everyone leaves [dated to 10/29/2015]

[thedreamthief]

By the time Ronan goes looking, he realizes he has no idea how long Adam has actually been gone. Maybe only hours, maybe a day or two. Maybe nearly a week.

After Noah's visit the other night, Ronan had made a decision. And, as necessary a decision as it is, Ronan is being an absolute coward in going through with it. Still, after three days of successful avoidance and not so much as a text from Parrish, Ronan starts to wonder.

He tries the sporting goods store first where he learns Adam hasn't been in since his last shift, which was days ago. The garage gives him the same news: no sign of Adam since Sunday.

Adam Parrish doesn't skip work. Ever.

Gut twisted in knots, Ronan swung by Adam's apartment, then his own. He tried Gansey's and Blue's (no answer), then Noah's (also no answer). He tried the fucking factory they haven't even moved into yet, the cat cafe, the park and the beach. He's called Parrish's phone at least three dozen times and Gansey's almost as many until Gansey had finally replied to say he hadn't seen or heard anything in days either, the carefully concealed worry only making Ronan's own spike white-hot.

Ronan slams on the brakes, tires squealing.

The realization is a punch to the gut, nearly knocking Ronan to his knees before turning into white hot flame as he does a U-turn in the middle of the road, heading toward the first place he can think to find Kavinsky.

He jumps out of the Pig when he gets there, nearly bangs down the door to the warehouse with his bare hands, rage and fear and desperation vibrating off his skin.

"Kavinsky! Kavinsky, you fucking cuntrag. I'm gonna kill you, I swear to God. I'm gonna fucking cut your head off and stick it on a goddamn pole."

Comments

[thedreamthief]

"So you dream them then," Ronan says, still mostly pleased with what he's been able to manage, his eyes catching on Kavinsky's cheekbones and sneering smile. There's a heat between them, a heat Ronan isn't sure whether to attribute to the warehouse or the dreaming or Kavinsky himself. It settles under his skin, simmering slow and steady, making his fingers itch.

He shifts slightly, uncrossing his ankles to set his booted feet on the felt, lifts his hands off to the tabletop but leaves them poised in mid-air. Not touching. Hovering.

Kavinsky echoes Adam's actions, settling the ball atop Ronan's chest, but the ball rolls downward instead of up, slipping onto the flat of Ronan's stomach, between them. Ronan grabs it before it can fall to the table and lifts his arm, setting the ball on the slope of Kavinsky's bare spine and letting go.

[mitsubishievo]

Kavinsky reached up, behind his back, as the pool ball cascaded down his back. In the same motion, he leaned down, his lips touching Ronan's. He closed his eyes, the hint of both the red and green pill still buzzing in his system, and he did not fall completely asleep, but he could reach, could stretch, toward the dream place. He could think, brief and fleeting, of other pool tables he had seen and been around and been on like this but not quite like this. Never quite like this because it had never been with Ronan Lynch.

He breathed life against Ronan's mouth, more than he kissed him, somewhere between dreams and not. He dreamt the pool balls into the pockets of Ronan's dream table, one hand splayed on the felt, the other supporting the solid six that had slid down his back like a waterfall.

Kavinsky could fit here, for just a moment. His body on top of Ronan's and Ronan's legs bent up, a warm near-pressure behind his thighs, and his hands almost not quite into the act.

[thedreamthief]

It's not a kiss. Ronan's been a willing participant in enough of them now to know the difference. Their lips are touching, but Kavinsky is merely breathing into him, holding himself up on one arm as he goes into a kind of trance.

Ronan spares a second to admire the strength it takes to balance as he is before he rests one hand on Kavinsky's side, taking some of the load. Kavinsky's skin is warm and smooth and too much like Adam's. Sucking a breath of his own, Ronan turns his head, eyes catching on two pool cues lying right next to him.

His lips curve into a grin and he brings his other hand up and around to wrap it around the solid six Kavinsky still holds at his back. Murmurs, "Cool party trick."

[mitsubishievo]

Kavinsky laughed at that, soft and honest, and set his forehead against Ronan's chest for a moment. He sat back after a second, weight gently on Ronan's thighs, and stretched. The pizza was suddenly much too far away, and he had no party trick for bringing it closer except for dreaming them a whole other one.

He did nothing to dislodge Ronan's hand from his ribs, breathing slowly. For a moment, everything felt locked in, understood. Ronan and he were pieces of a puzzle, adjoining pieces, and it didn't matter if there was a greater picture because things fit. Things fit better than they had, for half a second, then they had in the field of Mitsubishis, and in a weekend of Ronan trying to win his life back.

Kavinsky shifted his fingers around the solid six and under Ronan's fingers and looked down at him and grinned. "Might not be able to dream our way out of here yet, but damned if we can't make ourselves comfy."

[thedreamthief]

It's only as Kavinsky's sitting up that Ronan realizes the intimate position they're in. He doesn't pull away though, his fingers still locked under Kavinsky's around the ball, his other hand pressed to Kavinsky's bare side. It feels intimate but not terrifying in that way it always has with Adam. He doesn't feel like Kavinsky will crack under his touch, doesn't feel like Kavinsky is here for any reason other than that he wants to be. And because they made a deal.

He feels like he should be drunk for this. Or maybe high.

He feels like maybe he already is, like those pills are more than for forcing him into a quick and deep sleep.

Letting go, Ronan pushes up onto his elbows, his gaze still locked on Kavinsky's. The pills are still over on the desk, too far away, and Ronan doesn't feel like pushing Kavinsky off him just yet. But he still asks, "What do you have in mind?"

[mitsubishievo]

Kavinsky grinned. This was the first step. Locked in. Even if this was only just a week, a few days, right now in the wake of Ronan being terrified and violent--Kavinsky was having a dawning, terrible realization, deep in his bones, that he had lost, he had lost already, and it was an infuriating feeling, boiling in his stomach and his chest--he had Ronan.

Kavinsky grinned and climbed off him, off the pool table and onto the floor. He threw open the office door and considered the space of the warehouse for a moment: the wide open space of it and the vaulting ceiling and the leaning flood lamps and half-hidden stereo system and other remnants that marked the remains of the substance party.

He looked back at Ronan, wild and electric now, even if the exhaustion still hung around him. They were going to need more pills, and it was going to have to be fucking Inception for them--layers and layers of dreams and memories to pull them out so he didn't taint them with the dream place's annoyance with him.

The actual stereo, for the whole sound system, was near the top of the stairs. Kavinsky tapped it on, letting the atrocious music fill the space.