[Ever since the Forth of July, Ronan sees Kavinsky in his dreams.
He doesn't tell anyone, because it's just a dream, and he likes to pretend that makes it meaningless. But he knows it's more than that, it's the secrets whispered in the liminal spaces of his mind, the way that Kavinsky is still sharp, still knows Dreaming better than Ronan does.
He tells himself that this specter with whom he shares beer bottles of liquid gold is just the world's most fucked up psychopomp. K makes a sly comment over teeth about how fucked his mental state is, and they both grin. It's nothing to fucking worry about, and he lets his heart sing that like a song.
So Ronan doesn't tell anyone. Like he thinks this is a secret he gets to keep, something that will stay in the dark, like he can't see it's too big to hide. Sometimes he doesn't know if he comes for the dreams or for the sharp knife of a boy that seems nestled in this reflection of Cabeswater, kept in his favorite places: among the thorns.
These days it's always summer in his dreams, and his skin is hot and slick, and there's always the sense that there's something burning somewhere, like cars or molotovs. But maybe they were really the same thing. He wonders if that's just Kavinsky's eyes, the way he watches him as they stand under the trees.
They touch, sometimes. Not lips to lips- but fingers to tongue. Kavinsky passing him a pill orange as the Pig that tastes like a sunset and leaves him reeling for days/minutes/hours/no time at all. Ronan cutting open a pomegranate and feeding him the seeds one. by. one. until their hands and their mouths are red and hungry. He kneels and makes an old joke about dogs, and this time neither of them smiles. Kavinsky feeds him a dream, a whole world, makes him devour it from his hand. It's something he eats from his fingers slow- something to savor. Ronan looks into his eyes until there's nothing but this. Fingers heavy on his tongue, and Kavinsky grins as they shift into snakes: Ronan swallows this too. It tastes bitter. It tastes like bliss.
Careless fingers trace the curves of his tattoo and remind him he turned this into a dream, too. Ink and skin to the shifting potential of dreams, back again. Reality- memory- dream.
Kavinsky seems more real, more like himself, and that realization makes Ronan vibrate with a frustration he doesn't know how to say. This is different from chasing each other from stoplight to stoplight, breathing exhaust smoke, K's shitty sunglasses, and the way Ronan's brand of sentiment had been carved to a permanent fuck you. He hadn't known how to want him then, when K had still been alive. Maybe he wouldn't have died, if Ronan had.
When he wakes, he looks at himself from above, that disconcerting feeling of hovering over his bed at the Barns, with two bodies where there should be one. But he doesn't say it, doesn't make a lie of it even if the truth is damning. Near his shoulder, Kavinsky's breath feels as sure as the purr of an engine.
The dream had been so warm and heavy. They'd been warm and heavy. Like taffy and honey, syrup and soft caramels. Ronan knew he was dreaming. He was a King. Dream- memory- reality. Just like K taught him. He took his hand.]
for Kavinsky; your ghost was my first forgery
He doesn't tell anyone, because it's just a dream, and he likes to pretend that makes it meaningless. But he knows it's more than that, it's the secrets whispered in the liminal spaces of his mind, the way that Kavinsky is still sharp, still knows Dreaming better than Ronan does.
He tells himself that this specter with whom he shares beer bottles of liquid gold is just the world's most fucked up psychopomp. K makes a sly comment over teeth about how fucked his mental state is, and they both grin. It's nothing to fucking worry about, and he lets his heart sing that like a song.
So Ronan doesn't tell anyone. Like he thinks this is a secret he gets to keep, something that will stay in the dark, like he can't see it's too big to hide. Sometimes he doesn't know if he comes for the dreams or for the sharp knife of a boy that seems nestled in this reflection of Cabeswater, kept in his favorite places: among the thorns.
These days it's always summer in his dreams, and his skin is hot and slick, and there's always the sense that there's something burning somewhere, like cars or molotovs. But maybe they were really the same thing. He wonders if that's just Kavinsky's eyes, the way he watches him as they stand under the trees.
They touch, sometimes. Not lips to lips- but fingers to tongue. Kavinsky passing him a pill orange as the Pig that tastes like a sunset and leaves him reeling for days/minutes/hours/no time at all. Ronan cutting open a pomegranate and feeding him the seeds one. by. one. until their hands and their mouths are red and hungry. He kneels and makes an old joke about dogs, and this time neither of them smiles. Kavinsky feeds him a dream, a whole world, makes him devour it from his hand. It's something he eats from his fingers slow- something to savor. Ronan looks into his eyes until there's nothing but this. Fingers heavy on his tongue, and Kavinsky grins as they shift into snakes: Ronan swallows this too. It tastes bitter. It tastes like bliss.
Careless fingers trace the curves of his tattoo and remind him he turned this into a dream, too. Ink and skin to the shifting potential of dreams, back again. Reality- memory- dream.
Kavinsky seems more real, more like himself, and that realization makes Ronan vibrate with a frustration he doesn't know how to say. This is different from chasing each other from stoplight to stoplight, breathing exhaust smoke, K's shitty sunglasses, and the way Ronan's brand of sentiment had been carved to a permanent fuck you. He hadn't known how to want him then, when K had still been alive. Maybe he wouldn't have died, if Ronan had.
When he wakes, he looks at himself from above, that disconcerting feeling of hovering over his bed at the Barns, with two bodies where there should be one. But he doesn't say it, doesn't make a lie of it even if the truth is damning. Near his shoulder, Kavinsky's breath feels as sure as the purr of an engine.
The dream had been so warm and heavy. They'd been warm and heavy. Like taffy and honey, syrup and soft caramels. Ronan knew he was dreaming. He was a King. Dream- memory- reality. Just like K taught him. He took his hand.]