[kavinsky's movements are elastic. too much kinetic energy trapped in his little bones and thin limbs, but loose, like he'll sooner snap apart than wreak true havoc. but ronan always had the wrong impression about him, just like that; he looks less innocent to the other dream thief now, but it's not because he looks any different. physically, he's the same. slight, slouchy, the wind working his hair out of its gel prison, his face white in the semi-dark as he glances at ronan.
he started a molotov cocktail while the taller boy was climbing down. fast and efficient. after all, he did program prokopenko with all the fancy skills.
the flame burns incandescent. gasoline glittering inside. kavinsky holds it out to the silent boy and there's a weird pinch of haste in his gut that isn't for himself, because he's invincible, when he asks,] Well don't fucking say nothing, Rain Man, but you remember, don't you? [nobody wants half a tattoo. it's not the same as concern. not. exactly.]
Edited (it was nobody not no one right???? ?_?) 2017-02-27 06:16 (UTC)
[Ronan's heart surges when he sees the light in Kavinsky's hand, the orange glow illuminating him from below so that Kavinsky looks for a split second like he's made of flames, too. Some kind of monster from a horror movie.
God, of course Ronan remembers. He had not been able to forget it. Something had awakened within him then, and though he'd obediently followed Gansey back to his car, it was Kavinsky who'd been in his dreams that night.]
Fuck you.
[He snatches the molotov cocktail from Kavinsky's hand, and as he drags his teeth over his lower lip, Ronan pitches the bomb at one of the carriages. It hits the metal arm and explodes into liquid flames, the plastic seat immediately catching fire with a whoosh. Ronan's laugh is a gasp, as if he's surprised by just how fucking good it feels to be destroying something beautiful again.]
paint, mostly. the chemical reek that promises emphezema and cancer and a weird plasticky smell clinging to the back of your nose for days. one of the little pod windows took the brunt of the impact, and the glass that remained is black pieces in the grass now, would-be invisible were it not for the glittering reflection of fire, sprayed out across the velvety-dark field now. a sanguine nebula, like the mouth of hell is a terrestrial swirl of stars.
kavinsky has two more molotov cocktails, one apiece. crash. boom! he says it out loud:] BOOM. [he seems happy. he's not, wasn't even before he got murdered, but it's good enough; he hadn't been happy in henrietta, either. but ronan had been there too, all knuckle scabs and adrenalized laughter, for a little awhile before he moved on.
if you can't kill yourself, at least you can kill time.
afterward, they're sitting on top of the popcorn stand, legs dangling over the bold sans-serif signage. the ferris wheel burns merrily dozens of yards away. booze and candy come out in handfuls from kavinsky's bag, popcorn spilling across the flimsy cardboard construction that's holding up under their ass. it hadn't felt like it would support them, but kavinsky hadn't been worried. falling doesn't scare him much anymore.]
Catch, baby, [he says. he tosses a pale kernel of popcorn at ronan's face.]
[Maybe Kavinsky isn't happy, but Ronan is. That's the strange miracle about Kavinsky. He's always had this effect on Ronan, way back when it was about nothing more than the smell of burning rubber and the glimpse of a knife decal splashed across the side of a white Mitsubishi. Kavinsky could set Ronan's heart on fire before they ever got around to setting actual shit on fire. That was enough to keep Ronan coming back.
Why he keeps coming back now.
The popcorn hits him in the cheek because he's transfixed by the blaze, and he wrinkles his nose as he finally tears his gaze away to look at Kavinsky.]
Better ways to get my attention, you know.
[He takes a swig of beer before setting his bottle aside. Ronan turns, then, easing a few inches closer to Kavinsky.]
Hey, how much time do we have before someone calls the fire department?
[like any normal predator, kavinsky looks. watches. is cognizant of proximate threat getting closer and closer.
but kavinsky isn't normal in any sense of the term. he doesn't brace himself in anticipation of possible attack, move away from the edge. he certainly doesn't move away from ronan. regarding him with the same bright-eyed interest as he had in henrietta once upon a time, ronan's fist caving down toward his nose.] Longer than you wanna hang out in this dump, [he says.] Traffic starts about four in the fucking morning.
[ronan's looking at him now. so he flicks another piece of popcorn at the boy's mouth, staring at it with unique interest. so as to-- you know. get the trajectory right.]
[Ronan catches the popcorn with his teeth this time, snapping down and swallowing it with such over-the-top menace it must be consciously comedic. Then he smirks, paying equal attention to Kavinsky's mouth though he's got no popcorn to aim.
He's always wanted to feel Kavinsky's lips. Something about the fullness of them, the curve of his cupid's bow, how inviting they look when Kavinsky manages to keep his mouth shut. There aren't many boys with lips like these, or if there are, Ronan's been too busy looking at Kavinsky to notice them.
With a sigh, he glances away, and he thinks he's about to suggest they should head back anyway. But then he turns back, leans in, and captures Kavinsky's mouth in a kiss that surprises him more than it probably surprises Kavinsky.]
[it almost goes wrong. kavinsky had started to laugh like a jackal, his mouth open and firelight reflecting off his teeth. ronan almost nailed that with his face by accident, gotten a mouthful of sexy incisors and half-ground popcorn bits and hell noise besides. it would have been a raw fucking deal.
but kavinsky shuts his shitty mouth just in time, and their lips connect. weird angle and there's still popcorn butter salt everywhere, but this is not the kiss that happens in romantically-themed young adult novels framed in quaint farmhouse doorways with some kindly words of wisdom about a safe and reciprocal love from a best friend wafting around in the background with the cricketsong. there's no cricketsong.
the possibility of a happy ending had not seemed very likely then in that other future; there isn't one now. in the world where the wrong deaths take, if there's such thing as a right death. there isn't that possibility at all.
but kavinsky kisses him back anyway. his skinny, tattooed fingers bite into the bones of ronan's wrist, which he doesn't remember grabbing hold of, but he did.]
[Ronan doesn't think romance is written in his stars. He's got an unrequited obsession with a straight boy in a whole other universe, and just before he'd left that universe, he'd been thinking against all better judgment about going to the Fourth of July. It was one of the last thoughts he had before a certain hitman interrupted and informed him about all the wonderful ways Colin Greenmantle would treat his dream-thieving guest (or guests).
So, no. Never any happy endings for Ronan Lynch or Joseph Kavinsky. Just a lucky interlude in another dimension, an opportunity for a few more parties and wild rides before they get hurled back into the magical bullshit of their lives.
This is fun, though. Even with Kavinsky laughing at him, it's fun, because he's not pulling away but yanking at Ronan's wrist, catching him like a snare, and Ronan wants to be caught. He wants to stop holding back and start doing everything he can get away with, the way Kavinsky does. This is the best night he's had in...
Ever, maybe.
Ronan is clumsy and kisses like he's never kissed before, because he hasn't. He started this but he's glad to yield to Kavinsky's experience, even as his other hand comes up to grab hold of Kavinsky's shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric kind of the same way they've done before, when he was hitting Kavinsky instead.]
[kavinsky tastes like cigarettes and savory snacks and burny liquor. maybe also of gasoline, but that's an impression left by association rather than anything that's actually inside of kavinsky's mouth. the mitsubishi is still parked just outside the chainlink, a same-faced specter in this world just like the last.
he's a better kisser now than he would have been last year, thanks to the tutelage of the variety of random men he's fucked over the course of his stay in the world. which is probably most of the reason why ronan doesn't find a slimy tongue shoved so far down into the back of his mouth that he gags. kavinsky still goes for it sooner than he should, probably, but his licks are more like hard candy stored for ronan to store up inside the wall of his cheek. the idea being ronan will still taste him later, undertone to toothpaste and coffee. and maybe even noah!
kavinsky leans in. it isn't how he'd spent months picturing back at home. he'd thought, maybe the boy's bathroom some time, ronan scared but wanting it too bad not to. or he'd show up at a party, drunk with a headlight out and without gansey, still miserable, too fucked up to feel it and willing to try anything to feel better— and somehow unwilling still. fucking catholics. tonight, he hadn't pictured anything, really. he hasn't pictured much since he died the first time, and the second had scratched out most of what was left.
but this is nice, in the only way kavinsky has ever cared about 'nice.' he puts his other arm around ronan's neck, half because ronan's too tall, and half just because.]
[Kavinsky tastes like Ronan imagined - and he has spent too much time imagining. Ronan is sweeter, like Appalachian bourbon, which happens to go perfect with salt and fire. He parts his lips to Kavinsky's tongue, savoring at first, then returning the favor with his own.
He's been hungry for a while. It's obvious. If Kavinsky ever had any doubt (ha!) about how much Ronan had ever wanted him, there's no denying it now. He didn't walk away from Kavinsky because there was a lack of desire. It's always been there, the way most people crave the things that will end up killing them.
Ronan stops to catch his breath, pressing his forehead to Kavinsky's. His skin is so warm it feels like the flames have crept closer, though he's pretty sure they haven't. He almost says something. Then he doesn't, opting to kiss Kavinsky again. The moment will probably be ruined as soon as either of them talk, right? Kavinsky will piss him off or Ronan will say something stupid and they'll start fighting instead. Or, worse yet, Kavinsky will just laugh again. Ronan's so much more afraid of that humiliation, though he knows enough to realize that Kavinsky's honest affection is the greater danger. Ruining this would be wiser.]
[kavinsky weighs next to nothing, but somehow the sit of his skinny arm levels out ronan's shoulders and fixes the angle of their kiss. or maybe there was nothing wrong with it to begin with because the disparity of their heights has always been kind of fun and he always liked how tall ronan is, big, mean, mean-looking, meaner-looking when he's scared. best of all, scared of himself. fucking catholics.
he remembers being kind of disappointed on july the 4th, when he found the hard limits to ronan's cruelty and the pretty beginnings of his courage. mixed in with the cocaine noise and self-immolating hatred.
he doesn't feel that way now. but then again, between the two of them, ronan was always the one with real imagination. this is new. unforeseen. kavinsky's only good at copying. so he copies the restraint of reggie's hands and the questionable diplomacy of jesse's tongue and predatory langor of jack's arms, and he kisses ronan this second time, until he isn't sure if it was maybe jack's hands and reggie's tongue and jesse's tender arms, and then until his head and his heart empty out and he isn't sure who he's copying. it isn't him; what's left bears no resemblence to kavinsky as he knows himself.
some garbage he picked up somewhere. maybe a movie.]
Think fast, [he says, before ronan can think about kissing anymore. and then he pushes ronan off the edge of the popcorn stand roof. feet first. he'll be fine.]
[Of course he's fine. When the stand is only about nine feet tall and Ronan takes up more than six of those feet, it's only a three-foot drop. But it kind of feels like being plunged into ice-cold water, and that's the worst of it. One second he's in Kavinsky's arms, the next he is so very not.]
Asshole.
[Real anger flares up inside Ronan as he lands, turning a glare back up to Kavinsky. More angry at himself, really, because he should have figured Kavinsky was playing with him. But Ronan's anger explodes both inward and outward, and he slams a fist into the signboard so hard the whole stand rattles.]
[kavinsky probably shouldn't be surprised, but he is. the stand shakes and he almost falls-- it shakes a laugh out of him. he slings the bag down beside him, leans low, so he can drop it with a minimal chance of shit breaking. luck is on his side for once: there's no crack, no explosion of contents inside or out.]
You're such an angry homosexual.
[and then he jumps off. right down on top of ronan, his feet just wide enough to catch the other dream thief around the waist, hands to stop his fall on the other boy's shoulders. it wouldn't hurt him much, to crack his chin on ronan's stupid shaven head, but he's honestly not sure irish can spare the fucking braincells. kavinsky doesn't weigh enough, but the angle's crazy and ronan's off-balance-- more than not, he'll ride the other boy into the ground.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
he started a molotov cocktail while the taller boy was climbing down. fast and efficient. after all, he did program prokopenko with all the fancy skills.
the flame burns incandescent. gasoline glittering inside. kavinsky holds it out to the silent boy and there's a weird pinch of haste in his gut that isn't for himself, because he's invincible, when he asks,] Well don't fucking say nothing, Rain Man, but you remember, don't you? [nobody wants half a tattoo. it's not the same as concern. not. exactly.]
no subject
God, of course Ronan remembers. He had not been able to forget it. Something had awakened within him then, and though he'd obediently followed Gansey back to his car, it was Kavinsky who'd been in his dreams that night.]
Fuck you.
[He snatches the molotov cocktail from Kavinsky's hand, and as he drags his teeth over his lower lip, Ronan pitches the bomb at one of the carriages. It hits the metal arm and explodes into liquid flames, the plastic seat immediately catching fire with a whoosh. Ronan's laugh is a gasp, as if he's surprised by just how fucking good it feels to be destroying something beautiful again.]
tw suicidal ideation
[the ferris wheel begins to burn.
paint, mostly. the chemical reek that promises emphezema and cancer and a weird plasticky smell clinging to the back of your nose for days. one of the little pod windows took the brunt of the impact, and the glass that remained is black pieces in the grass now, would-be invisible were it not for the glittering reflection of fire, sprayed out across the velvety-dark field now. a sanguine nebula, like the mouth of hell is a terrestrial swirl of stars.
kavinsky has two more molotov cocktails, one apiece. crash. boom! he says it out loud:] BOOM. [he seems happy. he's not, wasn't even before he got murdered, but it's good enough; he hadn't been happy in henrietta, either. but ronan had been there too, all knuckle scabs and adrenalized laughter, for a little awhile before he moved on.
if you can't kill yourself, at least you can kill time.
afterward, they're sitting on top of the popcorn stand, legs dangling over the bold sans-serif signage. the ferris wheel burns merrily dozens of yards away. booze and candy come out in handfuls from kavinsky's bag, popcorn spilling across the flimsy cardboard construction that's holding up under their ass. it hadn't felt like it would support them, but kavinsky hadn't been worried. falling doesn't scare him much anymore.]
Catch, baby, [he says. he tosses a pale kernel of popcorn at ronan's face.]
no subject
Why he keeps coming back now.
The popcorn hits him in the cheek because he's transfixed by the blaze, and he wrinkles his nose as he finally tears his gaze away to look at Kavinsky.]
Better ways to get my attention, you know.
[He takes a swig of beer before setting his bottle aside. Ronan turns, then, easing a few inches closer to Kavinsky.]
Hey, how much time do we have before someone calls the fire department?
no subject
but kavinsky isn't normal in any sense of the term. he doesn't brace himself in anticipation of possible attack, move away from the edge. he certainly doesn't move away from ronan. regarding him with the same bright-eyed interest as he had in henrietta once upon a time, ronan's fist caving down toward his nose.] Longer than you wanna hang out in this dump, [he says.] Traffic starts about four in the fucking morning.
[ronan's looking at him now. so he flicks another piece of popcorn at the boy's mouth, staring at it with unique interest. so as to-- you know. get the trajectory right.]
no subject
He's always wanted to feel Kavinsky's lips. Something about the fullness of them, the curve of his cupid's bow, how inviting they look when Kavinsky manages to keep his mouth shut. There aren't many boys with lips like these, or if there are, Ronan's been too busy looking at Kavinsky to notice them.
With a sigh, he glances away, and he thinks he's about to suggest they should head back anyway. But then he turns back, leans in, and captures Kavinsky's mouth in a kiss that surprises him more than it probably surprises Kavinsky.]
no subject
but kavinsky shuts his shitty mouth just in time, and their lips connect. weird angle and there's still popcorn butter salt everywhere, but this is not the kiss that happens in romantically-themed young adult novels framed in quaint farmhouse doorways with some kindly words of wisdom about a safe and reciprocal love from a best friend wafting around in the background with the cricketsong. there's no cricketsong.
the possibility of a happy ending had not seemed very likely then in that other future; there isn't one now. in the world where the wrong deaths take, if there's such thing as a right death. there isn't that possibility at all.
but kavinsky kisses him back anyway. his skinny, tattooed fingers bite into the bones of ronan's wrist, which he doesn't remember grabbing hold of, but he did.]
no subject
So, no. Never any happy endings for Ronan Lynch or Joseph Kavinsky. Just a lucky interlude in another dimension, an opportunity for a few more parties and wild rides before they get hurled back into the magical bullshit of their lives.
This is fun, though. Even with Kavinsky laughing at him, it's fun, because he's not pulling away but yanking at Ronan's wrist, catching him like a snare, and Ronan wants to be caught. He wants to stop holding back and start doing everything he can get away with, the way Kavinsky does. This is the best night he's had in...
Ever, maybe.
Ronan is clumsy and kisses like he's never kissed before, because he hasn't. He started this but he's glad to yield to Kavinsky's experience, even as his other hand comes up to grab hold of Kavinsky's shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric kind of the same way they've done before, when he was hitting Kavinsky instead.]
cw mention of imagined dubcon
he's a better kisser now than he would have been last year, thanks to the tutelage of the variety of random men he's fucked over the course of his stay in the world. which is probably most of the reason why ronan doesn't find a slimy tongue shoved so far down into the back of his mouth that he gags. kavinsky still goes for it sooner than he should, probably, but his licks are more like hard candy stored for ronan to store up inside the wall of his cheek. the idea being ronan will still taste him later, undertone to toothpaste and coffee. and maybe even noah!
kavinsky leans in. it isn't how he'd spent months picturing back at home. he'd thought, maybe the boy's bathroom some time, ronan scared but wanting it too bad not to. or he'd show up at a party, drunk with a headlight out and without gansey, still miserable, too fucked up to feel it and willing to try anything to feel better— and somehow unwilling still. fucking catholics. tonight, he hadn't pictured anything, really. he hasn't pictured much since he died the first time, and the second had scratched out most of what was left.
but this is nice, in the only way kavinsky has ever cared about 'nice.' he puts his other arm around ronan's neck, half because ronan's too tall, and half just because.]
no subject
He's been hungry for a while. It's obvious. If Kavinsky ever had any doubt (ha!) about how much Ronan had ever wanted him, there's no denying it now. He didn't walk away from Kavinsky because there was a lack of desire. It's always been there, the way most people crave the things that will end up killing them.
Ronan stops to catch his breath, pressing his forehead to Kavinsky's. His skin is so warm it feels like the flames have crept closer, though he's pretty sure they haven't. He almost says something. Then he doesn't, opting to kiss Kavinsky again. The moment will probably be ruined as soon as either of them talk, right? Kavinsky will piss him off or Ronan will say something stupid and they'll start fighting instead. Or, worse yet, Kavinsky will just laugh again. Ronan's so much more afraid of that humiliation, though he knows enough to realize that Kavinsky's honest affection is the greater danger. Ruining this would be wiser.]
no subject
he remembers being kind of disappointed on july the 4th, when he found the hard limits to ronan's cruelty and the pretty beginnings of his courage. mixed in with the cocaine noise and self-immolating hatred.
he doesn't feel that way now. but then again, between the two of them, ronan was always the one with real imagination. this is new. unforeseen. kavinsky's only good at copying. so he copies the restraint of reggie's hands and the questionable diplomacy of jesse's tongue and predatory langor of jack's arms, and he kisses ronan this second time, until he isn't sure if it was maybe jack's hands and reggie's tongue and jesse's tender arms, and then until his head and his heart empty out and he isn't sure who he's copying. it isn't him; what's left bears no resemblence to kavinsky as he knows himself.
some garbage he picked up somewhere. maybe a movie.]
Think fast, [he says, before ronan can think about kissing anymore. and then he pushes ronan off the edge of the popcorn stand roof. feet first. he'll be fine.]
no subject
Asshole.
[Real anger flares up inside Ronan as he lands, turning a glare back up to Kavinsky. More angry at himself, really, because he should have figured Kavinsky was playing with him. But Ronan's anger explodes both inward and outward, and he slams a fist into the signboard so hard the whole stand rattles.]
no subject
You're such an angry homosexual.
[and then he jumps off. right down on top of ronan, his feet just wide enough to catch the other dream thief around the waist, hands to stop his fall on the other boy's shoulders. it wouldn't hurt him much, to crack his chin on ronan's stupid shaven head, but he's honestly not sure irish can spare the fucking braincells. kavinsky doesn't weigh enough, but the angle's crazy and ronan's off-balance-- more than not, he'll ride the other boy into the ground.]