He's been dreaming of Ronan again. He can't help but dream of him, even knowing his efforts insufficient to pull the real boy back into a shape capable of singular, independent thought— even with the pain of searching Ronan's eyes only to find nothing hiding in the depths but more of himself and his foolish, desperately futile desire.

They are not Ronan, these echoes, but once he stumbles upon them he can no more abandon them than he could their template— he can't bear to see that face struggling with the fear of rejection or the knowledge of its true nature. And so, whenever he finds one has slipped out of his thoughts to join him in his dreams, he chooses to draw the shadow into his arms, leaning into the illusion.

This time, he leans too far.

He wakes, but not as he should. A strangely disconnected, intellectual panic surges through him as he realises he is not inside the body lying on the bed. It has his shape, but it's the same kind of strangely empty thing as Ronan's becomes when he brings something back from his dreams— and from his vantage point above he can see why.

The Ronan from his fantasy has followed him back into the world of the waking.