thedreamthief: (Default)
The streets honestly don't look any less populated than usual, everyone still wandering and carrying about their business without a goddamn worry in the world. There's a faction, of course, one that includes Ronan and Gansey and a few scattering of others who can recognize that something's wrong.

Something is very, very wrong.

The list of people about whom Ronan actually gives a damn and are not from Henrietta is incredibly short, but there are a few. Luke's shop is the first stop and it doesn't take long to find that he and his boyfriend are missing. (And the fact that Luke is gay -- or at least partially gay -- comes as a little bit of a surprise.) He tries hunting down Dorian next to find that he's also missing, as confirmed by his boyfriend. (This, of course, is less surprising than Luke.)

Grantaire is next.

He lives in the same building as both Dorian and Noah and Ronan is very, very deliberately not thinking about how a fucking ghost can go missing when he bangs on Grantaire's door.

"Hey! Hey, it's Ronan," he says, leaning into the wood before pounding again. "Grantaire, you in there?"
thedreamthief: (Default)
It's a familiar scene: Ronan on a park bench with a bottle of whiskey dangling the fingers of one hand.

On his back with one foot perched on the arm rest, Ronan can stare up at the stars. He's clueless enough about astronomy to pretend it's the exact same sky as the one back home, that he's still there laid out in his favorite a field at The Barns, the one with the duck-shaped pond in the middle of it, instead of stuck in some strange city-slash-prison populated by wizards and werewolves and fucking fictional people. A prison where his bank account is no longer inflated by the Lynch family money, where the trees don't talk to him, where Glendower is just a name in a history book and his friends look at him like he's constantly missing something, constantly a step behind.

A prison where he's living in a tent and can't get a fucking job and his friends are all learning how to survive without him.

Back in Henrietta, Ronan never let himself think about life after Aglionby. There never seemed much point when there were more pressing things to consider. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he always knew things would change once they all graduated (or if, in his case) but the specifics were never considered. Their lives were going to change once they found Glendower anyway so what did it matter?

Here there is no Glendower and no favor to be granted.

So what now?

Ronan takes another drink and rubs the back of his wrist across one eyes. He's tired because he's always tired. He hurts because he always hurts.

He hears footsteps, slow and steady as they walk the park path, and then stop. Ronan doesn't look to see if they've stopped for him or for some other unseen reason. He doesn't particularly care. But he pulls in a breath just in case and murmurs, "Just keep walking, man."
thedreamthief: (Default)
Ronan despises hospitals.

Not for the reason normal people hate hospitals, not because of the incessant beeping of machines or the sterile air or the paper clothing and shitty food. He doesn't care about the tubes and the wires or the fact that he's essentially handcuffed to a bed for forty-eight hours because when he threatened to check out earlier, Gansey gave him that look like Ronan had uttered the worst possible betrayal.

None of that is why Ronan hates hospitals, though none of them are points in its favor either. About the only thing Ronan does like is the fact that someone is constantly around to wake him up every four hours.

But he hates the fact that he's slept at all.

He can't fight it, not when they're pumping him full of pain killers. He sees that fucking mask every time he closes his eyes, sees a bloodied tire iron, sees a broken wheelchair, a pale doll with its arm ripped out, frantic blue eyes, ripped flannel, and a scepter.

The beeps shove him back into consciousness, usually bringing in a swarm of nurses to check on his spiking numbers.

This time he wakes up on his own, groggy as always and his mouth overly dry. He swallows, then coughs. His dream this time is barely lingering, only bare scraps of a scene he can't put together, and the slightly bent bottle cap in his hand providing no further clues. He turns it over and over between his fingers, brushes his thumb along the square red-white-and-blue logo.

He quickly palms it when he hears a sound at the door, his head rolling to look over and eyebrow arching.

"The pirate," he murmurs, his voice irritatingly scratchy. "Pretty sure they don't sell booze in hospitals, man."

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