devilofaboy | Open RP Post

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Open RP Post

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🖤 General squick/trigger list.
🖤 m/m for anything shippy.
🖤 General headcanon for Ronan. If you've got different headcanon/ideas for a psl, hit me with 'em; I'm flexible.
🖤 Ronan's kink list.
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[Maybe you'd assume that they'd run in similar circles, these boys tangled up in dreams and magic. But they don't. Adrian looks like just another riche douchebag asshole, on the surface. He's charming in a way that doesn't ask for anything, makes it easy for him to exist as furniture in the background of other peoples' lives. Just another faceless boy in uniform.

He shared a few classes with Ronan over the years, brushed past each other but they never talked much, even freshman year.

But now there's this: both of them sitting on the bench outside the Headmaster's office with red knuckles. Different classes, different fights, but the set of their jaw and the way they both refuse to look cowed or apologetic is in parallel.

Aidan is different; all strangely alive in a way he rarely allows himself, almost glowing in his fury. He's all jitters on his skin, his eyes glassy but not numb. It's not enough- he wants to punch a wall until he sees which of them gives first. He needs- he doesn't know. Usually Elijah's around when he gets like this. Usually Elijah stops him before he gets like this.

The light above them keeps flickering, like it keeps pace to his wild heartbeat. He grimaces slightly, dragging fingers against the red marks on his knuckles that'll be bruises, later. His brother was going to be pissed, his father was going to be disappointed.

But Aidan still wasn't sorry.]

[Ronan was never sorry about getting into fights. If he was, he'd spend most of his life feeling sorry. He didn't have time for that. Besides, he liked to think that most of the time the boys he fought deserved to be punched. And to be fair, they usually had it coming. A snide comment about his mom, just a look when he was in a bad mood.

He looked over at the other boy on the bench, looking him over for a moment. He could tell they were here for the same thing; they'd both gotten into a fight. Sometimes, Ronan wished they'd just expel him for fighting. Gansey would hate it, though.

Leaning back, he worked a kink out of his neck with an audible crack.]

Is this your first offense?

[He didn't remember seeing him being sent to the Headmaster's before, though he could have been wrong.]

[Aidan was absolutely of the opinion that the boy he'd fought deserved to be punched. He rather thought he deserved more than just a black eye and a split lip and a smattering of bruises. One moment he'd been ease and charm and then it faded into something else. Stormy eyes and a sharp smile on his mouth- and he'd decked him in the face. The Aglionby boys always seemed surprised by the fury that lurked under his skin.

He looked over sharply at the crack of the other boy's neck. He didn't need to see it written in the boy's skin to tell that Ronan Lynch had been in a fight. But he looks anyway. Aidan brushes a hand through his hair, straightens his tie and tries to even his heartbeat. He didn't want to go into the Headmaster's office looking like he'd enjoyed it.

He can't help a bit of a laugh at the question, and his mouth briefly looks almost cruel. He's a wound cut open, and he hasn't managed to stitch himself back together.]

First time this year.

[Which was an important distinction. It meant they probably wouldn't do too much about it. Slap him on the wrist and mutter something about how boys will be boys. It was a dangerous line though, as Aidan's father was not rich enough to bribe school officials if it came down to it. And these sorts of things never really vanished from your record. But he had excellent attendance, did well academically, and his brother was part of the faculty. Yes, so occasionally he snapped and punched someone. It was hardly the worst offense committed on Aglionby's school grounds.

Aidan shakes his head, tipping it back to lean against the wall, though he resists the urge to put force behind him.]

--I still want to break something.

[It's almost a confession.]

[By all appearances, Ronan and Elijah seemed like they hated each other. But then again, they were also boys that seemed like they loved hate. They fought and they raced. And along with Adam Parrish, all three of them competed in Latin, vying for top of the class. They even had tennis together, which gave rise to some of the most aggressive matches ever seen at Aglionby.

And then Kavinsky died on the 4th. Pyrotechnics accident, or so the rumor goes.
Dimitri died in a stupid race just after the start of Senior Year. At least, that's what people say.

It's about a week later, and Elijah's drunk and miserable and angry. He has his phone in his hands, and that's always been a gateway to bad decisions. Usually they involve Dimitri. But tonight he feels like he has no one to talk to, no one that would understand-- and so he texts Ronan instead. Says the worst thing that he can, letting the poison out of his heart.]

the thing that killed dimitri came out of my dreams

[And then, like he didn't say it, or like he just doesn't expect him to do anything except laugh:]

wanna race?

[The other boy reminded Ronan a lot of himself, though he couldn't say why. There was something about the way he laughed, the way he said he still wanted to break something. Ronan lived with that feeling almost all of the time. Either he was angry and wanted to break something or he loved something so much he wanted to break things. It all seemed to circle back around to violence.]

Man. [For a moment, that was all he said. Then he followed it up with;] I know the feeling.

[It was like the feeling had gotten under his skin and lived there now. Like it belonged. But it wasn't comfortable. It wasn't-- he couldn't put his finger on what it was or wasn't. It was just nebulous and there.]

If you figure out how to make that go away, let me know.

[His tone was flat but it was semi a joke. The only way he'd found to deal with it was racing, really. And sometimes even that didn't work.]

[It took him a bit to answer, not because he was avoiding Elijah or anything, but because Ronan wasn't always the most punctual with phones. When he finally picked up his phone and went to his messages, he stared at the words for a long minute.

There was a dark, gnawing pit inside of Ronan, something that had done nothing but steadily grow since Kavinsky's death. It was guilt and longing and more guilt sprinkled on top for good measure. It wasn't as bad as it'd been at first, exactly, but it was still there. He just got better at covering it up, like a bruise hidden under clothes. Except he knew it was still there.]

I could have stopped Kavinsky from dying

[That was all he texted back, no response to the question of racing.]

[Really, Elijah's rather accustomed to Ronan's sporadic relationship with his phone. It just seems better than the option of reaching out to any of his closer friends, people who wouldn't understand anything more than that Dimitri was yes, an asshole. But Elijah was too. And he'd cared, even if he'd never said it. Let him think he was just- what?- something to pass the time? Fuck everything.

There was this yawning hole under his ribs, guilt and shame and the desperate wanting he hadn't known how to say.

But when he reads the text he inhales sharply. He's in his car now anyway, parked with a bottle and a pack of Dimitri's cigarettes, waiting for a worse idea.

If he couldn't get out of his head, he could at least get out of the fucking dorms. He almost doesn't know how to react. He'd expected something along the line of yeah whatever man, not that Ronan knew what it was like.]

is it killing you too?

Every day

[He'd been so caught up in thoughts of how he stopped Kavinsky that he'd been too afraid or busy or blind to think 'how do I save him'. He hadn't thought Kavinsky was someone he could save, but now he knew he was wrong. He could have done something, he could have acted. Instead, he'd stood by and watched.]

Do you want to get drunk?

[Was Elijah already drunk? Did he want to get drunker? If he was drunk already, they shouldn't be racing anyway. And there was that one part--'it came from my dreams'--that he hadn't forgotten about but was trying to figure out how to bring up or if he should bring it up or if he should let Elijah talk about it when he wanted to.]

yeah me too

[He feels hollowed out and empty. Time feels twisted, like a ring. Like everyone else can keep stepping through the days, but he's stuck. Caught in the tragedy of it all. Elijah felt venomous, but Ronan was poison himself, and it felt like there might be some sort of balance in that.]

god that's the best idea i've heard all night
where do you wanna meet?

[He had a feeling that Ronan would rather something better than getting drunk in the parking lot where they used to hang out before races. A cluster of badly behaved boys sitting on cars and flicking cigarette butts into traffic while they yelled at their friends. The memory burned in his veins, but Elijah was in a mood where the pain was almost a comfort.]

[He hesitated before he replied. There was really only one place he wanted to get drunk, somewhere they wouldn't have to worry about vacating when it got too late or because other people complained. Somewhere Elijah could even crash for the night instead of-- Ronan didn't want to lose anyone else.

So, he sent Elijah the address for the Barns, something he could put into maps for directions. He didn't usually invite people home, but this was- he was making an exception for the other boy.]

Here

seeya soon

[So Elijah follows the GPS ping, Ronan probably able to hear the purr of his car as his tires skid into the gravel drive.

But when he gets out of his car and looks around, he's badly affected even if he tries to hide it. He wants to choke it down into his chest where he lets the homesick ache live. But he flounders a little, unsteady, like he's not sure if what he's looking at is real or not.

Is he dreaming?

It's not home.

It's not the smell off the Texas fields, not the stables where he'd sit while his sister groomed her horse after training, or the barn that his mother turned into a greenhouse. The pool where his brother hosted college parties over the summer. It's not the mansion with cows grazing just off the patio deck. But it's... He doesn't know.

There's something about how the sun sets beyond the trees and how bright the colors of the sky are off the barns that dot the green grass. He looks at Ronan, unsteady and smiling.

But he holds out the bottle of vodka that he hadn't opened yet.]

Where are we?

[Ronan did, indeed, hear Elijah's car as he arrived. Opening the front door, he padded out onto the porch, barefoot and comfortable. He didn't bother to pull on shoes before stepping off the porch, meeting Elijah halfway to take the bottle he held out.

Instead of answering right away, he took a moment to look around the yard, as if seeing the Barns for the first time himself. He loved this place so much the feeling could strangle him. There wasn't a single thing about it that didn't feel nostalgic or homey. And yet it wasn't enough to smother the gnawing hole of guilt inside of him.

Up on the roof, Chainsaw watched them and cawed.]

Home.

[He replied simply, turning to head back inside.]

No shoes indoors.

[He added over his shoulder as he crossed the porch.]

Yeah.

[God, but there was something about that word. Home. How long had it been since he'd been back? He could, of course, just tell his parents he was coming home for the weekend, buy a plane ticket. Easy as anything.

Sure.

Except that he'd have to admit that he wasn't fine. And so he doesn't.

It makes the Barns hit a little deeper, curl closer to his heart -- or maybe he's just that rattled, that undone. Dimitri a hurt that he doesn't even know how to let himself mourn. He doesn't know for sure. He looks up at the roof and quirks a jaunty half-salute at the bird.

But there's something soft in his eyes, a complicated hurt, bleaker than he could put into words. He's half-tipsy off cheap beer already, so it's probably for everyone's good that Elijah ends up here, and not out on his own. But he unties his boots and toes them off to the side of the door without complaint, stepping inside after Ronan in soft black socks.

He hesitates a moment, and then shrugs his jacket off. Just a tank top underneath, ink up his arms.

Dreams on his skin.]

It's a nice place.

[The hush in his voice says it's more than nice, but Eli has never been good at putting that into words. Fuck. He needs a drink.]

[Ronan shrugged his shoulders when Elijah said it was a nice place. It was more than nice, it was... he couldn't quite put it into words beyond 'home' but it was such an important place to him. He could be himself here without worrying about what other people thought. Or what they saw.

He passed through the living room and into the kitchen, putting the vodka down on the counter to get down a pair of glasses. Juggling all three things, he headed back to the living room, setting everything down and opening the vodka. Maybe he should get something to mix it with...but maybe they also didn't want to beat around the bush when it came to getting drunk.]

What you said about Dimitri...

[He was never good at being subtle. He didn't know the best way to broach the subject so crashing headfirst into it seemed like the only real option. He might not have pried if Elijah hadn't brought it up in the first place and piqued his curiosity. He knew what it was like to blame yourself for someone's death, and not just Kavinsky's, in his case.]

[Elijah certainly isn't going to complain about not having a mixer to go with the vodka. He lets Ronan disappear into the kitchen to get the glasses- mostly so that he has a moment to try and pull himself back together. He finds a place to toss his coat, drags a hand down his face. It's probably a good thing he isn't racing tonight, if he's honest. But he doesn't know how to say that, so he doesn't.

Instead he just settles across from Ronan as he sets out the glasses and opens the bottle.

When the other boy mentions what he said before, shrugging his shoulders as he looks at him. He expects him to make some sort of joke about it. Because it's ridiculous, isn't it? But Ronan isn't laughing. He isn't saying anything. Just leaving the quiet there for Elijah to fill, and so he takes a breath and tries to figure out how to say it.

He doesn't know that he expects the other boy to believe him. But he's reckless, and between the hurt and the alcohol and just the weight of fucking everything he's careless enough to try.]

My dreams don't always stay in my dreams. I'm sort of-- I don't know. Like a bridge or something?

[In so far as he could be said to be good at this, he was good at the practical part. Dimitri could have explained it, but if Dimitri was here he wouldn't have to. So after stumbling over his next few words, he makes a sound of frustration, and steals one of the glasses; swords seem a bit over-dramatic right now.

It looks almost like slight of hand. Elijah shifts the glass between his hands a couple times, and when he sets the glass on the table, it isn't empty, but amber like whiskey. Normally it's to take the edge off his injuries, but it's not a bad drink in a pinch. Alcohol, but like what he thought that was when he was younger: sunsets and open fields, heat that warms all the way down.

But more than that, it tastes like a dream.

There's a thrill to it, not just the magic, but doing it like this. Doing it where someone can see. His green eyes are almost too bright, and he slides the glass to the other boy across the table, his heart racing in his chest. He doesn't say anything about it, because what the fuck does he say?]

[A bridge. If Elijah was a bridge, what did that make Ronan? He had so many questions but he stayed quiet about them for now, watching the other boy quietly as he stumbled over words and as he took one of the glasses. His curiosity was piqued when he saw the glass was abruptly not empty.

That was different than what he could do. Elijah pulled dreams when he was awake, if Ronan wasn't mistaken, but he had to be asleep to do it. Wordlessly, he leaned forward to pick up the glass, sniffed at it, and after a questioning look, took a cautious sip. It was...not what he'd been expecting. It was like memories and nostalgia made physical more than the taste of actual alcohol.

Putting the glass back down, he nodded slowly. Elijah was different than he was but- how much? How much were they alike? Ronan wasn't so much impressed as he was in awe, though he wouldn't admit it. His world was ever-expanding, growing to include not just Kavinsky but now Elijah. There was so much more magic than he'd thought at first.]

What killed Kavinsky came out of his dreams.

[He said without looking at Elijah.]

I could've dreamed something better. I could have saved him.

[But he'd just stood there. He'd stood there and done nothing except dream a night horror and watch Kavinsky die and he couldn't help but feel responsible.]

You- You can take out dreams when you're awake.

[He wanted to know how it worked, he wanted to know everything, but he didn't want to pelt Elijah with questions, either.]

[The words Ronan says have Elijah's world spinning, turned on its edge for reasons that have nothing to do with alcohol. He looks at him, quiet for a long moment as he tries to sort through his thoughts, his feelings. It makes sense, in a certain strange, fucked up way. Elijah's always drawn to people with magic in their veins, one way or another. And maybe his pool of reference for people that deal with dreams is very small, but it still seems to hold that Dreamers are more sharp edges than the rest of the world.

Reality always too much or not enough.

And fuck but his heart aches for Ronan, because it's different from Dimitri, but similar enough and he wouldn't wish this pain on anyone. He tries to focus on the dreaming, because that isn't so raw, doesn't make him want to fucking cry, and he loathes crying, especially where anyone can see. It makes him feel.. weak, and soft and ugly in the worst sort of ways.]

Sort of. I don't do it right, I guess -- at least according to Dimitri.

[He drags a hand down his arm, slow enough to let his thumb linger on each of his tattoos.]

These are all dreams. At first... well, when I was a kid, the first thing I really, truly wanted to bring out of my dreams was myself. But I could never pull that off. Instead I found that I could- I sort of...

[He trails off with an exhale, snagging the bottle and pouring the vodka as a way to buy himself time to figure out how to explain it. He drinks it empty, tilting his head back as he tries to find a way to explain it, toying with the glass in his fingertips. There's a hint there of something he doesn't quite say, but he looks away, dragging a hand through his hair.]

I pull them from my dreams on my body. But I keep them as concepts. As dreams. Doing what I did then is just ... turning that dream into something physical. But I don't always know what that is until afterwards. In order to hold a dream so I always know what thing it is, I have to make it- part of my identity, who I am. And that's apparently bad.

[He sighs in frustration, lips pressing into a thin line as the loss and the feeling that he should have done more feels almost inescapable. Emotions welling up from the hole in his chest.]

He said it was dangerous. He said it was making a bridge and not asking who you let across.

[Every tattoo, a dream. Keeping dreams as concepts, things on your own body-- that sounded-- it made his head hurt a little thinking about it. He couldn't imagine doing that with his own dreams. It sounded dangerous and like it had so much potential for things to go wrong. His dreams were already dangerous enough, even without the night horrors around trying to kill him.]

It sounds self-destructive.

[There was a risk to others too, he guessed, but more than anything it sounded most dangerous to Elijah.

It sounded like it worked vastly differently than Ronan's dreaming. He couldn't begin to understand it enough to help. But- he felt the desire to help. He'd probably be bad at it, anyway. He didn't think he was cut out to be a hero or mentor. He couldn't even stop one boy from dying.]

Did he understand all of this stuff?

[It hurt to talk about someone in the past tense, even if he hadn't been especially close to Dimitri. He knew what it was like to lose people you cared about. It was eating him alive.]

[Ronan leaves him. But no one kidnaps Matthew. 4th of July is quieter: there's still a party, but Kavinsky never shows.

Two weeks go by with no parties, and the dream pack are quiet, surprisingly scarce. The strangest part is that Kavinsky's texts stop rather abruptly. He doesn't respond even if the other boy tries to reach out -- it's two weeks of silence.

No Mitsubishi in Ronan's rearview, or pulling up next to him at a stop light with a sultry glitter in his grin as he watches the other boy through those sunglasses. No filthy suggestions about his relationship with Gansey. No gifts. Even at their worst fights, most venomous remarks hurled at one another, the silence could be measured in hours, sometimes days, not weeks.

When Ronan finally runs into Prokopenko, finally gets to ask, he gets punched in the face. But he also gets the story, clipped down to a sentence- that Kavinsky had tried to kill himself, and only just gotten out of the hospital.

When Kavinsky hears a knock at the door, he's expecting Skov or Jiang. One of his boys, the fact that they hardly leave him alone for more than a few hours right now. But he finds it hard to blame them. But he opens the door and stares into the face of Ronan Lynch, and his heart twists. He doesn't know if he's glad to see him, or if it hurts.

He looks different if you pay attention. Like he put on a few pounds, he's not as jittery, not twitchy, doesn't have that edge like he can't stay still, can't stand his own skin. Instead he just looks... drained. Exhausted. A little sad, but maybe like it's the first time Ronan's getting to really see the boy under all the pretenses and the substances.]

Lynch.

[There are still bandages on his left arm. He looks caught off-guard, unsure.]

[He hadn't thought things would get this bad. He hadn't thought they were anywhere near this bad to start with. He'd been wrong. He'd probably been stupid, too. He couldn't even blame Prokopenko for punching him. He knew just a little about how protective Kavinsky's boys were of him.

So he decided to take matters into his own hands. He'd fucked up before but- he couldn't imagine a Henrietta without Kavinsky in it, no matter how often they fought. They might not have always seen eye-to-eye, but- it hurt to think of losing him, even if Ronan didn't realize the full meaning of that yet.

There was a lump in his throat when Kavinsky answered the door. Reflexively, Ronan looked him over, gaze lingering on the bandages on his arm. Gaze flicking back up to the other boy's face, Ronan hesitated. It wasn't a purposeful silence; he wasn't trying to be a dick. He was just trying to think.]

I thought you could use some company.

[He said finally. Not are you okay or you look like shit or even I'm sorry, but there was a chance for anything. He felt...guilty. This was his fault; it had to be. He'd left Kavinsky standing alone in the dreaming field without so much as a second thought and- he sucked in a breath, rubbing a hand over his head.

After a moment, he added-]

Prokopenko told me what happened.

Mm, well. I'm not gonna say no.

[Would he ever refuse Ronan? Just seeing him again- it prompts all sorts of complicated feelings, things he knows he should say, but still doesn't have the words for. Not when Ronan's rejection still feels hot and raw, the memory of the way it felt like the whole world fell away without him in his life, by his side. He winces a little bit when Ronan says that Proko had told him what happened, though.

Kavinsky had... he didn't fucking know. He thought that he could keep it quiet, he guesses. He was erratic and temperamental, it's not like he couldn't have shrugged off going missing for two weeks. Or so he had thought. Proko telling Ronan about it doesn't sound pretty, but well- Ronan's alive and doesn't look particularly worse for wear. Nothing worse than he's had before, anyway.]

Fuck.

[It's all he can manage to say but he steps out of the way, kicking the door so it yawns open wide- clearly an invitation for Ronan to come inside. He'll talk about it, but he isn't going to do it on the fucking sidewalk. He doesn't know how he feels about him now. He wants to put his hands around his neck, he wants to worship every inch of his skin, he just-- he wants Ronan Lynch. Complicated, and maybe still a little bit destructive, but there all the same.

He can't help the fact that his heart twists just at the thought that he's here, that he gave a shit.

It wasn't like he'd learned some great life lessons or anything. Mostly it had just been getting through the drugs, and getting him to where he didn't want to jump off a fucking cliff every time his eyes were open. And he was- he was doing better anyway. He needed the company more often than not, and he promised his boys that he'd ask for it. Although it wasn't like they left him alone much at the moment anyway.

He'd thought that after Ronan's rejection, that he could just- that he could convince himself he didn't need him. But he wants his arms around him the same as he ever has. He drags a hand through his hair, shaking his head as he curses under his breath.]

C'mon.

[He wouldn't have blamed Kavinsky for saying no, actually. He wouldn't have been surprised if he'd slammed the door in Ronan's face. Ronan hadn't meant to push him to this edge- he'd never do that to anybody. Not on purpose. It made him burn with shame and guilt, a dozen what ifs running through his mind.

Stepping inside at the clear invitation, he reached behind him to shut the door, reaching out with his other hand and- he hesitated. Then rested his hand on Kavinsky's shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze like everything was normal, like everything was alright. He knew what it was like to hate yourself so much, to be so unhappy with the world that you wanted to end it all, even if his own attempt hadn't exactly been on purpose.

Stupidly, he almost asked if Kavinsky wanted something to drink, a glass of water or something, as if Ronan wasn't the guest in this situation. Shaking his head at himself, he sucked in a breath. What did he say? Silence between them had never felt awkward before, but it did now. Ronan was a master at silence, letting it stretch on and make others uncomfortable, and yet-

He swallowed, letting his hand fall away from Kavinsky's shoulder.]

Was it because of me?

[He had to know and he trusted Kavinsky not to sugarcoat it.]

[Kavinsky closes his eyes as Ronan rests his hand on his shoulder, leans into the contact in a way that's more obvious than what he would have allowed himself before. But the lines were a mess now, where they stood, what Kavinsky could get away with-- Ronan had already rejected him, it wasn't like he had much left to lose.

He doesn't say anything.

K just lets the silence linger, lets Ronan come up with what he wants to ask, what he needs to know. He's already bled for him once, he can't quite bring himself to tear his heart open without at least knowing that Ronan needs to know. It used to be that silence between them was the easy part. It was when they filled it with words that things were strained, but now it seems reversed.]

Yeah.

[He isn't going to lie about it, he doesn't try to sweeten it or try to make it easier to swallow. And for a moment, there's that same flicker across his face that there had been back in the dream field- hurt. But this time he can't quite choke it down, and it stays in his eyes as he tries to articulate it.]

I helped you because I thought it would mean something to you. I thought- I thought that I would mean something to you, that you cared. And you just left me standing there with my dick in my hand, and then you wouldn't even text me back. It felt like you used me.

[He shakes his head, blinking slowly as he tries to casually drag his hand across his eyes. Like Ronan might not notice that he's still wrecked. Talking about it still hurts, and his lashes are damp when he looks at Ronan, meeting his eyes, raw and hurt. But he's not angry, he doesn't say it like he's trying to hurt him so much as just explain so he understands what it meant to him.

He wishes he could be; anger would be easier.]

It's not your fault, though. I'm a fucking mess, Lynch. And I guess the drugs weren't the best way to cope. You were just.. it felt like without you I couldn't breathe. And I couldn't handle it.

[He doesn't quite say it, even if he knows he should. What the fuck does he have to lose now? But he can't do it. He can't give him his heart just to make a point, if it's just fucking academic. He can't tell him just so that Ronan understands, if it's not because it means something.]

[Hearing the truth was almost- it wasn't a comfort but he knew that what he'd done had brought them to this point. Kavinsky said it wasn't his fault, but he'd still been the final straw. The last thing that the other boy had been able to handle before breaking.

Ronan took another deep breath, dragged a hand over his scalp. The truth was painful. It wasn't pretty. But he had to say it.]

I did. I- [-used you.] I didn't think about how you'd feel. I thought everything would go back to how it'd been before.

[But Kavinsky hadn't wanted that. Ronan saw that now. His- not callousness, really, but his...lack of understanding where Kavinsky had been coming from had almost caused terrible, irreversible things. He'd only been thinking about fixing the Pig so he could bring it back to Gansey, through any means necessary. He hadn't meant to use Kavinsky, but the other dreamer had presented an undeniable opportunity. Just because he hadn't meant to though didn't mean he could shove the blame onto someone else.]

I didn't think I was going to hurt you. You're- [He gestured vaguely with one hand. Kavinsky seemed like he'd be around forever, untouchable, always there.]

I do care, though.

[He was just shit at showing it, especially with Kavinsky. But if he didn't care, he wouldn't be standing here right now having this conversation.]

I'm- [God, did Kavinsky love him? Was that what this about? The realization made his chest feel tight. Ronan could hardly look him in the eye, but he forced himself to.] -I'm sorry.

[If he'd known, if he hadn't been so stupid, he wouldn't have left the other boy standing there in the dreaming field that day. At least, not the way he had. There was no reason Ronan had to be against him. They weren't- fuck, they weren't enemies. It wasn't like they'd pledged to hate each other. Kavinsky hadn't wronged Ronan in some way. It was the opposite, if he was being honest.]

[It would be fucked up to say that hearing Ronan admit to it was a sort of peace. But it was. Just the fact that they could at least both admit to what had happened, that Ronan wasn't going to look him in the face and claim that he hadn't hurt him -- it was some sort of a balm. It made him feel a little bit better about the fact that he still wanted Ronan, anyway.

You'd think nearly killing himself over the other boy would be enough to get him out of his veins, steal his heart back. But K wasn't the only thief in Henrietta.

He can't help huffing a laugh when Ronan says that he didn't think he was going to hurt him. He doesn't say it, but he can hear it in the silence, in the way that he gestures at K, like Ronan had though he was untouchable, indestructible, as strong as he pretended. But Ronan's right: he hadn't wanted the way that things had been. He'd always wanted more. But then he says I do care, though and K hesitates, looks at Ronan, unsure of what to say.

But he knows that it means something that he's here, that they're fucking-- that they're talking about it. Neither of them were good at it, but Kavinsky is trying, and Ronan seems to be, too. He meets his eyes, and his breath catches at the words. They're simple and stupid, really- what was I'm sorry after everything he'd been through? Except that it does mean something, because K knows that they aren't words that come easy to him. He knows that he wouldn't say the words if he didn't mean it.

Kavinsky loved Ronan. Still loved him. And god, but he felt like an idiot for it. The fact that even after he put a switchblade to his wrist for home emptied out he felt without him that he still just wanted Ronan's arms around him. But if nothing else, Ronan saying that he cared was at least- it was enough for Kavinsky to be able to say it, even if he's almost worried that it'll be too much]

I'm sorry too. I still shouldn't have- fuck. I just didn't.. I thought you were walking away from me forever. I loved you.

[He doesn't say I still love you, but it's in his eyes. It's in the way he has to curl his hands to keep himself from reaching out to him. He flinches, looks away from Ronan and his blue eyes, shrugging his shoulders as he rubs a hand over his face. Fuck. But as much as he hates how this feels, the uncertainty and feeling like with one wrong word Ronan will vanish from his life all over again-- he's handling it better than he would have before, at least.

Not that he wanted to admit that the cocaine might have been making things worse, even if it got him through the day.]

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just a small thing :3

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yells oh no this was perfect

:3

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