[It takes every bit of Gansey's self control to stay still in the passenger seat. Mostly still. There's still subtle shifts, hands flexing against his knees, heart throbbing painfully with emotions that he rarely allows himself. They're in his blood. His bones. His thoughts. Each demanding attention while Gansey feels open and raw and ready, but for what he isn't certain.
He tries to tell himself it's from the exhilaration of the BMW's speedometer steadily sweeping past the legal limit and not watching Ronan punch Joseph. Or the feeling of the Molotov cocktail in his hand before he arched it toward the broken, burning car. It isn't the feeling he'd had as he stepped into Kavinksy's kingdom and demanded retribution for his own kingdom being invaded. No, that would be uncivilized. Even if he did feel uncivilized. Wild in a way that hadn't happened since he'd turned his search toward Virginia, since before Niall had died and Adam had become part of their group.
Even after they left the BMW behind for the quiet shadows of Monmouth, Gansey couldn't shake the restlessness. Couldn't stop himself from thinking of the glances he'd stolen while Ronan drove with confident ease that had tempted Gansey to ask if he could ride along the next time Ronan went racing. Ronan was completely in his element behind the wheel, the lights from the dashboard flicking over cheekbones and the set of his jaw and...
That is something he doesn't allow himself to dwell on. Just as he shouldn't allow himself to think about Kavinsky and the comment about Ronan being his 'dog'. It should be offensive and infuriating, but instead it just winds something inside him tight, filling him with emotions that he'd carefully boxed up for months.
It might have stayed boxed up and carefully compartmentalized with all the un-Gansey-like emotions that he's been told he should never express if Ronan hadn't smiled. But standing in the middle of Gansey's broken Henrietta, smiling at him with something that Gansey knows is somehow purely his, sends everything tumbling out of the boxes, into a messy jangle that has him almost bouncing on his toes the way he did before rowing matches. His hands flex into fists simply because he needs to move, but knows that it could be a disaster if he does.]
Does it both you? [The words spill out without his usual careful consideration.] That he calls you my dog?
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He tries to tell himself it's from the exhilaration of the BMW's speedometer steadily sweeping past the legal limit and not watching Ronan punch Joseph. Or the feeling of the Molotov cocktail in his hand before he arched it toward the broken, burning car. It isn't the feeling he'd had as he stepped into Kavinksy's kingdom and demanded retribution for his own kingdom being invaded. No, that would be uncivilized. Even if he did feel uncivilized. Wild in a way that hadn't happened since he'd turned his search toward Virginia, since before Niall had died and Adam had become part of their group.
Even after they left the BMW behind for the quiet shadows of Monmouth, Gansey couldn't shake the restlessness. Couldn't stop himself from thinking of the glances he'd stolen while Ronan drove with confident ease that had tempted Gansey to ask if he could ride along the next time Ronan went racing. Ronan was completely in his element behind the wheel, the lights from the dashboard flicking over cheekbones and the set of his jaw and...
That is something he doesn't allow himself to dwell on. Just as he shouldn't allow himself to think about Kavinsky and the comment about Ronan being his 'dog'. It should be offensive and infuriating, but instead it just winds something inside him tight, filling him with emotions that he'd carefully boxed up for months.
It might have stayed boxed up and carefully compartmentalized with all the un-Gansey-like emotions that he's been told he should never express if Ronan hadn't smiled. But standing in the middle of Gansey's broken Henrietta, smiling at him with something that Gansey knows is somehow purely his, sends everything tumbling out of the boxes, into a messy jangle that has him almost bouncing on his toes the way he did before rowing matches. His hands flex into fists simply because he needs to move, but knows that it could be a disaster if he does.]
Does it both you? [The words spill out without his usual careful consideration.] That he calls you my dog?