face is illuminated only by the glow of Kavinsky's soul.]

So?

Memories? Weird twinges in your heart? Deep and abiding love? Hate?

Anything?

[kavinsky doesn't answer right away. he's vaguely disappointed when he doesn't immediately die on the spot, because he's a bit of a lunatic that way. but what's striking, really, is how vague that disappointment is. ordinarily, the urge to die is louder than all that.

a little knot appears between his eyebrows. he searches. listens inside of himself.

it's so quiet.]

No, [he says, at last. it doesn't occur to him that nothing is the thing that's happening, that the net effect of having his soul removed to look at would be to altogether feel less. vaguely, he supposes he feels better. but they are flying above the atlantic ocean on a disc of blue light at the moment, and that would put him in good spirits any day.] Maybe you gotta keep it out a long-ass time before that shit kicks in.

[He considers this a moment, his fingers stroking over the light of K's soul. Whatever Kavinsky is feeling (or not) Billy is being a little less introspective. Like all magic this fascinates him, and even more because it's untrod territory. He's holding someone's soul. And that isn't a metaphor.]

I thought it would be more like surgery.

[He tilts his head, looks a little hesitant.]

I should probably put it back.

[They're in a strange bubble. It's a place where Billy's magic isn't scary or weird or annoying. Kavinsky is, oddly enough, the only person who treats it that way. Like it's magic. They're flying, and Billy has K's soul, and maybe he just doesn't want to go back to the real world where his magic shop sells more books than spells.

He opens his hands a little, and the while pulsing thing floats a bit, just a bit, suspended between them.

(What Billy really wants is to study this more, his desire to know overcoming his good sense)]

What? You thought I'd be bleeding out on the fucking table? [kavinsky sounds amused more than anxious. disdainful a little, maybe, in an offhand and playful kind of way. the effects are subtle. he doesn't register exactly what this is doing to him, but it'll come back later, slowly, like the very first person to ever experience caffeine withdrawal, before they finally took that sip of delicious joe.

he'll want it again, someday.

but right now, he merely stretches his arms out like he's decorating a crucifix, chest open, wiggling his fingers in the free and open air. he feels better than he has in awhile. but it's quiet. subtle, not the spiky ecstasy of cocaine or the madness of dreaming. so he doesn't think it.] But we should do this again some time, [he says.]

No, I mean I thought it would be more precise. Like if I took it out there would be an immediate reaction or something.

[Billy huffs a little, but he nudges Kavinsky just a bit.]

If you let me experiment on you with my magic, you're probably crazy, but you're also going to quickly turn into my favorite person.

[He starts to lower them. His temper has abated. He feels better. It's stupid and weird to feel better after removing another human's soul but Billy Kaplan has never really been normal.]

But let me know anytime you want to mess around.

[Magically, he means.]

[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.

[He laughs.]

Okay, deal.

[And from then it's an easy float down, a night spent doing stupid things, maybe, but Kavinsky'll make Billy smile. Maybe that's enough.]

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