threesecrets | post for psls;

[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.]

Edited 2021-05-11 12:03 (UTC)

This was the other Ronan. Not a dream.

Maybe it had been the wrong choice, maybe it was why Hennessy had been able to win, to fuck the ley line. Maybe he'd been arrogant and the borders between reality and dreams had gotten too blurry. But it meant he was in Lindenmere when it happened. It was fading, but he thought it would have the power for what he needed. Whatever Hennessy had done took time to travel down the line, but it sapped its power. He didn't know what had happened to Bryde, and he couldn't do this alone. And who could he call?

When he steps into the dream it's on fire. Burning. Anything burns if you hit it hard enough. He needed someone that understood. Reality is just what other people dream for you; back then, Ronan had been the one that hadn't understood. He did now. It's a bomb, just like you-- when the molotov shapes itself into his fingers it's not really a conscious thought, it just is. This is his best shot at what he needs. Kavinsky, who had seen the truth before Ronan could face it. The other boy had wanted him, and Ronan had used him to fix Gansey's car.

His best dreams were so often memories.

"Please," he says to Lindenmere. Trying to shape his intention, what he needs, into a weapon. Like with the sundogs, except better. More honest. It has to be here, where the ley line had touched him, where Kavinsky had dreamed. The way when he'd died it had seemed like he was pulled from himself. If there was any spark of him, it was here. He layers memories on memories. A dragon made of fire, the moonlight white of a Mitsubishi, asphalt and stoplights and adrenaline races, the knife-sharp grin of a boy with white sunglasses sprawled on its hood.

"Hey," Ronan says, grinning merrily. He doesn't ask him if he still wants to burn the world; he lets the dream do the complicated talking for him, the fire in his eyes. He had to do this right. He needed Kavinsky, his only shot at being able to change the world, fix what Hennessy had ruined, make this place somewhere he could live, where people like him and Matthew could live.

"It's just us," he says, like an echo.

[Sometimes, Skov got bored. Sometimes, hanging around with Swan and smoking didn't really cut it. Not even the worry of getting caught smoking on campus was a thrill anymore. He'd gotten over that a long time ago. Besides, no one gave a shit--at least, not the other students. No one was going to tell on him. He needed a different kind of excitement, maybe something that was chemical, maybe something that wasn't. Maybe both.

When Swan finished his cigarette and headed back into their shared dorm room, Skov stayed outside the building, leaning against the wall as he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. He didn't think for one minute that Ronan Lynch would willingly give him his number, which was why he'd swiped it from K's phone one drunken night. He considered things for a moment, the late afternoon/early evening sun, the fact K was having a party later that night. Mostly, he considered that he had a few hours to kill.

That done, he started typing, firing off a series of texts.]

hey
hey
r u busy?
it's skov

[He didn't know if he expected an answer or not, but it never hurt to try. If push came to shove, he could annoy almost anyone into answering him just to get him to shut up.]

[He felt like he was coming apart at the seams. Prokopenko had moments, whole days, like this sometimes. It'd been months since his 'rebirth' and yet he still struggled with it at times. How did he know he was still the same? How did he know if he was missing anything? Missing parts of who he was? What if there was something more than the day Skov had freaked out upon seeing him eat a peanut butter sandwich, claiming Proko was allergic to peanuts? Proko had no recollection of any allergy and the peanut butter hadn't done him any harm.

Sometimes, he wondered if he was still human.

His grandmother, when he'd visited her, hadn't seemed to think he was any different, but it hadn't done much to reassure him. She knew him better than maybe his own parents did, but... things could still slip through the cracks. What if she was wrong? What if he was wrong?

The thoughts twisted around and around in his head until his stomach felt just as tangled and he desperately needed to get out of his own mind. That was how he'd come to be at a party--not one of Kavinsky's, surprisingly--doing his best to get drunk. The Fourth of July was approaching, K was neck-deep in planning for that, and Proko...was here by himself. It was a house party, thrown by an Aglionby boy, and Aglionby boys didn't usually disappoint.

Proko didn't even care how good the alcohol was; it was enough to get him drunk and that was what he needed. Except somehow, it wasn't helping. He felt worse even if his thoughts were more...all over the place. Maybe he should have gone for getting high instead. Instead of being stomach lurchingly drunk, still clutching a cup of alcohol. He probably wasn't going to throw up, but it was never a guarantee when he was drinking; he was a sloppy drunk and sometimes couldn't handle it.

He was torn between focusing on not puking and lost in thoughts about whether or not he was human or if he was still the same as before when he bumped into someone, sloshing his drink. He turned, not to apologize, but just to see who he'd walked into, when he stopped, blinking slowly.]

Lynch.

[Proko hadn't expected to see him here. He hadn't been expecting to see any familiar faces, honestly. Last he'd heard, Skov and Swan were doing whatever they did when they had time to themselves, probably fucking, and Jiang was out getting high. He wasn't friends with Ronan Lynch, not really, but he'd seen him around enough that it would've been impossible not to recognize him, even with how drunk Proko was.]

What are you doing here?

[Lame. That was lame. Proko had been told (mostly by Kavinsky) that he had a resting bitch face, but even that couldn't mask the troubled expression in his eyes. Again, he was torn. This time between being angry about what Kavinsky had told him about things that had happened, and being strangely relieved to see a familiar face.]

[Raz had only been in Henrietta for a few days. He wasn't there for Aglionby; he was too old, to start with. For another, he had no money and no one to care about enrolling him. He'd already dropped out of high school at sixteen, more out of necessity than because of a dislike of learning. It was hard to go to school when you were on the run, but Virginia was across the country from California and maybe Valkyrie Productions wouldn't think to look for him this far away. Maybe he could finally stop looking over his shoulder all the time.

Barely twenty, he was a little older than most of the other people at the party he was attending, but he suffered from a babyface anyway. It would be easy for him to pass as eighteen or nineteen. The only thing he couldn't do was pretend to be a local. He was new and his West coast accent betrayed that. It didn't stop him from becoming just another face in the crowd though, accepting a pill when he was given one. He'd never done drugs in his life and nothing could have prepared him for the high.

It started off slow, easing him into it, making him feel warm and floaty and content in ways he'd never experienced before. 'Content' was foreign to him, above all else. His life had been rough and done him no favors, but he was a survivor.

By the time the high really came for him with a vengeance, he was making a fool of himself, laughing at anything that was even remotely funny. Eventually, he laughed at the wrong thing and a tall Aglionby boy got in his face, telling him to shut the fuck up. Obviously, Raz responded with make me, and the boy decked him in the face.

Though he was equally tall, Raz was skinny and not at all accustomed to fighting with his own body, so he staggered back, bounced off the side of a parked car, and hit the ground hard. His spine ached. His face ached. He inhaled some dirt from the field. Anger and adrenaline coursed through him and he unleashed his power without so much as a second thought.

From around the side of the car came low, ominous growls, nearly undetectable over the loud music. The sources followed quickly as two black dogs the size of wolves stepped into view. They looked like they were made of shadows, dripping, sinuous, lips pulled back to reveal teeth as white as their blank eyes.

The boy, who'd previously been moving to kick Raz, immediately scrambled backward. A few other people nearby realized the dogs were there and backed away too, shouting in either alarm or excitement--it was hard to tell.

Pushing himself up to his feet, Raz held onto the side of the car like he was worried he was going to get sucked off into space if he didn't--and he kind of was. Concerned, at least. He wasn't really going anywhere, but his high was still intense.]

If you know what's good for you- [He said, barely audible over the music as the dogs put themselves between him and the Aglionby boy.] -you'll leave me the fuck alone.

[He was making a scene, he knew he was. It was what had gotten him into trouble four years ago, but- he couldn't help it. He was impulsive; he acted on emotion, not logic. And besides that, he was too fucked up on whatever he'd taken to think anything was a bad idea right now.

He was still tempted, really tempted, to make an example of the guy, but decided he wasn't worth the effort. Instead, he wobbled his way through the crowd, dogs following him, to a slightly quieter part of the field. There, he leaned against the side of a BMW and sank to the ground, head in his hands. His nose was bleeding, just a little, but he was way more concerned with feeling like he was about to puke. It would be the icing on the cake though, so he was trying hard not to.]

[Moving into the Aglionby dorms had felt like a death sentence. And it almost is, would have been. Except that Prokopenko just saved him, helped him kill a night horror. One of Kavinsky's pack of dogs, and he hasn't exactly been pleasant to the other teen. But now he's running fingers through his curls as he paces while Proko calls Kavinsky, and all Ronan can think about is his dead father's commandment not to tell. He hasn't, not technically. But sometimes dreams spoke louder than words.

Proko meets K out in the parking lot. And then the three of them stuff the creature into the VW Golf, drive out to the fairgrounds, and they bury Ronan's nightmare.

They go to Kavinsky's afterwards without any discussion, shower off the grime, have a couple drinks in something almost like a companionable sort of quiet. Ronan should sleep, but he doesn't. He has class in the morning, but he can't bring himself to care enough to worry about it. It's Friday anyway, still early in the semester, and Whelk's Latin class is all he can be bothered to care about. And Kavinsky had looked at him and said you're a dreamer too and the words are still on a loop in his mind. The awe, the fascination, the feeling that maybe, maybe, he wasn't alone.

He should sleep, but instead he's curled on the couch next to Kavinsky, a respectable hands-width away to keep their shoulders from touching. The other boy watches Ronan, probably wired on something, and he feels almost intimately exposed. Known. Feels like he hasn't since his father died and his mother went into a coma. Like there was someplace in the world that could hold his secrets.]

I've never talked about it. I've hardly said it outloud before.

[It's not thank you, but it's something. It's a start. It's reaching out and trusting Kavinsky of all people to catch his hand.

K is the one that helps him shave his head for the first time, and Proko goes with him when he gets his dreams inked into his skin. But for now he's still pushing his curls back from his face, trying not to say thank you because he feels like he's forgotten how. Still trying to not admit that his dreams hate him because he hates himself.]

[Jiang was pretty in a way that some people found unfair but others took as an invitation to start trouble. He'd been called slurs before, beaten up, picked on--most of it was before he'd gotten pulled into Kavinsky's orbit, but sometimes Aglionby boys still saw him as an easy target. Maybe it wasn't his face this time. Maybe it was how short he was--barely 5'6"--or maybe he'd just said the wrong thing. He did have a habit of rambling or talking too much in general. Kavinsky had told him more than once that the only good use for his mouth was blowing him.

It'd been months since someone had decided to kick his shit in, but today had been the day. He'd been jumped after his last class of the day, two against one, and though he'd fought back, he'd been outmatched. The other boys had been both taller and stronger than him and he'd gotten a few good hits in but in the end, had been the one worse off. Aside from his very visible black eye, split lip, and busted open cheek, his phone had also been a casualty. The screen was cracked, glass splintered, and the display was flickery at best and downright glitching out at worst.

As if that wasn't enough, his car broke down along the side of the highway. Without a working phone and with no idea how the insides of his candy red Supra actually worked, he was stranded. On top of all of that, it was ungodly hot out and he felt like he was going to melt if he had to deal with the heat too much longer. It was incredibly inconvenient that the one day he was left without a phone was the one day he really needed it. He couldn't call Skov or Swan to pick him up. He couldn't call a tow truck. He couldn't do anything but sit there or pace around his car, peering into the engine compartment like it would magically reveal its secrets to him.

When he heard another car coming, he perked up, lifting his head and stepping halfway out into the road. He waved his arms, trying not to come across as too desperate, but he was pretty frantic. And frazzled enough from his day that he didn't immediately recognize Ronan Lynch's BMW. Given a few more moments though, he would, considering all the times they'd raced.]

[Life had not been kind to Baz recently. In fact, it most decidedly had been very unkind. Most notably, Snow had broken up with him. I hate the sight of you, he'd said. Baz had threatened to snap his own wand if Snow left him, to prove they didn't need magic to be together. He had known Snow had a complicated relationship with magic since losing his own but thinking he didn't belong in the world of mages anymore- thinking Baz wouldn't want him- or maybe more importantly it was that Snow couldn't look at him without being reminded of everything he'd lost-... It would have been easier if Baz hated him. Easier if he could just wash his hands of Snow and be done with things. But nothing was ever that easy. Especially not for him.

He leaped at the chance for a distraction when he'd become aware of something happening in America. A lot of magic, something different. Not the sort of things the Humdrum had caused but- something similar to it, on a power level? It was enough to get Baz off the couch and onto a plane, though he was well aware this wasn't his problem. The American mages could handle it, whatever it was. And yet that knowledge didn't stop him.

Hours after being crammed into a plane and then hours more on the highway, he found himself in Virginia. Henrietta, specifically, a little town he'd never heard of and was sure a lot of people hadn't. At least it wasn't Kansas though or Illinois. There were at least mountains instead of nothing but flat land and fields. And he declined to rent a convertable this time so he didn't end up sunburned or with windblown hair. His hair, sleek and dark, was long enough to curl around his collar instead.

Henrietta didn't look like it should be a place capable of holding as much magic as Baz had felt- as he could smell, now that he was here. It was subtle but it was everywhere, in a different way than magic normally was. He couldn't explain why it was different, just that it was. It seemed to concentrate in one place, so he followed his nose. Out of Henrietta proper, out into the countryside and forests beyond, until he reached the source. Or well, until he reached as far as he could go by car. Then he parked along the side of the road and started walking.

He was more or less mostly dressed for a brief excursion into the woods, at least; dark, snug jeans, boots, and an admittedly expensive navy floral shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His wand was tucked into his back pocket, in case there was trouble ahead. He had no idea what he would be facing at the actual source of the magic. There were any number of American creatures that could be responsible for this, both ones he was familiar with and ones he wasn't.

The forest grew deeper and more- not menacing, exactly, but more present, like it was almost aware of him- as he continued forward. He'd faced things much worse than uneasy feelings in a forest though; he wasn't about to let that stop him. He was expecting much worse inside of it though, but that wasn't what he got. What he got was- a young man? Baz couldn't tell if he was older or younger but it really didn't matter, he didn't think.

He noted, more than briefly, that the young man was strikingly handsome. But that didn't really matter, either. Not if he was a threat. Baz wouldn't be swayed by good looks when there was potential danger here. Clearing his throat, he lifted an eyebrow and said-]

You wouldn't be plotting now, would you?

[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.

[Prokopenko's arms were bruised and there were patches of stickiness on his skin from the various machines he'd been hooked up to. He was surprisingly healthy besides that and he looked good, bruised arms aside. It was a miracle, according to the doctors and nurses; they'd expected him to never wake up. The real miracle was the simple hooped earring he had in his pocket. He was going to have to get his ear pierced, he figured. It would be a better alternative than worrying about losing this thing. He didn't understand how it worked but he didn't have to for it to do its thing.

It didn't feel like a miracle. He felt...he didn't know how to put it into words. He was told months had passed, a year, more or less, but it felt like literally just yesterday he'd been at Kavinsky's Fourth of July party. He could remember the dragon and the bird thing, he remembered the flames and the crowds and the fighting. And then he remembered nothing.

He knew without being told that Kavinsky was gone. That was the part he didn't know how to put into words. It was the single most crushing feeling he'd ever experienced. It wasn't just that Kavinsky was a dreamer or that he was his dreamer, it was that they'd been best friends first. Kavinsky had literally brought him back from the grave; Proko'd never had to question how much Kavinsky'd cared about him. Just like Proko's loyalty and friendship had been wholly unwavering. Without Kavinsky- Proko almost wanted to take the earring out of his pocket and hurl it away from him so he'd fall back asleep.

What was the point of living?]

What happened to him?

[They were barely out of the hospital, still in the parking lot, but Prokopenko had to ask. No matter how much he knew the answer was going to hurt. Not knowing hurt more, leaving his imagination to run wild, thinking up all of the worst possibilities. At least the truth would quiet his rampaging thoughts. It felt like a snarl of thorns in his chest, like it hurt to inhale too deeply and it had nothing to do with his physical health.

The idea that Kavinsky had done this to himself hadn't even crossed his mind. Not on purpose. Proko wanted to find whoever was responsible for hurting Kavinsky and beat them until- he shuddered, raking his fingers through his hair. He knew he wasn't the most morally upstanding person but he didn't think he was really capable of murder, either- but this concerned Kavinsky and that made it different.

He just wanted things to be okay. He wanted to know that his best friend was waiting for him somewhere, in that familiar car, for the two of them to get up to some trouble. And speaking of cars, Proko's was not accessible right now, considering how long he'd been asleep. He was at Ronan's mercy as far as transportation went.]

for Kavinsky; your ghost was my first forgery

For Kavinsky; Mister Impossible Spoilers;

Dream pack shenans

idk what I'm doing /o\

1 dream magic boy for a dreamer / apparently I like party starters, whoops

an au idea;

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Between TRC and the Dreamer Trilogy

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

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