[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.]
[For the first time since his arrival, Ronan's beginning to feel like he's living his own life again. There's no fucking way he did this before. He's not retracing the steps of his former self. There's no invisible third person here. There's just Ronan and Kavinsky - these two little nightmares - and chaos itself.
Ronan doesn't laugh like Kavinsky does, but his eyes are alight with satisfaction. He almost says something, and then Kavinsky's lips brush his scalp and he instantly forgets what it was. His mind turns to TV static. He barely registers enough to reach for the break.
The crawler squeals, shudders, and goes still. Ronan gets to his feet, bent almost in half because he's much too tall for the cabin, and moves to follow Kavinsky.]
[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.]
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no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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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Ronan doesn't laugh like Kavinsky does, but his eyes are alight with satisfaction. He almost says something, and then Kavinsky's lips brush his scalp and he instantly forgets what it was. His mind turns to TV static. He barely registers enough to reach for the break.
The crawler squeals, shudders, and goes still. Ronan gets to his feet, bent almost in half because he's much too tall for the cabin, and moves to follow Kavinsky.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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?
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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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.]