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[The world had gone to shit and it'd gotten better. It'd done both at the same time. Mostly though, it'd gone to shit. Kavinsky considered himself lucky to have survived with his boys but he knew there were plenty of other people who weren't as fortunate. Aglionby graduates had been guaranteed a spot in Henrietta's vault, which he hadn't even known had existed until a few days before the announcement.

But they'd needed vaults for a very important reason; the third world war. It'd been sparked by the existence of Dreamers. As a Dreamer himself, he felt like he should have done something to help but he also hadn't wanted to bet his survival against nuclear weapons.

To back it up even farther, to the very beginning, he'd survived the Fourth of July. Skov had pulled him down from his car when Lynch had done nothing. Skov had talked sense into him and convinced him to give continued living a try. Kavinsky owed a lot to him. Though his dragon had died in the fight against Ronan's night horror, it wouldn't be the last dragon he dreamed up.

After graduating Aglionby with the rest of his boys, he'd taken a solo road trip to try and clear his head. He needed it after Lynch had fucking ghosted him after the Fourth of July. For some stupid reason or another, Kavinsky was still head over heels in love with him despite everything. But he had Prokopenko in his life and his dream was- well, a dream. Perfect and wonderful and for a while he was enough. It was a good thing Proko hadn't gone with Kavinsky on his road trip though; the Moderators tracked him down. Dreamerkillers who wanted nothing more than to see him dead. He'd dreamed a new, better dragon to deal with them, one that didn't hate him.

With the Moderators eliminated, he'd gone back to Henrietta with his dragon, keeping it hidden from everyone except his boys. It hadn't been long after that that chaos had broken out. Ley lines had started waking up, the world had started to change, and dreamers rose up against those who wanted them dead. Old dreams started to wake up, some of them kind and gentle, some of them dangerous and aggressive. Of course, all of that had led to another war.

Which was why people were ushered into vaults to be able to survive the nuclear weapons and the fallout that would follow. The best and the brightest were guaranteed spots in the vaults. Boys from Aglionby, people attending prestigious universities like Harvard, scientists, engineers, etc and so forth. The rest of the population had a raffle for any leftover spots, which went over as well as one would imagine. The cryogenic technology was good though and everyone who made it into a vault was frozen for the next two hundred years. Meanwhile, nature was left to twist and warp from the fallout, humans turning into ghouls, animals mutating into monsters, plants twisting into strange versions of what they'd once been.

After those two hundred years passed, the first round of survivors from the vaults were awakened to try and rebuild the world, setting up towns and recreating lost technologies. Fifty years later, Kavinsky and the rest of the vault survivors were automatically awakened by the settings on their cryochambers.

With most of the dangerous radiation gone, the world was left a mess. Henrietta had been partially rebuilt though thanks to the efforts of those who'd been awakened fifty years previously, and most surprisingly, the Kavinsky mansion still stood. The rest of the neighborhood didn't fair as well but there was a house here and there that had escaped total destruction.

Kavinsky hadn't wasted much time dreaming up solutions to the problems he faced. The Moderators were no more and dreamers could be a precious resource, though one not everyone was eager to trust. He turned his mansion into a home for his pack, setting it up with dreamt electricity and running water, sharing some of his dreamed objects with people in town who didn't treat him like a thug or a monster.

He also made sure to dream up security and defenses for the mansion- not because he was that worried about other people but because he was worried about the creatures. He dreamed a dragon-dog to guard the house in addition to his dragon from the summer the Moderators had attacked him, which had survived somehow (he didn't know how but he wasn't going to question it).

Some of his boys helped out where they could. Swan helped in the fields to aid in growing food. Jiang lended a hand cooking here and there when he could. Skov assisted with patrols of the town to make sure ghouls or other nasties hadn't crept in. Proko- Proko spent most of his free time racing down the empty streets, but so did Kavinsky. They were alike in that way.

Things were rough sometimes, especially when it came to food and clothes, but they all managed to make do. There was always something to do, something to keep them busy. It wasn't as bad as it could have been; they were all alive and together, K's boys. He didn't have to rage against the world alone.

The neighborhood was dark at night but Kavinsky's place was always lit up, a beacon in the blackness. All of his boys were in, the driveway crammed with cars, and they were drinking and laughing, having a good time. Skov and Jiang were roughhousing while the other three watched like it was a sporting event. Eventually, though, Kavinsky realized someone was at the door. Not because he heard knocking but because his still-unnamed dragon-dog was barking its head off outside.

Putting his drink down, he slipped away from Proko on the couch and went to answer the door. He opened it, expecting to see someone from town, someone needing a favor, not- Lynch. His heart and stomach both lurched. For a moment he felt numb, then the surprise and other emotions slid in. Kavinsky hadn't talked to Lynch since the Fourth of July, hadn't seen him since- fuck, he didn't even know when.

His dragon-dog was in the driveway, a healthy distance away from the other dreamer, and its barking had dissolved into low, menacing growls. The security system around the mansion was designed to keep out monsters and ghouls, not people. That was what the dog was for, to deter and potentially attack anyone who meant them harm.

Kavinsky was staring. He hadn't known Lynch was still alive, didn't know what'd happened with Parrish and Bryde and Hennessy and everyone else. Didn't know that Lynch was more or less responsible for starting this war. Didn't know that he'd slept under Ilidorin's roots, the magic of the ley line and the great tree protecting and preserving him all of this time. Two hundred and fifty years. Two hundred and fifty years and Lynch had found his way back here to show up on Kavinsky's doorstep- for what reason? He looked good, not wasteland-wanderer-chic but- he looked like himself. A little older than the last time Kavinsky had seen him.

He was still staring. Finally, he rearranged his face into a sneer, trying to play it off like he wasn't as affected by Lynch's arrival as he really was.]

The fuck are you doing here? I thought you were dead.

[Ronan Lynch.

Words that had echoed down through the dreams, through the strange paths that he has walked as he slept with his body tangled in the roots of a tree that loved him, old as some of the dreams that had so terrified the Moderators. He hadn't quite known what it meant at first the words running together, and it had been so long since he'd heard his name. Since any creature had called him something other than Greywaren, even if it felt like he'd been shit at it.

Ronan Lynch. Sweetheart. Dog. Princess--

Eventually the words started to make sense, the voice started to make sense. Dreamer. His Dreamer. He was so much a dream himself, so heavy with the energy of Illidorin's Ley Line, he'd been a King here for so long..

And then he was Awake.

There was a forest here now. Trees not as old or as wise as Illidorin, but they knew him. They whispered greywaren on their chill breaths, and Ronan found his way out from the forest, back to a world that felt strange and like it was someplace he didn't quite belong to. He almost thought that he'd stumbled into a nightmare at first, but nothing he did changed it, and he finally remembered what reality was like. A very large white night horror ambled after him, tongue lolling from its mouth as its eyes looked around in all directions to take in their surroundings and nuzzled into his shoulder.

Ronan shook his head, putting fingers to its skin. Was it the one from the 4th, or had he dreamt it? They were the same answer, in the end. He just shook his head, jerking his head back toward the forest. Stay-- He thinks it like he would in a dream, but one way or another it seems to get the intention and it ambles unevenly back between the tree trunks flapping its wings to shake them out.

He doesn't really remember how he gets to Kavinsky's. He just- followed the pull. Almost like a dream, but not quite. There's a long moment where he just looks at the other boy, like he's waiting for him to respond to the words he's thinking, and doesn't quite understand why he isn't. But eventually he frowns and slowly works his lips, a flick of pink tongue against his mouth. But it's guileless, like he hasn't spoken to anyone than trying to get his attention. His voice is a little strange, breathy and soft, like a whisper through the leaves. He pauses to try and make his words sound more like how he thinks his voice used to sound.

It's not that he seems older, but he seems tired, overwhelmed, almost confused. Out of sorts, someone who knew him might say, but it's different than that. Of course, for over two hundred years he isn't really doing badly. But it both has and hasn't been that long for him. In some ways it's been even longer. Time was a circle, moments were dewdrops on spider's thread. When they merged together -- when Ronan held them in his hands -- it was every moment and none of them. It was dreaming.

He frowns softly, a slight tilt of his head as he looks at Kavinsky standing in the doorway, like he thought that he knew the answer.]

I was.. you called to me. So I came to you.

[He says it simply, like truth, but like there's weight to it this time. How many times had Kavinsky called to him or reached out to him before, and Ronan had flinched from it? Scared or guilty or terrified? But Ronan had so many more dreams than he had before. And he doesn't have the same walls that he had before, like he was all sharp teeth and he'd bite first just to make sure no one hurt him. He's all soft edges and wide blue eyes, like just the world around them is sharp on his pale skin.

But he'd wanted something. Wanted it enough to burn the whole world for it. And Kavinsky had been part of that, not that Ronan intended to tell him.

What was the point of the world if the boy he wanted still felt like dying? He had thought he could apologize if he fought hard enough. Do whatever it took to give him a world where he could breathe. But that had been so long ago. Now... it was something different. Like something tied them together now. Like being awake came with a price; something he couldn't deny.

He's reminded strangely of Gansey's old dead Welsh King -- what would Kavinsky wish for?]

I was sleeping. For- a very long time. You woke me.

[Kavinsky's face scrunched. What, was he capable of putting out a siren's call now that could draw in Ronan from however far away after however many years? Ronan had to have been in a vault, that part seemed simple enough, but the rest- Kavinsky didn't know. He'd dreamed about Ronan over the weeks since he'd been released from Henrietta's vault but dreaming about someone wasn't the same as calling to them or waking them. Then again, they were dreamers.

Oh fuck, he hadn't dreamed this Ronan who was standing on his doorstep, had he? That idea alone was enough to make his stomach lurch. Trying to play it cool, he took a deep breath, exhaling slowly.]

Okay. You know, I haven't been out of Henrietta since I woke up, so...

[So he had no idea what the fuck was going on. But something was different, off, and...he couldn't stay angry at Ronan. Shit had been fucked before and it was easy to point fingers, but that'd been several lifetimes ago. Even if it felt like just a few months.]

Do you want to come in? We could talk about what exactly's going on.

[Inside was better for so many reasons, the main one being it was safer. The secondary one was they could go somewhere private where his boys wouldn't eavesdrop. Probably. Assuming they didn't kick up a fuss upon seeing Ronan. Kavinsky would be able to rein them in if they got out of hand, no matter what happened.

After a moment, probably belatedly, he shifted to the side and opened the door wider so there was actually room for Ronan to come inside.]

[Ronan honestly hadn't been sure what to expect. Not just from the world, but from Kavinsky. It had been how long since they'd seen each other? Ronan didn't know. How long had he been calling for him in his dreams? And Kavinsky hadn't been expecting him. Which meant... Ronan wasn't sure what it meant. But he sighs in relief at the question, nodding in response. The dreamer's temper seems to dissipate a bit, at least. He remembers the guilt, the sorrow, and he knows that he's earned it, so he knows that this could have gone worse.

He's sure somehow that K probably still has his boys around, whatever else has changed. He doesn't point out that they wont be happy to see him around Kavinsky. The memory is just out of reach, but the truth of it isn't. But Kavinsky wouldn't invite him in if he couldn't handle it, if he wasn't willing to deal with the pack of boys that once had been so sure that Ronan just ruined things. They were even right.]

I'd like that. It's-- everything's so different here.

[His voice hushed, and he doesn't really mean how different Henrietta is, so much as he means how different the world is, compared to spending so long in dreams. It's better than it was before, he's sure, somehow. He isn't sure that he could have lived in that world. Not now, not like this. Not when the ley lines actually speak to him.

Physically, he might be from back during that summer. Black skinny jeans and a black (albeit unseasonable) tank top under his leather jacket. Dreamt like a reflex; they had not survived the centuries the way his body did. It's mostly in how he holds himself that he's changed. He doesn't take up space in the same way- like a threat, or a warning. Not that he's weaker or softer, but like he doesn't feel the need. He doesn't have to yell that he's a threat in order to be able to prove it.

There are still sharp edges to him, but for the moment they're still lost in the layers- in the strange loudness of being in the world. So he's quiet as he steps in, doesn't push against Kavinsky as he steps into the house like he would have before, doesn't check his shoulder with his own, like even that is a fight. Instead it's just a slight touch, a brush of fingers against his side- intentional, says more than the violence would have.]

Yeah, no kidding.

[Saying everything was so different felt like the understatement of the year. Literally, everything had changed, the entire world was irrevocably different from how it'd been before they'd all been ushered into the vaults. Part of Kavinsky loved that it had changed. Part of him hated it. He missed the easy conveniences, fast food, television shows, movies, not having to take a weapon with him whenever he left the house. The list could probably go on but he wasn't in the mood to remember everything.

He was much more in the mood to watch Ronan's every move, the way he stepped inside, the way he touched Kavinsky. It was simple but enough to make a shiver run down his spine. He wasn't easy; he wasn't starved for contact. And yet Ronan touching him was- it was Ronan, after all this time.

Closing the door after Ronan was inside, Kavinsky took a deep breath. Gently, he set a hand on the center of Ronan's back.]

Do you remember where my bedroom is? Everyone else is in the living room- I should tell them you're here.

[But he didn't want Ronan to have to face them, knowing they might not be happy to see him. It'd probably be easier if he just went up to Kavinsky's room while K handled his boys.]

[It was not what Ronan meant when he said it, but he figured that it was the sort of difference that could wait until they were actually sitting down and talking to get into. Or maybe not to bring up, and see what Kavinsky had to say. Ronan was still working through the thoughts and memories and dreams, what he should say.

But he gasps softly at the way that Kavinsky puts a hand to his back, and he doesn't pull away from it. There's something unsteady to him for a breath, but he doesn't pull away. It's just- he'd forgotten what it was like. It felt different, having Kavinsky touch him like this, it was more than the slight touch he'd brushed against his side, and he leans into it, lets it linger like permission.

K is the first person to touch him, to remind him what reality had to offer in the first place. Why he'd wanted both worlds, when he'd been young and hungry enough to believe he could have it. He'd dreamt himself boyfriends and husbands and lovers -- he'd even dreamt Kavinsky a few times, but the other boy never stayed. He always left him behind. Ronan had spent a year in an empty dream that was just summer nostalgia, fireworks and bonfires, cars and the way sunlight made the hood of the Mitsubishi almost molten. Bleachers with red plastic cups, milling by the convenience store after midnight with an ice rocket crammed in his mouth because it was too hot to sleep and too hot to lay in bed at Monmouth; he might not care for Kavinsky's movies, but at least he had air conditioning, or so he used to lie to himself.

But what was this world without its King? What was Ronan without him? It had been a year, it had been more and less, but he'd never answered the question. Or maybe he just didn't want to.]

Yeah, I remember. I'll wait for you.

[He understood the things that Kavinsky wasn't saying. He understood that this was a kindness, this was Kavinsky trying to get a shield between Ronan and the bullet. He wasn't going to argue with him. He didn't feel the need to have this fight, but he was sure that K's boys would. There had only ever been one person that could talk them down, anyway.

He wasn't sure that he did remember, at least not in the way of linear memory. It was more.. like muscle memory. The certainty that if he thought about it and walked that he'd end up in his room. None of these memories, reflexes, ever went away; Ronan had just tried to tell himself he didn't need them anymore -- ever the liar.

He wants to say something, like not to get into too much trouble on his account. But this is a choice K is making, and Ronan doesn't want to devalue that, so he doesn't tell him not to. But before he heads to Kavinsky's room, he pauses, looking at him like he was struggling for the right words, the right feeling.]

I-- thank you.

[He didn't know what he was expecting when he touched Ronan but it wasn't the way the other boy gasped. It made him both unsure and eager at the same time. Hopeful, even. Ronan didn't pull away and Kavinsky thought that said a lot without speaking a single word. He wanted Ronan so bad, both sexually and non-sexually, that he ached with it. It was like a hole in his chest and there was only one thing in the world that could fill it.

Letting his hand fall away, he nodded. But then- just as unexpected as before was Ronan thanking him. He knew his boys could be rough, but they weren't rougher than the rest of the world was now. But also, they were capable of things worse than killing someone. Words. He meant words. Hurtful things could be worse than death.]

It's- yeah, no problem.

[He waited until Ronan was out of sight before he took a deep breath and stepped back into the living room. It was a good thing the other dreamer hadn't accompanied him. Ronan would be able to catch bits and pieces of the conversation, raised voices.

Swan, the fuck is he doing here-

Prokopenko, swearing without saying anything meaningful.

All at once, they started talking over each other, making a chaos of noise. Someone, maybe Skov, said something about I'll beat his face.

Then, Kavinsky, louder than before, telling them to shut the fuck up, this is my house.

After that outburst, it was relatively quiet. It took a few minutes after that before Kavinsky joined Ronan in his room, scrubbing a hand through his hair. He was just going to pretend that the whole incident in the living room hadn't happened unless Ronan asked him about it. Speaking of asking though, he had so many questions. Where did he even start?]

I didn't think I was ever going to see you again.

[K's pack had hurt him before; wounds that Ronan still carried on his heart. Things that kept him away from Kavinsky, made it so that he never reached out to him, not even during the war, when Ronan had needed him. Not just because he was a Dreamer, but because he was Kavinsky, because he was the boy that was always under his skin, and Ronan had felt so alone at the end.

So he curled up in the roots of a magical tree. He thought he would dream forever; he thought that he wanted to dream forever. He didn't know if he'd be here if he could resist the pull- there was still that voice in the back of his head that sounded a lot like Skov that said Kavinsky was worse off with Ronan. That he only ever hurt him.

But what about now? He didn't quite know. He felt- different from the teenager too scared to say any of the things they had both needed him to.

He walks to Kavinsky's room without really thinking about it- muscle memory. When he walks in, it reminds him a little of his dreams. Where Kavinsky left him behind but he'd stayed in the dream. He'd laid in his bed alone, breathing in the scent of him, that feeling like he was just around the corner, going to walk back in any moment. It was his dream, after all. Surely he could bring Kavinsky back to him. But he never does.

He'd given the BMW glowing blue LED headlight frames, a variety of garish paint jobs, as if he could summon the white specter of the moonlight Mitsubishi, all boyish glee trailing him from stoplight to stoplight. Except that he was alone. Sometimes he'd catch a whisper from the corner of his eye- or maybe just imagine it- like something hunting him, a shadow he couldn't shake because he didn't really want to. But there was never anyone behind the driver's side window, never Proko sloppy on the passenger side, with Swan, Skov and Jiang crammed into the back. Bulgarian rap blaring too-loud from abused speakers, abusing his breaks to get Ronan's attention.

It had been a wish, not really a dream. And there was too much contentious history left hanging between them for Ronan to summon him to him like something he could have. Like he could just dream Kavinsky's life around him and pretend that it had never gone wrong.

But it had.

Maybe it was why it had to be Kavinsky to wake him; two hundred years of dreams and maybe he'd still been waiting.

He knows that it's probably a mercy that he can't hear what Skov and Proko have to say about him being here. He's thought so many unkind things about Prokopenko out of jealousy. Like if he could pretend that the boy was unattractive, then he wouldn't have to worry about not being enough. When the truth was that he was not enough for other reasons -- because he didn't know how to choose him until it was too late. He can hear K raise his voice, but not the words. Unlike Monmouth, the sound insulation at K's place isn't fucking awful.

And then a few moments later and he was back, skinny line of his body that Ronan wanted to wrap his around around. K was messing his hair with his fingers and Ronan had the distinct urge to brush the other boy's bangs back off his forehead, to feel his hair between his fingers. To touch him like it's something that he had ever known how to ask for. He doesn't do it, but he recognizes it, accepts the desire. It just doesn't feel like the right moment for it, doesn't feel like he has permission yet.]

I didn't either. I didn't think I'd ever wake up, to be honest. Thought I'd just- dream until the world itself forgot me.

[He hasn't touched anything in K's room, just looking around and quietly comparing the differences between what he remembers. He's quiet for a moment, but then when he looks up and meets the other Dreamer's eyes, there's guilt that shines in Ronan's face, slides from his skin. And when he tries to carefully explain, the sentiment I wanted a better world for you goes unsaid. But it hangs there, between them, like how talking in a dream bares your secrets. He can't not tell him, even if it's not in words.]

I made such a mess of things, K. I thought I could make a better world for Dreamers. But I didn't think it would be like this.

[Kavinsky didn't like fighting with his boys, not when it was about something serious that really mattered. He knew they were just trying to protect him but he didn't feel like he needed to be protected from Ronan. Not anymore. What he really felt was a nearly overwhelming desire to kiss him, to wrap him up in his arms. But he didn't.]

You're impossible to forget, sweetheart.

[As if Kavinsky, at least, would have ever been able to stop thinking about him, no matter how many decades passed. He could be on his deathbed and he'd still remember Ronan Lynch, the boy he'd nearly died for.

He stepped closer, reaching out a hand to brush his fingers against Ronan's wrist. It was a simple touch but he was trying to be soothing, comforting. It wasn't necessarily his strong suit, but. He could try, for Ronan.]

This isn't your fault. How could it be your fault? I'm just- I'm glad you're here.

[He was so glad to see Ronan he was almost convinced he didn't need to know where he'd been or what had happened. Yet- he was still curious. It just...it didn't feel as pressing now as it had when he'd opened the door and seen Ronan.]

[Ronan smiled at the words, almost shy but more something else instead- affectionate, maybe. There's a warmth in his blue eyes that's a new thing, like he's capable of having emotions that are open and honest and not just either glee of various flavors of anger.]

I couldn't forget you either.

[Kavinsky steps in close, and Ronan doesn't look away, doesn't shift his body so the shape of the space between them is intrinsically at odds. Instead his breath catches, a shiver that runs down his spine. And there's something about Kavinsky's fingers against his wrist that Ronan feels, but couldn't put into words. His touch against the thin skin, against his pulse, so intimate that the other boy could literally feel the beat of his heart if he wanted to. And Ronan's always been weak to these things: hands and fingers, ankles and collarbones- the fragile parts of the body. The intimacy in the different ways you could touch someone.

It makes his blood sear in his veins, reminds him very suddenly of how two hundred years ago he'd lusted for Kavinsky in every way that he comprehended. But of course, he hadn't understood enough, not back when he was seventeen; it had mostly been frightening, had felt like sin. Now, it-- it's something different. It makes Ronan's blue eyes darken, something charged in the way that he looks at Kavinsky for the space of that moment. He looks at him like desire, but not filtered though anger and confusion, not something that he flinches from. He looks at him like someone that has absolutely imagined what he looks like naked.

He'd like to say that he wasn't always so easily affected, but that would be a goddamn lie -- not even the sort he could tell to himself anymore. Kavinsky had always gotten to him, and it's been two hundred years since he last touched someone for real and he's spent a lot of that time aching for him in dreams. His fantasies are a bit more clear now, too- not so completely blind to the things he wanted. So he can imagine what it might be like to have his fingers in his pants, to wrap his mouth around him. And fuck but he's wanted to find out.

But he tries to not get caught up in that rush of wanting, even if it's so intense he feels exposed by it. Instead he reaches out, catching Kavinsky's hand in his own. His fingers are like a caress, tracing up against the bones of his fingers. His breath is uneven, almost flushed. He'd say something about it, but it feels so obvious. And as used to dreams as Ronan is, it feels like a question Kavinsky has to already know the answer to.]

I'll tell you about it, if you want.

[He sighs, and there's an edge to his voice- something complicated, and colored with fire and loneliness. And his fingers trace against the other boy's like an unwritten apology. Because he'd had to suffer to understand.]

[He could have said something about how Ronan had ditched him that one summer but- Kavinsky was petty but he wasn't that petty. And besides, if they started arguing now, Ronan might decide to fuck off back to wherever he'd come from. Kavinsky didn't think he could stand watching him walk away again.

Besides that, Ronan was touching him. Ronan had said he was impossible to forget and he was touching him. Kavinsky didn't think he was easy, he wasn't touch starved or lacking affection in his life, but having Ronan touch him was part of some of his wildest dreams. It didn't even have to be sexual. Despite trying not to, he shivered.]

Okay.

[He shifted his grip on Ronan's hand, lifting it so he could press a kiss to his knuckles without breaking eye contact. He might have been pushing his luck but it was the mildest thing he could think of at this point to test the waters. He didn't know what Ronan had been through, just that he seemed different. And not just because he was more receptive to touching but because he seemed...off. Unsteady, maybe. It was hard to describe, but Kavinsky liked to think he'd known Ronan relatively well. And something was clearly different about him.]

We can swap stories.

[Kavinsky shifts his grip on his hand, and Ronan-- he doesn't know what he had expected. But it hadn't been the way that the other boy presses a kiss to his knuckles. And yet, somehow it's the way that he does it without breaking eye contact, the way that Ronan's lips are softly parted and his breath coming faster as he watches the other boy press his lips to his knuckles, long damaged from so many thrown punches. But it's intimate, sensual in a way that he couldn't explain.

It makes him burn.

He felt like he hadn't earned it, like he should ask before pressing for the things that he ached for. But for as calm as he seemed, there were flames in his heart, just beneath his skin. Because he was still Ronan even after two hundred years. ]

Fuck, K--

[It's like there's something he means to say, something that he wants him to understand, but it isn't in words. It's like something shifts, like Ronan can't help himself, and for a moment his blues are looking at the other boy like he's maybe the only thing left in the world that still matters to him. Like Kavinsky is a spark and Ronan catches fire with it.

He grabs his shirt in his other hand and walks him back a few steps, shoving him up against the wall- careful there was nothing behind him. He doesn't explain, he just kisses him before Kavinsky can say something, ask him what he's doing. Because Ronan doesn't quite know himself, he just needs this, he needs him, he needs Kavinsky in ways that are hard to articulate or explain. There's this connection between them, this line of ley line energy ever since Kavinsky woke him from his dreams... but it isn't why he kisses him.

He's wanted it for so much longer, for hundreds of years, since before the war, when he was just a boy in awe with the idea that it was possible to dream a whole car, when he'd just been a boy that loved cars and his brothers and racing Joseph Kavinsky. He'd never allowed himself to think too much on the details of that last point, because it was so big it terrified him. Now he loves Kavinsky so much it feels like having his heartbeat in someone else's chest, and he can admit that, at least to himself.

So he crashes them up against the wall, crashes their mouths together, hungry and desperate. Unlike Kavinsky, Ronan absolutely is touch starved, and it probably shows in how he drags a hand up the side of his face, how he shakes before he even kisses him. How he whines into the kiss, their hips slotted together, something about the way that Ronan kisses him is filthy, suggests more than just a kiss.]

Is this okay? I should've--

[When he parts to steal a breath he can't help asking, but then he shifts so he's curling fingers at the back of K's neck, and he kisses him without really finishing the sentiment or giving him time to answer. I should have asked being what he means, but they've never really been boys that asked nicely for anything, so maybe this isn't particularly unexpected in the ways that they hooked into each other. Ronan nips at the other boy's mouth, the slight press of his tongue against the line of his mouth like a request and an invitation. His other hand goes to his hip, slipping a finger into the belt loop of his low-slung jeans, his thumb tracing against the border of fabric and skin like a promise.

He sorta wants to just shove his hand down his pants, but he's trying to give Kavinsky a moment to breathe, to be sure this was okay first. But fuck, he's like a drug, a contact high every time they touched and he just wants everything he'd been too much of a coward to admit that he needed. That summer when he'd just been terrified of the fact that he wanted another boy, that the boy was Kavinsky, and that he wanted him to fuck him so hard he forgot how to breathe.

He'd wanted him with every awkward and stumbling adolescent feeling that bloomed into teenage desire. He'd been so sure he was doing something wrong, so sure existing was wrong. Now-- he was still willing to burn whatever world didn't want them, if it came down to it.]

[Kavinsky didn't know what he'd expected but it wasn't what he got. It wasn't the way Ronan looked at him like- fuck, K didn't deserve this, probably. Nobody had ever looked at him this way- except for maybe Proko. But this felt different, so much different in so many ways and Kavinsky wasn't sure what to do about it. Good thing Ronan acted instead, pushing him up against the wall and kissing him.

For a moment, Kavinsky's heart felt like it did something funny, like the sort of feeling he got from street racing- except this was a better high, a better everything. Ronan was pressed all up against him and it was better than anything he could have hoped for. They said time healed all wounds but Kavinsky had never gotten over Ronan, never stopped wanting him. He'd tried to tell himself that there were plenty of other people in the world, in his life, and that he could do better than Ronan but it'd always felt like a lie. There was no one who was better than Ronan.

He whimpered, just once, into the kiss, skin heated where Ronan touched him. He even tried to chase his mouth when he pulled away- it took a moment for him to process the question. But then he didn't have any time to answer before they were kissing again and that was okay. Everything was okay. He wrapped his arms around Ronan, one hand shoved under his jacket to clutch at the back of his shirt, the other cupping the back of his head.

It didn't take much to set Kavinsky off, and fuck but Ronan was like a wildfire right now, igniting everything in his path. Kavinsky wanted him desperately, wanted his hands on his body, his mouth, skin on skin. But more than that, he wanted-]

Please, tell me this isn't a dream.

[He pulled away just far enough to speak, breathless but not overwhelmed, desperate for this to be real, for Ronan to really, genuinely want him. He wouldn't be able to stand it if this was just some spur-of-the-moment thing where Ronan was lonely and wanted someone. Kavinsky had tried to give him everything before; he'd give him everything again if he could. He'd treat Ronan like a king, he just- he needed this to matter.]

[Fuck, but this felt perfect. Better than he could have imagined or wished for. He'd half thought that the other boy would laugh for how desperate for this he was, but maybe they'd both suffered with the same wounds. Ronan wanted to believe that Kavinsky wasn't kissing him back just for novelty, at least. He didn't think that it felt like he was. Not with that brief way that he whimpered, the way that it felt like he nearly matched Ronan's desperation, like he wanted as much as the other dreamer did.

But then there was that request, so vulnerable that it makes him want to kiss him all over again. But instead he leans their foreheads together, close enough to kiss him, but not closing the distance, just breathing in the intimacy of the proximity. He's reminded of course, of that summer when he was seventeen. Of how he would have flinched from this, lashed out at those sort of words. He'd come so close to losing him, too stupid and caught up in his own feelings to worry about it until it was nearly too late. He hadn't been able to say the right words, the truth that Kavinsky had known, even in their dreams.

He lets his hand shift from the back of his neck to cup against the side of his face, his thumb tracing against the line of his cheekbones.]

It isn't a dream. In my dreams I can never hold onto you. I-- want you, K. It's been so long.

[It felt like it was probably obvious, but those coarse thoughts of the Forth of July were a sharp reminder that he needed to say it out loud, that Kavinsky needed to hear it. His touch against his face was soft affection, but Ronan rolled his hips against the other boy like punctuation, because he was embarrassingly hard in his jeans just from kissing him.

It was like he was trying to tell Kavinsky that he wanted to kiss him, and he also wanted him without his clothes on, he wanted everything. He hadn't been brave enough to own his own desires all those years ago. The very idea of sex, of a dream where they kissed without their clothes on, would make wake gasping with euphoria before it melted into disgust with himself. The sort of shame that would last all day, like someone might know what sort of pervert he was just by looking at him.

Now he didn't care. He hoped Kavinsky could tell how much he yearned for him, that he wasn't ashamed of it, had learned things about himself walking through his dreams for so long. He wouldn't leave him in his rearview mirror, even if he could. Even if working through this was difficult, even if it meant having to convince Skov and Prokopenko and Swan and Jiang that this would be different, that he was willing to fight for Kavinsky.

He kisses him again, tender but with that same sort of needy desperation, that same way that it's not-quite sweet, that Ronan is too hungry for him, and can't help but make it filthy. His hand on his hip slipping his fingers into his jeans, just to touch against his skin. But it's also a touch like a promise. He hadn't known how to want these things back then, but he does now. Fuck, but he aches for him now.]

[There was no way he could have laughed at Ronan. Maybe if he'd been petty or truly over the other dreamer, but he wasn't. Well, he was petty but he wasn't over Ronan. He didn't know what Ronan had been through, what'd happened to him, but if he'd known this would be their reunion- maybe he would have searched for Ronan himself. He wanted to fucking cry. He wouldn't, probably, but he wanted to.

Ronan wanted him. He'd dreamed about Kavinsky. K didn't care that it'd been over two hundred years and that the world was ravaged and scarred- it was better late than never. Besides, the time had passed in the blink of an eye for him. That summer was still relatively fresh in his mind but so was everything he felt for Ronan. He couldn't ignore it; he couldn't deny it.

He swallowed around the lump in his throat.]

I want you, too. I never stopped wanting you.

[And fuck, Ronan wasn't the only one who was hard. The only thing overwhelming in this moment was how much Kavinsky wanted him. The way Ronan touched him was- it was almost more reassuring than his words. He tipped his face against Ronan's hand, nuzzling into his palm. He wasn't touch starved but this was different than with Proko or any of the others.

Pushing his hips against Ronan's, Kavinsky kissed him back, more desperate than tender because it was hard to balance the two things right now when he wanted him so much. But- he loved Ronan, he knew he did, even if it felt way too soon to actually say it out loud. It wasn't like they barely knew each other, it'd just been so long. Kavinsky didn't just fall in love, he didn't think he'd ever loved anyone before Ronan but- it was such a strong feeling.]

Neither did I. You were right. I wanted you back then, too.

[He murmured the words against his mouth, pressing kisses to his mouth, heated and needy. He was desperate for him and he didn't care if it showed. He moaned helplessly as Kavinsky pushed his hips back into him, and Ronan took it as invitation to just shamelessly grind up against him, just to feel something, just to feel him.

Even if it was just the friction of how their erections pressed together through the layers of their jeans. It was almost too much, almost overwhelming. Rough fabric and the soft cloth of his boxers, and the friction of how they pressed together. Then Ronan was trailing kisses down his jaw and the side of his neck, wet and with just a slight tease of teeth; not enough pressure to mark his skin, but just enough to make sure he felt it.

His hand shifting, undoing the button and then the zipper of his jeans, and he didn't even really stop grinding against him until he had his hand in his pants, until he was shoving his pants down just enough for Ronan to curl his fingers around the thick girth of his cock. He cursed just from the feeling, the warmth and the heat. And fuck, fuck but it had been so long, and Ronan should have done this so long ago, and it's been so long since anyone had touched him and he has to press his face into Kavinsky's shoulder to steady himself, because he wants to cry just from how much he wants him.

Instead of crying, he just wraps his hand around his cock, firm and tight as he slides his hand up and down. He strokes him a few times before sinking to his knees. His blue eyes on Kavinsky's, and he doesn't break eye contact, not even when his knees hit the floor. Not even when he keeps sliding his hand over him, rather insistently jerking him off, leaning in so that he can fit his mouth around the head of his cock. Ronan letting his tongue slide over skin, desperate to feel him like this. He whimpered audibly with how good it felt, better than anything just to be able to touch him, taste him. To know he wouldn't leave.

He wanted to take all of him into his mouth, maybe even slide him down his throat, but he was so desperate for everything he couldn't get his brain to realize that meant he had to stop touching him first. So for the moment his mouth just trailed after his fingers. He was on fire, felt like he'd burn everything he touched, but Kavinsky had always been burning too- he thought that he could take it.]

[Under different circumstances, he'd crow about Ronan saying he was right, maybe throw in an I told you so for good measure, but right now that thought never even crossed his mind. He was too busy kissing Ronan, trying to memorize the way his mouth felt, the taste of his lips. Of course, Kavinsky had been right; he was pretty sure it'd been obvious to everyone with a set of working eyes. Except for Ronan. Ronan had either been oblivious or in denial.

He groaned against Ronan's mouth when he grinded against him, hand sliding a little lower down his back. It was nothing compared to when Ronan got his pants open and his hand in his boxers and- Kavinsky wasn't usually so affected by these sort of things but his pale skin was flushed and he felt a little weak in the knees. It was a good thing he had the wall behind him to help hold him up. He would have laughed at the way Ronan swore if Kavinsky himself wasn't so tangled up in the feeling of his hand on his dick. Instead, his eyes fluttered shut for a moment and then he was peering at Ronan through his dark lashes.]

Oh, fuck.

[It was something like a gasp or a murmur as Ronan got down on his knees, Kavinsky only letting go of his shirt with great reluctance. It took a lot of effort not to just put his hands on Ronan's head and push him down on his cock, but he managed, even if his hands shook a little. He didn't want to ruin the moment- and what a moment this was shaping up to be. He'd figured there'd be a lot of talking, explaining, maybe they'd get angry with each other- not this. This was something out of his wildest dreams.

He moaned, utterly shameless, as he kept eye contact with Ronan. Honestly, he was so turned on he wasn't sure how long he was going to last with Ronan's hands and mouth on him. But he didn't want the other dreamer to stop, either, so he did his best to hold together the scraps of his self-control.]

Fuck, Ronan.

[Kavinsky was fucking gorgeous like this. Not that he wasn't always gorgeous, but there was something about the way that he looked when he was flushed, and Ronan could see the pleasure in his face, and it just made him want to give him more. There was probably a touch of irony in here somewhere, in the fact that as sexual as Kavinsky is- or so the rumor goes- it was Ronan that had pulled them into this. But he just couldn't help himself, he couldn't help wanting him, wanting to touch him, to feel him in all the ways he'd ached for any never had. And he wants to show him how much he wanted him.

It hadn't seemed like Kavinsky would complain.

He keeps looking up at him, a bright glimmer in his blue eyes, and maybe something rather like a smile, despite his mouth being currently wrapped around the other boy's cock. Ronan wasn't particularly inclined to pull back, to let K slip from his mouth without a very good reason. He does eventually figure out that he has to pull his hands away if he wants to really take him in his mouth, letting them drop away to rest on his thighs. Not touching himself, but close enough it wouldn't take much to undo his jeans. Mostly he doesn't because much like Kavinsky, he's already almost on edge with how turned on he is. And he doesn't want to get himself off before the other dreamer.

He loves the way that he moans, the way that Kavinsky watches him. Fuck, but this is impossibly hot. He already wants to do it again-- and again and again and... Okay, so the truth is that he doesn't want to stop. He wants to stay and he wants to spend a day where all they do is eat and breathe and figure out how their bodies feel when they fit together. Not that he thinks this world will give them the luxury, but he still wants it.

Kavinsky cursing and moaning his name is something he wants etched in his brain forever, something he wants to know so well that he could dream it. How it tastes and feels and the weight of it. Not because he wants to copy it in his dreams, but just because he wants it memorized. He wants to know it like a truth. He murmurs in response because it's really the easiest sound to make without pulling away.

And he wants to take him all the way down and see what sort of sounds he makes then.

But it's been a while since he's done it outside of a dream; two hundred years, plus-and-minus a century or two, depending on how dreams parsed the years. So it's not quite graceful, not like something out of the porn that Ronan had never been brave enough to watch. But he slides down on him, letting the thickness of his cock bury into his mouth and he whines around him, because it's different, better, it's Kavinsky. He takes him too deep too fast and he gags at first; not enough to make him stop, but his blue eyes water and his throat flexes around him.

Fuck, he should have done this before everything went to shit. He should have gone down on him in the Mitsubishi after they raced, when he showed up to his movie nights more for Kavinsky than because he was interested in what they were watching, at the parties that made him burn. Should have touched him every single chance he had, and K had given him so many chances, he'd just been oblivious, trying so hard to deny what he felt. He reaches up to catch Kavinsky's hands, tugging them up to his scalp like an invitation. And then he tries to angle himself a little bit better before trying to slide all the way down.

Filthy, sure, but it feels like something perfect. K's cock saliva-slick under his tongue, and he just wants more, wants to give him everything.]

[Kavinsky was definitely not complaining. Complaining didn't even cross his mind--why would it when this moment was more than he could have ever hoped for? It was--he thought this would go so much differently, and instead, Ronan was on his knees with his mouth on K's dick and-

He didn't give a single flying fuck how graceful or whatever Ronan was; he wasn't here to critique his methods, he was here to- fuck. With Ronan's guidance, he slid his slightly trembling hands to the back of Ronan's head, not pushing, just touching for the sake of it. Whimpering in the back of his throat, he almost told Ronan not to push himself too much, not to make himself uncomfortable, but Kavinsky was very rarely the voice of restraint and that wasn't going to change right now.

Instead, he shifted his hips forward a fraction, fingers petting across Ronan's scalp. Everything about this moment with the two of them was perfect. The world might have been in shambles but fate or something had brought them together again. He didn't even care if he'd dreamed Ronan at the moment; he was too caught up in the moment, wrapped around Ronan's finger.]

Ronan.

[It was a gasp, breathless, because he was spiraling ever closer, brain fuzzy with pleasure, skin heated. His world had shrunk down to only include the other dreamer; everything else, for all intents and purposes, didn't exist.]

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post for psls;

TRC/Fallout-ish thing. cw: war and stuff

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