[headlights swipe through the trees, painting ronan briefly with shadows like prison bars. and then a highly recognizable mitsubishi comes around the bend. he's only five, ten minutes late, which is essentially on time for joseph kavinsky. the knife graphic comes into focus, and then kavinsky pulls up. driver's side facing ronan.
he honks loudly in the dark in case ronan unexpectedly had an aneurysm or something. through the windows, it's clear kavinsky's dressed as usual-- wifebeater, leather jacket zipped up to his throat. possibly he hasn't noticed it's valentine's day. (he has noticed.)]
[Well, he'd been hoping to avoid alerting a certain not-ghost about Kavinsky's visit, but that hope's probably dashed now. Ronan sets his beer aside and picks himself up, hurrying while trying to look unhurried. (It's not that he wants to get to Kavinsky faster, of course. He just wants to get out of here before Noah comes investigating.)
It's a good thing Kavinsky's not wearing anything special, because Ronan isn't, either. He may have bathed today, however. Pure coincidence.
Ronan throws open the familiar passenger-side door and drops into the seat, slamming the door shut after him. No greeting. Just a glance and a quirked eyebrow, like Get a fucking move on already.]
[and like that, before inquisitive ectoplasmic murdered-boys can come out of the woodwork, kavinsky floors it and takes off. he still changes gears the same way. the irritating clunk-clunk, off the sweet spot by a fraction of a second that's probably painfully jarring for ronan. but they're going fast, ramping up into the darkness.
heading toward the heart of de chima, but not the most efficient route.]
Hey, kittentits. [kavinsky doesn't look, but he can't be talking to anyone else.] What job they give you?
[It's so fucking grating. He wants to slide a leg over and take the clutch himself, show Kavinsky how to shift properly. Why bother owning a car like this if he's never going to learn how to drive it? Ronan's staring daggers at the stick, until Kavinsky asks that question ("kittentits"? fucker...) and Ronan remembers where his eyes are at.]
[kavinsky hums thoughtfully. not surprised. he'd actually gone to his first job a few times, morbidly curious about what if he'd find some dead bodies in the garbage or something. no such luck, of course, and he'd spaced pretty soon after that. working didn't exactly suit him.]
Powers?
[plural. the other lynches had had them. turning into shitty, flying fucking birds. superstrength. dream theft is still the best, but it doesn't hurt to have more of them. you know; unless a serial-killer comes after you to steal them by cutting your brain open, but that's neither here nor there.]
["This shit" meaning their shit. Ronan pushes the seat back and reclines a bit, stretching out those long legs of his.]
Does everyone already know? I know it's on my goddamn file already, but does everyone know?
[Because it's freaking him out a little, the fact that he's been here before. That somehow other imPorts and natives on the street can recognize him and know all this shit about him.]
[yes. you summoned another fucking bird monster, but she's tame and you named her henrietta, almost as big as the one you used to fight my dragon. yes, and you fought me in front of twenty cellphone video nerds when i first got here because you were still fucked off about that shit with your little brother. yes, and i almost got kicked out of the import convention because the fanartists drew it all wrong. drew us all wrong. you've never looked at me that way and you never will.
yes, i went after mattie again, after you ditched him and the ghost in the farmhouse alone. you must have found someone else to kick it with.]
How the fuck would I know? I don't have a running tally of who you're blowing in every fucking reincarnation. [the trees whip by faster.] What'd you get this time?
[Ronan takes this to mean his former sel...ves were wiser. Stayed out of Kavinsky's way. Of course, he'd had the others back then. A great, big fucking happy family and they're all gone now. Except Noah. Who hates him for some reason. Ronan kneads at his temple with his knuckles, glaring out the window.]
Haven't tried it or anything, but it's... I guess it's like a psychic thing. Doesn't matter. I'm never gonna use it. And this other thing where I don't have a body. Astral bullshit.
[those are interesting types of bullshit, but kavinsky's main observation is that they aren't a threat to him. it doesn't seem like ronan's lying. he would've picked something better than that, right? secondary observation though: power is still power.
one belief he and his basement kidnappee, currently elsewhere, have in common.]
Don't knock it. Told you about the fucking Russians. [he might have sounded like a paranoid loon a little when he did, but they'd almost killed him-- he believes that, anyway.] Chances are you're gonna have to fuck the Reds unless you wanna get fucked first. [and with that, the car bursts out of the treeline. down the hill, there's a rolling fairground, a carnival. it looks like part of it's still getting set up, but past two in the morning, the construction machinery and rollercoasters and ferris wheel sit abandoned and silent in the dark.
kavinsky turns into the parking lot abruptly, the car skidding a fair few feet, throwing ronan against his seatbelt. there's a chainlink fence, but ronan can probably guess-- it'll take more than that to keep kavinsky out if he fancies it.]
[Yes, Kavinsky sounded like an absolute tweaker. But it's not like he's the only one panicking over Russians, so Ronan supposes this is the world they live in now.
It's just so hard to care.
Ronan slaps a hand against the door to brace himself as they wheel into the parking lot, hissing a curse under his breath. Fast driving is not good driving. When will Kavinsky learn that? Finesse, man.]
Learn to drift, potato hole, [kavinsky answers, gleeful. the mitsubishi swerves to a messy, stylish stop, spitting gravel out from behind it. once upon a time, he'd killed a bird monster after a near-identical maneuver, but that was a long time ago.
he parks. unlocks the door and climbs on out. walks around back to the trunk, and hauls out a duffel bag-- hard to know exactly what's in it, but there's definitely a familiar clonky clink of beer, at the very least. bolt-cutters would also seem pretty logical, but kavinsky bangs on the car roof to hurry ronan out, and then there's a key in his hand.
it doesn't look like it's for the mitsubishi. it looks spiny, almost, the metal black, thorny more than forged. an unmistakable dream thing.]
And when the fuck are you going to dream yours, Lynch? [car.]
[Ronan only barely suppresses the urge to explain a proper counter-steer, and only because he's sure it's not worth the effort. If Kavinsky hasn't learned by now, he's basically doomed to be a shitty driver forever.
Ronan's out of the car a second later, slamming the door shut. It's somewhere around that moment that he realizes his heart is racing and it's got nothing to do with the turn they just took.
He joins Kavinsky with a few steps, looking first at the duffel bag, then at the key. He can guess.]
Burn it, [kavinsky says. he sounds as spectacularly indifferent about that prospect as he had been about drawing shit on the dash of the mitsubishi in henrietta.] Make new. [he gestures with the key, like a conductor starting off an orchestra for an opus. but he's never seen much of a difference between creating, copying, and destroying, anyhow.
he steps toward the chainlink fence. ahead of him, the carnival looks vast and quiet, either asleep or haunted. it doesn't bother kavinsky, but it wouldn't. he has more cocaine than blood in his body right now, or that's what it feels like. predictably, the key fits the padlock and it pops open easy as you like.] Or don't. Either way, you fucking miss it. Right? One of the sticks up your ass right now is 'sad you don't got your own.'
Don't know how you fit it up there with 'ghost of Gansey's cock.' Miracles. [rattttle. he pushes the gate open. there are no guards.]
[This, because Kavinsky is still on this Gansey thing and it's irritating as hell. Gansey's not even on the planet anymore. This is a world thoroughly without Gansey. Thanks for reminding him.
Kavinsky's not wrong though. He should burn the car. Maybe he'll even invite Kavinsky to watch. Maybe that'll shut him the fuck up.
Ronan follows after him, undeterred by the spookiness of the place. Or even the possibility that someone might catch them trespassing. It's so small. Every single concern he could have right now feels small and insignificant and not worth lingering on.]
[kavinsky laughs at the other boy. at some point between the blackout and dying and the murder cabin and the paranoia after the russian invasion, he became a little less discomfited by silence. usually, he can fill the quiet pretty well, anyway. with crazy person laughing, the jitter and fidget of his own movements.
he leads the way in. following along the insulated conductor cords on the ground, jumping the turnstiles, following along to the generator shed. the way the duffel bag bangs his hip doesn't seem to bother him. but that's the nice thing about doing enough stimulants; one feels no pain.
two more key turns. and the carnival comes alive.
lights garland the evening with color, and the merry-go-round-- probably glitchy-- starts to play a song and spin. all the other rides behave, waiting amid a clash of cheerful music. there's even a bumper car track.] Dealer's choice, [he says, flipping the thorny key at ronan's chest. he digs a beer out of the bag.] You wanna play, or you wanna wreck it?
[What a strange errand Kavinsky's brought him along for. Ronan had been wondering what the game was, but he hadn't expected it to come down to his choice. He looks around slowly, his eyes moving from ride to ride, pale eyes squinting against the sudden light.
What's he meant to do with the key? For now, he simply turns it between his fingers, feeling the sharp edges of it. Unconsciously, while he ponders, he's squeezing until it feels like he might break skin.
There's no part of him that feels capable of playing.]
[kavinsky's eyes brighten, and then flatten, then sharpen again, his eyebrows shifting minutely on his narrow, boyish face. he's a little surprised.
but just a little. he knows ronan would have picked differently if, for example, there were li'l crying babies watching.
he lets a smile grow slow across his face, multiplying like a blight through the leaf of a plant— ugly-pretty the way that kavinsky favors. he steps closer to the other boy, but not touching, raises his arm to point across the fairground. not all the way across. it's pretty close. the crawler crane right there. its massive crawlers promise heavy traction. enough to push some pretty fucking heavy shit over.]
[Ronan's gaze follows Kavinsky's direction, landing on the crane. Ah. Now he understands. There's not going to just kick over a few carousel horses or find some crowbars and start swinging. They're going to wreck it. All of it.
He gets moving, walking with a long stride but not exactly hurrying. He wants to look neither reluctant nor overeager. Just cool with it. Just down for anything - especially the shit he shouldn't be doing.
When he reaches the crane, the door's locked, of course. The key doesn't seem like it should fit, but it does, in the way that dream things simply do. The door swings open and Ronan climbs into the cockpit. The key works again, this time to get the thing started.
He's never worked one of these before. What lever does he pull?]
[kavinsky jumps up into the cabin of the wrecking machine, with the same rangy grace of a dog. he ends up overshooting a little, probably-- not entirely by accident, colliding his shoulder into ronan's. he digs a beer out of the bag, before slinging the thing onto the ground by their feet. it lands with a weighty thud, and kavinsky settles his shoes over it.
he cracks open the beer. laughs into the night. delighted— more by ronan's hairbrained fucktardery and utter ignorance of the underlying implications than anything. on the edge of his mind, there's the hysterical memory of ronan screaming at him to get down. he barely sucks out a sip before he's stuffing the drink into ronan's mouth— if backwash is the wrong kind of kiss for v-day, nobody told him-- and his near arm clobbers the buzzed-off top of ronan's head. congratulatory.]
Nobody does revolution like the potato niggers.
[well done, lynch. you done fucked up, and about to fuck up some more!
he picks a random lever and pulls. the machine roars, and begins to grind backward toward the chainlink fence.]
[Ronan isn't entirely clueless. He's aware, at least, that he's caught in a spider's web. He may not know everything about the future, but he knows what it was about Kavinsky that drove him to leave the field by himself after their dreaming marathon.
That was a different world, though. A world with Gansey in it. A world with Adam in it. Ronan is alone here, with a Noah he hardly recognizes, living in a house that belonged to someone else with his name. He can't even retrace his old steps, because he doesn't want to go where they lead. He doesn't want to be the Ronan that Noah remembers. But this leaves him feeling like no one at all.
Ronan hardly reacts to Kavinsky's sloppy antics. It's not unusual, K being coked out of his mind and falling all over himself. He drinks what Kavinsky gives him (he doesn't mind this sort of kiss) and ignores all the racist shit in favor of paying attention to what the crane's doing.
They back up into the fence with the crash and crunch of metal before Ronan pulls another lever and they go forward again. They almost hit a booth before he brakes with a jerk and goes for a different lever. This sends the crane arm swinging from left to right. Another lever, and the jib drops suddenly, smashing into a Tilt-a-Whirl car.
It crumples so easily. Like crushing paper in his palm, but far more satisfying.]
[crash. screech! metal snapping, tearing like paper. kavinsky laughs, primal and free-- he thinks he's pleased with this part of ronan emerging, angry and alone. stomping on what are literally children's toys. granted, his pleasure is a function of being an idiot with no awareness of his own true needs, or the subconscious draw of the secret, squishy, soft and sweeter parts of ronan's nature, ill-concealed behind the back tats and deft uppercut. who cares about needs when you have beer, cocaine, and wanton destruction.
he looks at ronan's profile, fierce and striking, limned in carnival lights. hell. what else could you need.
he winds up pushing up on his seat, almost falling again at the lurch of the machine. he twists around to look out as the crane swivels on its base, putting his head partway out the window. it's the kind of thing you do if you aren't afraid to die. his fingers manage to scuttle his phone out of his pocket. tinny music leaks into the air, an aggressive, ugly pulsation of beat after beat.]
Ferris wheel? [he looks down, his teeth savage and overbright against his gaunt face.]
[As always, Kavinsky is the match to Ronan's stick of dynamite. Ronan looks at him, lingering a split-second too long and immediately pretending that he didn't, gaze refocusing on the target.
They could be caught. Any minute now, a security team or the police could show up. They've made so much noise already. Ronan has no idea what the consequences would even be in this world. He's pretty sure he's not considered a citizen. From the way the locals talk, it doesn't seem too big a stretch to assume his actions could be labeled as terrorism.
The thought doesn't scare him like it would scare Adam or Gansey. It's exhilarating. He's got butterflies in his stomach the way people do when they fall in love. Fuck it, right? Some people die pointlessly on the driveway of their home. Execution for terrorism is a better way to go. At least he'll see it coming.
Ronan messes with levers and shit until the machine starts creeping in the direction of the ferris wheel. It's so fucking loud, huffing and rattling through the silent night. Ronan swings the crane arm again once the ferris wheel's within reach, and with a BANG the night grows ever louder as a car goes flying off the ride and smacks into the Matterhorn.]
Fuck yes.
[Restrained, under his breath, like he doesn't want Kavinsky to know how much he's enjoying it.]
[more laughter from the bulgarian mobster trash. he hangs halfway out the window, his fingers tight on the edge of the roof. when the collision happens, the whole cab shakes, the sound is so loud, but he holds on. the momentum shakes him like the wind snapping taut through a flag. flags don't break; flags are built for that, and kavinsky was built to celebrate the chaos of wanton destruction. his eyes are hooded, greedy for the sights. he isn't nearly self-aware enough to acknowledge he's as hungry for the company.
he isn't worried about terrorist charges. he'd come up with something if it happened, but he isn't worried. they'll be in and out. like motherfucking thieves.]
Hey. Hey, [he twists his head around to look at ronan. baby boy's doing well, but even kavinsky in the thrall of adrenaline is aware that victimless crime don't come as easy to some as to others. and that catholic guilt. he scrapes a tug at ronan's ear to get his attention. lets go before the inevitable bite or shove of retaliation. he squats one leg on the seat, a gargoyle in a hijacked crane.] Lynch.
Push it over, [push the fucking ferris wheel over,] or we can switch to cocktails. Your choice, honey. Whatever you want for dinner. Long as you don't get fat.
[Positioned like that, literally tugging on his ear, Kavinsky feels like the devil on Ronan's shoulder. Ronan glances at him, distracted at first by the way his hands are shaking. He's so tense, there's an ache in the scar where Murphy put a blade through his forearm a couple days ago. But that's not the reason he's shaking.]
Why not everything?
[Ronan's getting the hang of this. He's starting to figure out which lever does what. He sits forward and pulls a few, sending the crane lurching forward and directing the arm to the very center of the ferris wheel. It hooks under a crossbeam and tangles there, sparks flying from the screaming metal. It sounds kind of like Godzilla dying, a dragging moan of anguish.
The ferris wheel tips in slow motion. Ronan's eyes grow wide as he stares at it, not wanting to miss a single frame of the destruction. He's had dreams like this.
(Has Kavinsky?)
Gravity takes over, tearing the ferris wheel free of the crane arm, and it hits the dirt with a shockwave that seems to make the earth tremble. Or maybe Ronan only thinks it does because the crash that follows the impact is so loud.]
[it's a hell of a crash. it's a hundred smaller crashes wrecking together, building up, cumulative, into one cacophony that blasts into the woods. metal shearing apart, snapping, bouncing into reduced pieces. the cars disconnecting, rolling, tumbling away. glass shattering where the base of the wheel crushes a popcorn stand, exploding it, albeit with no actual popcorn casualties.
kavinsky laughs like a nightmare. he doesn't have many of his own anymore, funnily enough. it's what happens when you take as many pills to stop your dreams as pills to dream only what you want. there's no creativity, no life, no joie de vivre to anything in kavinsky's mind when he closes his eyes at night. the occasional revenant from the remembered past, no imagination as to what the future could change.
his preferred revenants are on fire.]
Put the fucking brake on.
[he kisses the peachfuzzy side of ronan's head, an impulse as coarse as a wolf pack slamming shoulder into shoulder as they run down prey. for some animals, collision is part of moving in cohesion. he's picking up the bag the next moment, eager to burn the ferris wheel. the fucking world.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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he honks loudly in the dark in case ronan unexpectedly had an aneurysm or something. through the windows, it's clear kavinsky's dressed as usual-- wifebeater, leather jacket zipped up to his throat. possibly he hasn't noticed it's valentine's day. (he has noticed.)]
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It's a good thing Kavinsky's not wearing anything special, because Ronan isn't, either. He may have bathed today, however. Pure coincidence.
Ronan throws open the familiar passenger-side door and drops into the seat, slamming the door shut after him. No greeting. Just a glance and a quirked eyebrow, like Get a fucking move on already.]
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heading toward the heart of de chima, but not the most efficient route.]
Hey, kittentits. [kavinsky doesn't look, but he can't be talking to anyone else.] What job they give you?
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Fuck if I remember. Not like I'm gonna show.
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Powers?
[plural. the other lynches had had them. turning into shitty, flying fucking birds. superstrength. dream theft is still the best, but it doesn't hurt to have more of them. you know; unless a serial-killer comes after you to steal them by cutting your brain open, but that's neither here nor there.]
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["This shit" meaning their shit. Ronan pushes the seat back and reclines a bit, stretching out those long legs of his.]
Does everyone already know? I know it's on my goddamn file already, but does everyone know?
[Because it's freaking him out a little, the fact that he's been here before. That somehow other imPorts and natives on the street can recognize him and know all this shit about him.]
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yes, i went after mattie again, after you ditched him and the ghost in the farmhouse alone. you must have found someone else to kick it with.]
How the fuck would I know? I don't have a running tally of who you're blowing in every fucking reincarnation. [the trees whip by faster.] What'd you get this time?
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Haven't tried it or anything, but it's... I guess it's like a psychic thing. Doesn't matter. I'm never gonna use it. And this other thing where I don't have a body. Astral bullshit.
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one belief he and his basement kidnappee, currently elsewhere, have in common.]
Don't knock it. Told you about the fucking Russians. [he might have sounded like a paranoid loon a little when he did, but they'd almost killed him-- he believes that, anyway.] Chances are you're gonna have to fuck the Reds unless you wanna get fucked first. [and with that, the car bursts out of the treeline. down the hill, there's a rolling fairground, a carnival. it looks like part of it's still getting set up, but past two in the morning, the construction machinery and rollercoasters and ferris wheel sit abandoned and silent in the dark.
kavinsky turns into the parking lot abruptly, the car skidding a fair few feet, throwing ronan against his seatbelt. there's a chainlink fence, but ronan can probably guess-- it'll take more than that to keep kavinsky out if he fancies it.]
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It's just so hard to care.
Ronan slaps a hand against the door to brace himself as they wheel into the parking lot, hissing a curse under his breath. Fast driving is not good driving. When will Kavinsky learn that? Finesse, man.]
Jesus fuck. You don't deserve this car.
[Goldfish or not.]
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he parks. unlocks the door and climbs on out. walks around back to the trunk, and hauls out a duffel bag-- hard to know exactly what's in it, but there's definitely a familiar clonky clink of beer, at the very least. bolt-cutters would also seem pretty logical, but kavinsky bangs on the car roof to hurry ronan out, and then there's a key in his hand.
it doesn't look like it's for the mitsubishi. it looks spiny, almost, the metal black, thorny more than forged. an unmistakable dream thing.]
And when the fuck are you going to dream yours, Lynch? [car.]
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Ronan's out of the car a second later, slamming the door shut. It's somewhere around that moment that he realizes his heart is racing and it's got nothing to do with the turn they just took.
He joins Kavinsky with a few steps, looking first at the duffel bag, then at the key. He can guess.]
There's one already. At the house.
[But it doesn't feel like his own, does it?]
cw sexual vulgarity
he steps toward the chainlink fence. ahead of him, the carnival looks vast and quiet, either asleep or haunted. it doesn't bother kavinsky, but it wouldn't. he has more cocaine than blood in his body right now, or that's what it feels like. predictably, the key fits the padlock and it pops open easy as you like.] Or don't. Either way, you fucking miss it. Right? One of the sticks up your ass right now is 'sad you don't got your own.'
Don't know how you fit it up there with 'ghost of Gansey's cock.' Miracles. [rattttle. he pushes the gate open. there are no guards.]
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[This, because Kavinsky is still on this Gansey thing and it's irritating as hell. Gansey's not even on the planet anymore. This is a world thoroughly without Gansey. Thanks for reminding him.
Kavinsky's not wrong though. He should burn the car. Maybe he'll even invite Kavinsky to watch. Maybe that'll shut him the fuck up.
Ronan follows after him, undeterred by the spookiness of the place. Or even the possibility that someone might catch them trespassing. It's so small. Every single concern he could have right now feels small and insignificant and not worth lingering on.]
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he leads the way in. following along the insulated conductor cords on the ground, jumping the turnstiles, following along to the generator shed. the way the duffel bag bangs his hip doesn't seem to bother him. but that's the nice thing about doing enough stimulants; one feels no pain.
two more key turns. and the carnival comes alive.
lights garland the evening with color, and the merry-go-round-- probably glitchy-- starts to play a song and spin. all the other rides behave, waiting amid a clash of cheerful music. there's even a bumper car track.] Dealer's choice, [he says, flipping the thorny key at ronan's chest. he digs a beer out of the bag.] You wanna play, or you wanna wreck it?
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What's he meant to do with the key? For now, he simply turns it between his fingers, feeling the sharp edges of it. Unconsciously, while he ponders, he's squeezing until it feels like he might break skin.
There's no part of him that feels capable of playing.]
Wreck it.
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but just a little. he knows ronan would have picked differently if, for example, there were li'l crying babies watching.
he lets a smile grow slow across his face, multiplying like a blight through the leaf of a plant— ugly-pretty the way that kavinsky favors. he steps closer to the other boy, but not touching, raises his arm to point across the fairground. not all the way across. it's pretty close. the crawler crane right there. its massive crawlers promise heavy traction. enough to push some pretty fucking heavy shit over.]
Lead the way, sweetheart.
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He gets moving, walking with a long stride but not exactly hurrying. He wants to look neither reluctant nor overeager. Just cool with it. Just down for anything - especially the shit he shouldn't be doing.
When he reaches the crane, the door's locked, of course. The key doesn't seem like it should fit, but it does, in the way that dream things simply do. The door swings open and Ronan climbs into the cockpit. The key works again, this time to get the thing started.
He's never worked one of these before. What lever does he pull?]
tw n-word also mild powerpose lmk if not ok
he cracks open the beer. laughs into the night. delighted— more by ronan's hairbrained fucktardery and utter ignorance of the underlying implications than anything. on the edge of his mind, there's the hysterical memory of ronan screaming at him to get down. he barely sucks out a sip before he's stuffing the drink into ronan's mouth— if backwash is the wrong kind of kiss for v-day, nobody told him-- and his near arm clobbers the buzzed-off top of ronan's head. congratulatory.]
Nobody does revolution like the potato niggers.
[well done, lynch. you done fucked up, and about to fuck up some more!
he picks a random lever and pulls. the machine roars, and begins to grind backward toward the chainlink fence.]
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That was a different world, though. A world with Gansey in it.
A world with Adam in it.Ronan is alone here, with a Noah he hardly recognizes, living in a house that belonged to someone else with his name. He can't even retrace his old steps, because he doesn't want to go where they lead. He doesn't want to be the Ronan that Noah remembers. But this leaves him feeling like no one at all.Ronan hardly reacts to Kavinsky's sloppy antics. It's not unusual, K being coked out of his mind and falling all over himself. He drinks what Kavinsky gives him (he doesn't mind this sort of kiss) and ignores all the racist shit in favor of paying attention to what the crane's doing.
They back up into the fence with the crash and crunch of metal before Ronan pulls another lever and they go forward again. They almost hit a booth before he brakes with a jerk and goes for a different lever. This sends the crane arm swinging from left to right. Another lever, and the jib drops suddenly, smashing into a Tilt-a-Whirl car.
It crumples so easily. Like crushing paper in his palm, but far more satisfying.]
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he looks at ronan's profile, fierce and striking, limned in carnival lights. hell. what else could you need.
he winds up pushing up on his seat, almost falling again at the lurch of the machine. he twists around to look out as the crane swivels on its base, putting his head partway out the window. it's the kind of thing you do if you aren't afraid to die. his fingers manage to scuttle his phone out of his pocket. tinny music leaks into the air, an aggressive, ugly pulsation of beat after beat.]
Ferris wheel? [he looks down, his teeth savage and overbright against his gaunt face.]
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They could be caught. Any minute now, a security team or the police could show up. They've made so much noise already. Ronan has no idea what the consequences would even be in this world. He's pretty sure he's not considered a citizen. From the way the locals talk, it doesn't seem too big a stretch to assume his actions could be labeled as terrorism.
The thought doesn't scare him like it would scare Adam or Gansey. It's exhilarating. He's got butterflies in his stomach the way people do when they fall in love. Fuck it, right? Some people die pointlessly on the driveway of their home. Execution for terrorism is a better way to go. At least he'll see it coming.
Ronan messes with levers and shit until the machine starts creeping in the direction of the ferris wheel. It's so fucking loud, huffing and rattling through the silent night. Ronan swings the crane arm again once the ferris wheel's within reach, and with a BANG the night grows ever louder as a car goes flying off the ride and smacks into the Matterhorn.]
Fuck yes.
[Restrained, under his breath, like he doesn't want Kavinsky to know how much he's enjoying it.]
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he isn't worried about terrorist charges. he'd come up with something if it happened, but he isn't worried. they'll be in and out. like motherfucking thieves.]
Hey. Hey, [he twists his head around to look at ronan. baby boy's doing well, but even kavinsky in the thrall of adrenaline is aware that victimless crime don't come as easy to some as to others. and that catholic guilt. he scrapes a tug at ronan's ear to get his attention. lets go before the inevitable bite or shove of retaliation. he squats one leg on the seat, a gargoyle in a hijacked crane.] Lynch.
Push it over, [push the fucking ferris wheel over,] or we can switch to cocktails. Your choice, honey. Whatever you want for dinner. Long as you don't get fat.
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Why not everything?
[Ronan's getting the hang of this. He's starting to figure out which lever does what. He sits forward and pulls a few, sending the crane lurching forward and directing the arm to the very center of the ferris wheel. It hooks under a crossbeam and tangles there, sparks flying from the screaming metal. It sounds kind of like Godzilla dying, a dragging moan of anguish.
The ferris wheel tips in slow motion. Ronan's eyes grow wide as he stares at it, not wanting to miss a single frame of the destruction. He's had dreams like this.
(Has Kavinsky?)
Gravity takes over, tearing the ferris wheel free of the crane arm, and it hits the dirt with a shockwave that seems to make the earth tremble. Or maybe Ronan only thinks it does because the crash that follows the impact is so loud.]
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kavinsky laughs like a nightmare. he doesn't have many of his own anymore, funnily enough. it's what happens when you take as many pills to stop your dreams as pills to dream only what you want. there's no creativity, no life, no joie de vivre to anything in kavinsky's mind when he closes his eyes at night. the occasional revenant from the remembered past, no imagination as to what the future could change.
his preferred revenants are on fire.]
Put the fucking brake on.
[he kisses the peachfuzzy side of ronan's head, an impulse as coarse as a wolf pack slamming shoulder into shoulder as they run down prey. for some animals, collision is part of moving in cohesion. he's picking up the bag the next moment, eager to burn the ferris wheel. the fucking world.]
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tw suicidal ideation
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cw mention of imagined dubcon
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