richie rich survivalists
Jun. 10th, 2015 09:05 pmHoly fucking Christ it's hot.
Ronan wakes sprawled on his back, the air around him humid and musty and clingy. At some point in the night he'd flung off his lone threadbare blanket and even in only his boxers and a loose wife-beater, Ronan feels like he's nearly liquified.
It was Gansey's turn on the mattress and he's still passed out, mouth agape and eyelids fluttering, deep in sleep. Not for the first time, Ronan wonders how dreams feel for other people, for normal people. He wonders how it feels to look forward to sleep, that escape into a harmless dream world with dream people and dream happenings instead of constantly fearing the reality of horrors they can conjure.
Ronan's not had a single nightmare in nearly two months, but he still has the fear every single night.
Silently cursing, Ronan sits up, uncomfortably aware of his morning wood as well as his full bladder. Darting another quick glance at Gansey, Ronan reaches for the zip of the door and, wincing, crawls out into the dewy morning grass. Chainsaw's there to great him, chirping and cawing away as he stumbles to his feet, following him as he wanders to the copse of trees he and Gansey have essentially made their bathroom.
Afterward, he pulls their bag of food down from the tree, scowls at the cans of beans and cream of corn and peas. His stomach growls.
"Chainsaw," he grumbles. "Go fetch us some french toast and coffee."
Ronan wakes sprawled on his back, the air around him humid and musty and clingy. At some point in the night he'd flung off his lone threadbare blanket and even in only his boxers and a loose wife-beater, Ronan feels like he's nearly liquified.
It was Gansey's turn on the mattress and he's still passed out, mouth agape and eyelids fluttering, deep in sleep. Not for the first time, Ronan wonders how dreams feel for other people, for normal people. He wonders how it feels to look forward to sleep, that escape into a harmless dream world with dream people and dream happenings instead of constantly fearing the reality of horrors they can conjure.
Ronan's not had a single nightmare in nearly two months, but he still has the fear every single night.
Silently cursing, Ronan sits up, uncomfortably aware of his morning wood as well as his full bladder. Darting another quick glance at Gansey, Ronan reaches for the zip of the door and, wincing, crawls out into the dewy morning grass. Chainsaw's there to great him, chirping and cawing away as he stumbles to his feet, following him as he wanders to the copse of trees he and Gansey have essentially made their bathroom.
Afterward, he pulls their bag of food down from the tree, scowls at the cans of beans and cream of corn and peas. His stomach growls.
"Chainsaw," he grumbles. "Go fetch us some french toast and coffee."
