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omeglerpsokyeah-blog · 5 years ago

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Rovinsky

http://logs.omegle.com/ae45f6a4e98de7f9

You: They continued on like that for a while, silent besides the occasional whoop and manic laughter, lighting and throwing to their hearts fucking content, watching the statue crumble around them. It seemed that fire was everywhere they looked, with smoke encasing them and sparks of fire flying through the sky - infront of them, behind, around. It felt as if the world was burning, and K was fucking high off of it. The structure could only last so long and, eventually, there was nothing left besides a pile of wood and bark and other flammable materials, still flaming high above them. "Come on, all of that and you still won't tell me why the fuck you were in a Denny's carpark at 1am?" Kavinsky asked, pulling his t-shirt off and climbing up onto the roof of the Mitsubishi. There was only a moment of hesitation before he felt Ronan climbing up too, and the two of them laid on their backs, facing up at the clear sky. "You don't text me anymore unless you really wanna fuck shit up, so it must've been something."

Stranger: Ronan's jaw tensed. The pile of smoking rubble, embers faintly sparking in its midst, smelled like a time before what they were doing now was /entirely/ unthinkable. Sure, maybe it had been, technically. Maybe they hadn't supposed to have been doing it then either. But nobody had asked, and they had simply done. Bottles of whiskey under skies just like the one sparkling stars in their eyes now, heated races, heated looks. No questions, no complications. If you don't talk about it, it's like it's not there. If you don't say it, it's not really real, is it. The thing with Adam, however, was becoming less and less like that. They were dancing around each other. Ronan knew it -- although sometimes he wondered if it was actually Adam standing tepidly on the dance floor, while Ronan moved around him in ever-shrinking circles. Lately, the circles were so small that they were fucking suffocating, and the only way to get some air was a good, old-fashioned shout or bite. And once one of those surfaced, more were always quick to follow. It wouldn't be so unbearable, Ronan thought, trailing Orion's belt with his eyes, if for once, Adam got mad back. Truly, fumingly mad. If Adam acknowledged it, him, openly and to the point. A no was more honest than a maybe -- and more comprehensible, at that. When you couldn't stop asking yourself questions, a maybe was the worst fucking thing in the world. The afternoon previous hadn't brought Ronan any clarity. Only an outburst over a barely there touch of their pinkies, which was, wasn't, was so fucking there, Parrish, what the literal hell are you doing with my heart -- from Ronan's side, although he didn't say the last bit. From Adam, Ronan had received a coy look and a click of the tongue. Neither had calmed him down. Ronan abruptly turned his face toward K's, turned his voice to ice. "You wanna talk boy problems with me, K? Are you fucking for real with this shit?"

You: To somebody that didn't know Ronan, the sudden shift in energy would've been startling. From laughter -- albeit, crazed laughter --, stolen hints of mad grins, embers of falling ash between them, nothing but the two of them in this fucking world, to frosty tones and angry furrows between thin eyebrows. It happened quicker than Kavinsky could predict, but it happened all the same. K could barely hide the hint of a smirk - after all this time, he still loved to get under Ronan's skin. Since what happened last summer, Ronan had tried so hard to act indifferent towards Kavinsky - no more fighting, no more texting, no more racing. Simply nothing, as if the pair had never known each other. It had infuriated K like nothing else had ever managed to. Even tonight, Ronan's had bit as much as usual, hadn't taken the bait like he would've 6 months ago, and Kavinsky wanted to tear him apart. Wanted to make him mad, make him frustrated. Make him happy. Anything but the tepid nothingness Ronan had shown him for the past year. "I thought this was a sleepover, isn't that what we're supposed to do?" Kavinsky grinned, rolling his head leisurely to the side, finding Ronan's eyes easily, even through the dimming light of the fire. So fucking alive, like they always were when he was in K's presence. "Why did you text me? You've got your own car, your own shit that you can blow up, or set on fire. So why?" The question slipped from curling lips, K's sunglasses long abandoned, favouring a clearer view to watch the way Ronan's jaw tensed, the way his teeth ground, the way he'd check K out when he thought the other wasn't watching. Only for a breath of a second, but it was there.

Stranger: That goddamn fucking grin. It bit its way into Roman's brain no problem. Just like that, his gaze was lingering only a snatch too long, only a hint too interested. To compensate, Ronan pulled his own face into what he knew to be a very convincing snarl. He didn't look away from those black, black eyes, though. What the fuck did it matter if he couldn't or didn't want to? Nobody was asking. "Fishing for compliments, K? I didn't think you'd go /that/ low." In a sense, it was extremely fucking gratifying to answer some questions with questions of his own. In another, it was just as gratifying to be asked questions for once. To blink, but still see Kavinsky grinning lazily, dangerously back at him. Like he was drinking him in, a fine ass vodka after God knows how long. Ronan could hear K's lips lewdly smack around the taste of him -- goosebumps on his neck. He faltered for as long as Ronan Lynch would ever falter in his life, throat suddenly dry. It wasn't the kind of dry that Adam left when smiling, dancing, disregarding. This one thrilled instead of threatened. It was fire raining down on a forest, a huntsman with his eyes and gun on the prize, an engine revving loud as it would go. The air was too thick for Roman's liking. He snarled harder when K kept looking, a slick kind of triumph on his face. That smile. He really wasn't supposed to be here. "Fuck off. You know you're -- this shit's more fun with two." It was. It wasn't a lie. "And you're good at it."

You: Kavinsky hummed, rolling his gaze back to the stars. "Not fishing for compliments, Lynch. More just wondering why the fuck you're trying to hit me up, when it's been radio silence for the last nine months." K had had years to train any sort of upset, or disappointment, or neglect from his voice -- when you were disappointed or neglected pretty much every day of your life, there wasn't much point showing it anymore. And more than that, he didn't want anybody knowing that they had any sort of hold over him. Not his mum, not the pack, not even Proko. And yet, when he muttered that sentence to Ronan, the slightest hint of frustration curled around the words, gave them a bitter taste when they left Kavinsky's mouth. Himself had Ronan had never been anything close to friends, never would be, but it had been different with him. It had seemed as if K had been tripping through life blind-folded, and Ronan had ripped that cloth from his face. Not in no lovey-dovey shit, just in that he'd found an equal. Someone that could keep up with him, give him something to scream to the fucking skies for. Something to breathe for. K had always gotten what he wanted, and for Ronan to take what he wanted most, and rip apart any ties they had, it was almost too fucking much. That was why Kavinsky had dropped everything for Ronan's text, that was why he was there any moment he was needed. "Fucking dick." There was no fire behind it, though K tried.

Stranger: Guilt was an emotion Ronan Lynch was intimately familiar with. Tended to happen, he was pretty sure, when you grew up catholic. They talk you into it from the fucking crib and once you realize what they're up to, it's too late to get out. That guilt never stemmed from empathy, though. The kind evoked by a sad, nasty curve of a mouth; a drop in tone; a subconscious twist of fingers. It was hard not to pay attention to Kavinsky -- for all K's watching, all those months back, Ronan had watched right back. It had been exciting to be the sun of someone else's universe. It was painful now, knowing what it was like to be a planet, too. Painful, but not quite excruciating. K may be a sad dick, but he was still a dick nonetheless. Ronan's eyes still hadn't left Kavinsky's. Still sad, too. "I'm sorry shit went down the way it did, you know. But did you honestly think I'd give you anything but a radio silence baby after you drugged my brother and stashed him in a fucking trunk?" His voice was dangerously low.

You: Kavinsky spared a moment to think back to that night. The numbness in his fingers when he'd gripped at Matthew's collar, throwing him into the back seat of his car. The ever-closer darkness that had edged around his vision the entire night, threatening to pull him into unconsciousness, telling him that he was putting his body through too much, and it wouldn't always be as forgiving as it had -- too many drugs, too much dreaming, too much. Too fucking much. K had ignored it, as he ignored everything inside of him that was telling him that this wasn't the way to get Ronan to notice him, that he'd made his choice and Gansey was it, that he could look at Ronan as a king as much as he wanted, but that didn't loosen the shackles around Kavinsky's own wrists. If Proko hadn't pulled him from the roof of that car in the last second, K would be dead. It had hit him just seconds after, that he really wouldn't have minded. He could feel Ronan's eyes on him, always analysing, and forced that crude smile back to his face, though he knew the other had caught his slight falter. Knew that Ronan could probably read his fucking mind at this point. "Fuck your brother," he sat, shuffling forward slightly until his legs swung over the windshield of his car. "Seems it should've been Parrish I sent up with a bang, anyway. Bad judgement on my part." He said it all with his gaze away from Ronan and after a pause, reached into his jean pocket for a small baggy, emptied a small amount onto his little finger and pressed it to his nose. The burn was soothing, calming - everything it shouldn't be.

Stranger: It didn't matter that Kavinsky was being Kavinsky. Ronan was positively fucking fuming. His chest felt like the statue's -- blazing with heat and cracking at the edges. The only reason he wasn't instantly at Kavinsky's throat was that the Mitsu's hood was slippery. He bolted up, face on murder, ripped the baggy from Kavinsky's fingers, and clawed his own neatly around his bare shoulder, pushed him back down against the hood. "Say that again." There was powder clinging to K's nose. Jesus. "Fucking say it again. I will break your nose."

You: K glanced up at Ronan, appearing infinitely unimpressed. The heat of the car's roof pressed against his back, matching the heat that was building in Kavinsky's gut. /This/ was what he liked - this was how he made himself feel something. It was undeserved swings at the pack, too much heroin that one time, icy words to get Ronan's hands on him. He'd spent too many years feeling nothing. In some kind of fucked up triumph, he smirked - just a slight upturn of a lip; a narrowing of the eyes; a tilting of the head. It was so subtle, but he knew Ronan would catch it. He knew the argument would grow from nothing to a forest fire in seconds, it was how their arguments always did. "Never thought I'd see the day that Ronan Lynch cared about somebody this much."

Stranger: Venom came gushing through Ronan's bloodstream right as his heart surged. He shivered, just slightly, as he spat: "It's not my fault you're a jealous fucking dickbag." Ronan hadn't physically fought someone in weeks now, but it wasn't something, he reckoned, he would ever forget how to do. Before he could betray himself -- would look too long into K's eyes, linger on his lips, focus too hard on the way his breath came out in languid, invisible puffs of air -- Ronan swiftly sent his head smashing down. It connected with K's forehead instead of his nose, and there was no crack, only a crash of a thud, but nonetheless it was effective punctuation. Their old English teacher would be impressed. Ronan snarl-smirked at the thought, and realized, belatedly, that his head had slid down. His face was buried lazily, somewhat dizzily, against Kavinsky's neck, where it smelled like beer and expensive aftershave. When he scrambled up, lights fizzed behind his eyes. Maybe Ronan /had/ forgotten, a little bit. But overcompensation had never failed him. "You wish you could care about someone. Hell, /something/."

You: A whisper of pain spread through K's forehead, a promise that tomorrow would be much more painful than it currently was, with the cocaine numbing most of his senses. Except for the spot where Ronan's lips were ever so close to K's next, except for where his fingers dug into Kavinsky's shoulders. Those senses were /alive./ The fire behind them was starting to die out now, casting darkness over half of Kavinsky's face, forcing him to appear as the shadow he was becoming. "You're talking at me like that's supposed to hurt my feelings." Kavinsky spat, the ghost of anger finally started to show in the twist of his lip, the fire of his eyes. K didn't have friends, he had belongings -- hell, one of them was literally crafted from his head -- a character trait that he joked last summer he'd shared with Gansey, before Ronan had pummelled the sentence from his lips. "Like I don't know exactly what the fuck I am. What the fuck are /you?/" The fury in his voice was paired with a quick twist of bodies and K was on top of Ronan, his hand tight around the other's throat - not enough to cut off oxygen supply, but enough to be a threat. "You want to be everything. You want to be this," He gestured violently towards the burning statue behind him with his free hand. "And you want to be Gansey, and you want to be Adam. You want to fucking craft yourselves from the best parts of them all, but you will /never/ be them." The now trembling fingers left Ronan's throat, twisting around his shoulders instead as he lifted then slammed him back to the car roof. "We can never fucking be like them." This dance between the two of them -- this fight -- it had been a choreographed dance of destruction that would always bring them back here.

Stranger: Ronan's pulse was a wild, fluttering. It boomed high up in his throat, right where Kavinsky's fingers had surely left at least some kind of mark. He would've ripped them off his skin, no fuckin doubt about it, if it hadn't been for the illicit dash of heat that had shot to the pit of his belly at the touch, the intensity with which K pinned him down. Ronan could keep his face in check no problem; it was cold and sharp, just the way he liked it. Didn't fall out of line at the weight of K on him, at pushing hipbones, the danger in K's erratic, filthy voice. But Ronan had less control over his breath -- especially with a restless, bony hand around his throat, especially after getting the air knocked the hell out of him. It was shallow, loud. His back, too, had arched compliantly up and along before he could think better of it. Now that the warm metal of the hood gently burned at his exposed skin again, Ronan's ears felt just as warm. Fuck if he was going to let Kavinsky spout whatever the hell bullshit he was spouting now, though. Ronan didn't respond with words of his own. Instead, propped up on his elbows, he stared Kavinsky down. It took him no time to spit in Kavinsky's shadowed face.

You: Slowly, eyes not leaving Ronan's and without even a hint of emotion to his face, Kavinsky wiped at his cheek with the back of his hand. He wasn't thinking when he let out his boiling frustration and swung his tight fist, accurate and quick from years of taking and throwing them, into Ronan's jaw. Droplets of blood rained down on the white Mitsu's paint job as Ronan's head snapped to the side, though he recovered quickly. The other threw his entire bodyweight behind the fist that edged closer to K's face, hitting his jaw with such force that blood began to pool along his bottom lip, and he slipped down the windshield of the car, straight onto the trampled grass. Ronan was right behind him, jumping down and on top of K before he had chance to get up. He didn't bother to lift his arms to protect his face, wouldn't cover like a little bitch -- he bets that's how Adam would look in a fight, all fetal position and head protecting. Instead, he took the hits as they came, and used Ronan's lack of balance to throw him off of him. Both were to their feet in seconds, and they both looked more alive than they had in a long time. Kavinsky threw another punch. It rocked Ronan and he took a step back, and then steadied himself, blinking his eyes and staring straight at K. His head must be a firework right now. K knew his was.

Stranger: It wasn't so much the dark that engulfed them as it was the stars in it. A dome adorned with blaring pinpricks in the rustling still of the clearing. Kavinsky and Ronan were merely two of them. Blazing, larger than life, incomprehensible to most. They circled each other slowly, and as they spun, so did Ronan's head. He grit his teeth, blood on his breath, fists in position. Being punched repeatedly in the face was far more freeing than it ought to be, especially because Ronan got to punch back. Didn't have to worry if he was going overboard, if he was being too much. K matched him in intensity every time, so there was no room for holding back, even if he wanted to. He really, really didn't. With a groan, Ronan dashed forward. He plunged into Kavinsky, elbow into the little soft his stomach had, until they were both tumbling back onto the ground. Ronan scrambled for leverage as K did the same, scratching, grabbing, swinging knuckles against bloodied skin. God, Ronan thought. He had a black eye. It was like he was finally breathing. He grabbed, failed to grab Kavinsky's wrist. "You know fuck all about my friends. You know fuck all about --" But K did know about him. K had a split lip. Blood trickled down his chin. God. /God/. "Why do you hate them? /I'm/ the one that went silent on you, you know. And you still show up when I text." Ronan couldn't keep out a gleam of pride. His lungs were fucking finally drained of water. He grabbed at Kavinsky's wrist again, scratched the skin this time.

You: "Because you always fucking choose them," With hands grabbing and scratching and hitting, K didn't have a filter for his words. Didn't have time to throw up an unconcerned face, hide any jealousy or envy from his strained voice. "Without them, who knows what we could fucking be?" The two of them kept scrambling for dominance, but as they kept spitting harsh words at each other, the fight behind each throw was trailing off. They were letting their words make the hits. K let his wrists be pinned by the side of his head, tried to ignore the pull of heat in his groin as he took a second to consider the position he was in right now -- pinned by Ronan, all tight grips and pushing hips. How many times he'd dreamt of this. Kavinsky shook his head, willing the thoughts from his head. "You can't tell me that you haven't wondered the same. That - that the summer we spent together, you wasn't thinking it, too. We could rule the fucking world if we wanted to." K didn't tell him that that wasn't what he wanted - was never what he wanted. All he wanted was this - fire and pills and dreaming, beneath a forgiving sky. "You can't tell me you didn't think that." The edge of desperation slipped out, though K had tried to keep it contained. "Don't you dare fucking throw that shit back in my face. I fucking told you - /God./" Kavinsky tucked his chin against his shoulder to wipe at the blood he felt dripped. "You think I don't give a shit about anything, right? Anyone?" His voice was barely a whisper, but packed with heat. "You think I don't know your friends, but you don't know mine. You don't know how many times I've driven Jiang to the hospital after he's overdosed. You don't know how many times I've stitched Swann back up after he fucking cuts himself. You don't know shit." Ronan was so close to him now that everytime K's chest rose and fell, their still-shirtless skin brushed against each other. "Just because I'm not Dick Gansey and have some fucking wish to protect everybody and everything, that doesn't mean - I look after the people that I give a shit about. /That's/ why I still show up when you text."

Stranger: It was everything short of a love confession. Kavinsky's words brushed against Ronan's lips, hot and quick and earnest. So fucking earnest. Ronan was quite sure that was what made them cut. In a handful of breaths, Kavinsky had spoken the most truth Ronan had heard him speak in all the time they'd known each other. It was more disorienting than a blow to the head. Silence dragged out between them. Ronan's chest burned where K's brushed up against it. Time and time again. This was where Ronan was supposed to say something earnest back, match K, top him off one way or another. Or at least make a snide remark. Fucking something. Anything. But his throat was dry again, heart hammering in a way that didn't have a fuck to do with physical exertion. Ronan swallowed, glanced K over once, loosened the grip on his wrists. He didn't move. More embers at his chest. Fact was, he did care. Despite everything, he did feel bad -- about using K, leaving K. He /had/ wondered what they could've been. Sometimes, he still did. And seeing Kavinsky like this, heart on his sleeve, raw and honest -- God. "I guess," Ronan started. An engine roared in the distance. Again: "I guess --" His own voice was as intense as Kavinsky's. Breathier, lower, than normal. He was too busy eyeing K to bother getting it in check. At this point, there was no use concealing shit. "I don't know you as well as I thought I did."

You: "Guess not," K replied, flexing the fingers of his right hand to check they still all worked. Too many a times he'd broken fingers against jaws, against cheekbones. Ronan's hand was still keeping his wrists pinned, but the grip was softer now, hesitant fingers pressing against the spot where K knew his pulse must be going fucking crazy. Silence stretched between the two of them. K thought back to the last time he had tried to kiss Ronan - they had both been fucked, took down one and a half bottles of vodka between the two of them and they were spread out on this very field, all easy smiles that came from too much alcohol. He'd rolled onto his stomach, head hovering over Ronan, who'd been laid on his back. Before he had chance to move his head more than an inch, Ronan had knocked K back by his shoulder. "Don't start doing that shit." The other had said, trying to appear uninterested, but he was given away by the blush that climbed his tanned neck. Kavinsky hadn't known how to handle rejection, especially not rejection from Ronan. So he'd simply rolled back onto his back, mumbled a quiet 'fuck you' and swallowed the other half of the vodka. This felt a lot like that - the fear of rejection and hoping that Ronan wouldn't fuck off again. With the grip loosening on his wrists, K pushed himself up onto his elbows, closed the distance between the two boys and kissed Ronan.

Stranger: Nothing about the chaste peck Kavinsky fluttered firmly against Ronan's lips should have been surprising -- except, perhaps, that it was chaste, and just a peck. In Ronan's mind, the entire night had been building up to something he hadn't been able to put his finger on. It hadn't been the climax of his fight with Adam, unsatisfactory as it was. Hadn't been the desperate text to K, hadn't been seeing him after fuck knows how long (Ronan knew exactly how long). Hadn't been a larger than life statue of Declan burning to a Goddamn crisp. What it was was stubble against his jaw, aftershave crowding his space, vodka on his tongue. It was a match being struck, but not lit. A sliver of curiosity quenched, but not the rest of it. For what felt like fucking forever, Ronan didn't know how to move. Kavinsky's lips were oddly soft against his -- softer than Adam's, that one time he had thought whatever they were meant something. Before college, before whatever the fuck game they were playing now. Sneaking glances, sneaking touches, whenever Adam was around on the weekends. Adam drew the line at talking. He had better places to go, after all. This -- this was different than that. Maybe it wasn't going anywhere, but that was kind of what Ronan liked. It was only when Kavinsky moved back, that Ronan realized just how still he'd stayed. He caught the subtlest brush of K's lashes -- eyes falling open in what was clearly hesitation. Ronan couldn't blame him. Last time, he had had said no. But this wasn't last time. This wasn't a daydream during class, an embarrassing shower late at night. Not the fucking cat and mouse bullshit kind of game Adam and he were playing. And, honestly, no dreams, no lazily-fallen-into-quickly-derailed train of thought could've prepared him for how much he wanted to just -- do it again. Kavinsky couldn't get up before Ronan surged toward him again. This time, his lips were parted. This time, he didn't stop to think. A noise rumbled from somewhere in him, and before he knew it, his fingers were snaked into Kavinsky's hair.

You: That moment -- staring up at Ronan, anticipating the rejection that he was sure would come -- seemed all too familiar, K looking up through his eyelashes, aware that his eyes must be giving away how anxious he was feeling, but not making an effort to conceal it. Both of them were too far gone for concealment. He'd been ready to slip out from Ronan's grip, probably shove against him for good measure, and then forget this had happened. Ready for Ronan to disappear for god knows how long (Kavinsky, too, knew exactly how long). But before he had the chance, Ronan's lips were on his, parted and inviting. A surprised sound came from somewhere in K's throat, freezing for just a second before he was chasing the wet promise of Ronan's tongue. The grip on his wrists tightened again, this time in want, more than anger. Kavinsky tolerated it for only a second before ripping one arm free, sweaty palm grabbing at the back of Ronan's neck, his pinky finger brushing against the buzzcut. Kavinsky was hit with the sick pleasure of how much Gansey would hate this. How much /Adam/ would hate this. Parrish had put a claim on Ronan for too long and with every touch, K was washing him away, replacing soft hands and sandy hair with razor-sharp smiles and long, nimble fingers. When Ronan placed his entire weight on the other, pushing K into the ground by his hips, an embarrassingly needy sound whispered against Ronan's neck, where K had began to desperately mouth at. Engines roared in the distance, the fire crackled behind them. Somewhere, Adam was pacing his room, throwing his phone at the wall in frustration at Ronan's silence. The whole word passing by without the two of them giving a fucking damn.

Stranger: There was no world outside of K's teeth scraping against Roman's skin, outside the shiver his fingers slid down Ronan's bare spine. The world was the little noises Kavinsky made whenever Ronan's hips rolled down. Involuntarily at first, but quickly finding a desperate, languid rhythm through the drag of their jeans, the scent of sweat and ash. It wasn't so much a bubble around them as it was the fact that Ronan got increasingly lost in the marvel that was Kavinsky's touch. He was reverent and careless, harsh and fearful, restless and unyielding. Kavinsky was a highway late at night, and Ronan was the sole driver on it. Windows open, headlights off, full fucking speed. Oxygen was hard to come by, as was inhibition. When K nipped Ronan's neck, he all but fucking whimpered. Couldn't bring himself to care. "Jesus --" Breathless as Kavinsky thrust up. Whatever the rest of the world was up to, Ronan would try to care in the morning.

You: A thrill ran down K's spine at the word dropped so carelessly from Ronan's reddening lips, had images of Ronan down on his knees to pray at church, images of rosemary beads grasped in his hands, held with the same determination as they did now, bruising hands digging into every jutting bend of Kavinsky's body. There was no God tonight - just fire and pills and the feeling of Ronan's hips against his own. The two of them stayed like that for a while, K pinned to the ground with hungry teeth biting along his lips, his jaw, his neck. It could've been for minutes, or hours. Could've been days, but all Kavinsky knew was the way Ronan's thigh fitted so perfectly between his legs. The high-pitched chirp of Ronan's phone came, just barely audible over the groans and sighs from the two boys, and K pulled back slightly, Ronan immediately taking his neck instead. "The one fucking time you have your phone on," He said, breathier than he would've liked. They both ignored it for the first time, the second, the third. "Fuck sake," K dug his nails into the warm skin at the back of Ronan's neck in frustration, forcing the other to face him with a pained moan. "Answer your fucking phone, or turn it off." Ronan offered him only a scowl, which didn't have the same effect with darkening hickies forming on his neck. K saw the user ID flash when Ronan checked, saw Parrish's name clear as day. Kavinsky waited, one hand still on the back of Ronan's neck, grip tight.

Stranger: The grey-green-red of Ronan's phone illuminated Kavinsky's face like a flame flickering over the crevaces of a deep cave. His eyes were hollow and dark with anticipation, growing more hollow with every ring. His fingers curled tighter around Ronan's neck -- so tight it became nearly impossible to maintain his practised scowl. One more ring, and the phone went silent. A beat. Ronan gazed stubbornly down at Kavinsky, all lazily hooded eyes and panted breaths. Almost immediately, the screen lit up again. Whatever was making Adam call Ronan in the middle of the night, it must be urgent. Or maybe it wasn't, Maybe Adam was up alone in his room at St Agnes, pacing around with thoughts of their fight on his mind. Ronan's pinky still under his in his mind, Ronan's voice whispering jokes into his ears. Kavinsky's hand grew tighter. Ronan let a moan slip out, closed his eyes, just for a second, and snatched the phone from K. He sat up. If Adam was thinking about Ronan, replaying the afternoon they stole in the library, imagining Ronan angry and upset, running to someone else, the only someone else Ronan had ever really had -- Ronan would fucking let him. His finger collided with the screen, and it went dark yet again. He wondered if Adam would leave a voice mail -- he glanced down at K. Kiss-drunk and probably high off his fucking ass, teeth glittering dangerously, triumphantly. Like Ronan was the biggest teddy bear at a rigged carnival stand, and Kavinsky was holding it in his skinny arms. Ronan turned off the phone just as it began ringing again, slid it across the floor, away. "Cause you asked nicely."

You: Kavinsky knew that somewhere between the many ignored calls from Ronan, Parrish would've called Gansey. Asked if he was home, when was the last time he'd been seen. Could practically picture Adam's face when Gansey said that, no he wasn't home and no, he couldn't be with Kavinsky. But Parrish knew better than that -- knew exactly where Ronan came crawling when he was hurting and restless and mad at the world. K said nothing at first, content to just watch the dimmed flames reflect off Ronan's tanned chest, propping himself up on his elbows. God, he was fucking /beautiful/. K surrounded himself with a lot of attractive people; he loved the rugged handsomeness of Swann, the gentle beauty of Proko, the upturn of Jiang's full lips, the twisting tattoos that snaked both of Skov's arms. But there was no fucking beauty like Ronan Lynch. "Don't bullshit me," He replied eventually, head tilting slightly with a lazy grin. "If I'd asked nicely, you would've answered the call just to spite. We both know you liked to be talked to like a piece of shit." Kavinsky pushed himself up further so he was upright, Ronan still on his lap. Hungry lips picked up where they'd left off, finding that spot on Ronan's lip where it'd split from their earlier fight and biting at it again, the taste of iron spilling into both their mouths. He could feel the slight hesitation in Ronan's touch now, the way his mouth didn't open as invitingly - knew the other was stuck in his own head again, the call from Adam sobering up any remaining vodka that had been left to float through his bloodstream. K growled, growing frustrated at Ronan's second-guessing and dragged his nails from the tip of Ronan's shoulders all the way down to his lower back, hearing a hiss as he did.

Stranger: K's nails didn't dig deep; they were too blunt to leave anything but red scratches. Angry but shallow. Nonetheless effective. Ronan's head fell back momentarily when Kavinsky reached the end of his spine. What would his tattoo look like now that K's marks adorned it? What would Adam's face look like if he ever got to see it like that? Was he picturing it right now? Ronan knew his legs could fit easily around K's waist, but instead he folded them on each side of his hips. This way he could keep sitting up, shoulders straight, torso flush against Kavinsky's. Like this, Ronan towered an inch or so above Kavinsky -- might be part of the reason, too. "That you think I do, doesn't make it true," even though it was. Nails on his shoulders this time. Adam would definitely see those marks. He hissed again, straight into Kavinsky's ear. But Ronan was never one to back down without a fight. He bit down on Kavinsky's earlobe, pushed his hips down hard simultaneously.

You: The two stayed like that for a while, alternating between snappy comments and wanting lips. The irony wasn't lost on K when every time one of them said some shit to the other, it was followed by desperate kissing and too rough hands on bare skin. This has always been Ronan and Kavinsky - the surface was all spit and fuck yous and bruised knuckles. But that want had always been there, just under the surface. Time was indistinguishable, but K guessed it was somewhere close to 3:30 by now. Late enough that the sky was still black, but with signs of life slowly coming to around them - the sound of cars passing by for early shifts, birds beginning to sing as the world readied to wake up. The sound of cars getting closer. The Camaro's engine was no silent beast, didn't tread closer and closer undetected like the Mitsubishi did, so K realised sooner than Ronan did that they company. Headlights wiped out any remainder of the orange tint left by the fire, tearing white towards them. Ronan scrambled off him just at the last second, and K heard his voice hitch in a very un-Ronan-like way. Kavinsky took his sweet time standing, hoping that his position and Ronan's hurry to his feet was enough to send the right message to Adam, who was now tearing out of the car in what was actually a very Ronan-like way. Anyway, if Parrish wasn't clever enough to figure it out, the red lines painted on Ronan's back and dug into his shoulders should really be enough. "What the fuck?" Adam shouted, and it was the loudest that K thinks he's ever heard Parrish speak. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure he'd ever heard Adam speak above a whisper, as if he was afraid the entire world would turn to him if he uttered anything more. Adam's eyes were all on Ronan, nothing spared for Kavinsky but Gansey, however, who was still sat in the driver's seat, tight grip on the steering wheel, was staring head on at him. Kavinsky lifted his hand in a wave, grin wide and knowing. Dick Gansey the Third was utterly and infuriatingly polite, but right now he had more hatred on his face than K had ever seen. More /anything/ than K had ever seen. Oh, this was fucking amazing.

Stranger: If tonight had been any other night, Ronan would've shot a sarcastic greeting Adam's way before letting a commanding look of Gansey's pull him towards the car; would've slammed the door shut twice, or thrice, for good measure; complained loudly or stubbornly quietly on the way back to Monmouth. But tonight was a night that had started in flames and would end in them. Even though Ronan's long limbs dangled suddenly awkwardly, he pushed back his shoulders, made sure to rise to his full height. He hadn't done a fucking thing wrong -- that's what his face said, anyway, save for the blush blooming high on his cheekbones, save for his kiss-bitten lips. It wasn't a betrayal if there was fucking nothing to betray. Nonetheless, Adam's heaving chest, his eyes that spat fucking fire, made shame wriggle uncomfortably in Ronan's stomach. That, and something else. Adam stood tall himself, and through all his disbelief and and anger, there was a furious kind of fierceness to him. A fierceness that was impressive, to say the least. Ronan had brought that out. "What?" He asked, aiming for nonchalant, defiant, no fucking nonsense. Nothing about him said any of those words. Kavinsky's footsteps sauntered closer, and then Kavinsky himself brushed up beside Ronan. Ronan was sure he was still grinning, although he didn't look. Eyes only on Adam. Not K, smug and gloating by his side.Not Gansey, worried sick and catching fire himself in the Pig. Just Adam's snarl of a face, just Ronan's own bruised hands, his dirty shoes. Adam's face again. Ronan remained standing exactly where he was.

You: The air was heavy with Adam's anger, with Gansey's worry. No matter how hard Ronan tried to act nonchalant, Kavinsky knew him better than that. Adam and Gansey knew him even better. K passed a glance over Ronan when he replied, took in the teeth that were worrying over his bottom lip, the fingers that instinctively went to the leather bands around his wrists - both telltale signs that he wasn't as sure as he sounded. K didn't know what argument had lead Ronan into his arms, but he could tell by the furious glint in Adam's eyes that he hadn't thought they were over. Or maybe he did, and he just hadn't expected Ronan to move on so quickly, or move on to Kavinsky. "What?" Adam scoffed. "You - We just. You are un-fucking-believable." His voice wasn't a shout anymore but that didn't take the heat from the words. "Him? Really?" Adam gestured vaguely towards where Kavinsky stood, but didn't look his direction. "Of all the shitty fucking things that you've done to get back at me, /this./" His voice broke on the last word and it shouldn't have give Kavinsky such pleasure, but it did. And he grinned wider. He knew Adam spotted the hickies on Ronan's neck, the red-stain around his lips, the moon-shaped nail imprints on his shoulders and chest. Adam's jaw was set in a way that told K that Adam had had plenty of experience perfecting the art of not crying, even when he wanted to. Both of them - Adam and Ronan - were given away by the tremble of their hands.

Stranger: Ronan was a dog with its tail tucked between its hind legs. But the dog was still a döberman, and it still wasn't ready or willing to run away. "What makes you think it's to get back at you?" Ronan caught the tremble in his voice, even if he tried to keep it level. He also caught Kavinsky sniggering at his side. Maybe a punch to the temple would shut him the fuck up, but for once, K seemed to be his only ally. One that was enjoying the show more than anything else, but still. It was nice to have someone on his side -- have someone who wanted to see Adam angry as much as Ronan did. Because anger wasn't a yes, but it was /something/. Tangible in the way Adam's nostrils flared and his jaw tightened. Tangible in the blatant hurt splayed out on his face. Something in Ronan trembled. He had put /that/ there, too. Gansey's jaw was almost as tight as Adam's when he finally rose from the car. He, too, was burning. Blue hot. What an odd sensation to be at the receiving end of this side of him like this. It had been months since Ronan had seen him like this, and in entirely different circumstances. It was neither Kavinsky nor Ronan that he snapped at, though. Entirely unjovially, un-Gansey-like, he called out a "Joseph," with a nod of his head. It would've been polite on anyone else's lips. On his, it was ice. He wouldn't let Ronan catch his eyes. "Would you care to explain what exactly is going on here?"

You: At the call of his name, Kavinsky turned his attention to Gansey, dragging his gaze from the shake of Adam's hands. He wondered if the trailer boy would have it in him to throw a punch at Ronan - better yet, to throw a punch at K. "Dick," he replied, with a slight bow of his head, mocking. Ultimately, K knew that he should feel outnumbered. Adam and Gansey were burning hot in ways that he didn't have the energy for, had been stripped of him as the effects of the coke began to taper. And Kavinsky wasn't sure which side Ronan would take if this was to go up in flames. Maybe he'd stand by him, an unlikely bond from a night of drugs and dreaming, but more likely he would do what he always did. He'd heel to the commands of his owner, play lapdog to Dick Gansey. If that was the case, K would just have to make it harder for Gansey and Parrish to accept him back. Kavinsky hummed dramatically, thumb and index finger perched on his sunken face. "What's going on here, you ask. Which part are we talking about, hm?" He took a few more steps towards the two others, feeling Ronan's eyes burning into the back of his head, but he wasn't deterred. If Ronan was going to leave him again, he was going to take him out swinging. "The part where he swallowed down the pills I gave him and stole from his dreams, or the part where he begged me to lick Adam's name from his mouth?" It was spoken with faked curiosity, but the way his eyes flicked over to Adam, smirk on his lips and something else in his eyes, showed how badly he wanted a reaction. But still, Parrish didn't even glance his way. He opted instead to darkening the look that was still stuck on Ronan. There was an assertiveness in the way he stood, chin up and shoulders back, like that would cancel out the hurt in his voice when he said, "You got a real funny way of showing you care about somebody," all thick Henrietta vowels, too angered to bother smoothing them out.

Stranger: "I'd say the same to you," Ronan hissed back. He almost stuttered on 'you', didn't catch himself in time, but a fuming huff from Gansey covered it. "But I don't know that you fucking care at all." Gansey was clearly letting Adam take the lead -- uncertain but determined in the unfamiliar position of second in command. He was staying slightly back, ready to act, and /still/ not sparing Ronan one glance. It was clear that, for once in his life, Gansey couldn't figure out a way to get in control of the situation. Too many people, too many layers, too many possibilities, perhaps. And perhaps part of the problem was that it wasn't only Kavinsky he was mad at. That much was clear. Kavinsky: old, trusted, untrustable enemy. Ronan: fragile, volatile -- misguided friend or traitor? If only Gansey knew Ronan was both. Now that he was standing in front of him, Ronan wasn't so sure he wanted him to anymore. Adam, on the other hand, was a sight to behold despite his hurt. Potentially because of it. Shame colored Ronan's cheeks. He wanted simultaneously to cradle Adam's face gently in his hands, to kiss his eyes closed if Adam would let him, never to have sought out Kavinsky to begin with -- and to flick more gunpowder at this angry, crackling statue that was Adam Parrish. After months, Adam wasn't just smoking, but catching, and Ronan needed him to. His reply hadn't sounded like a question, but it had been one. As had the looks, the late night visits, fuck, the texts at night. Ronan's balled fists spelled anticipation. Unlike Kavinsky, Adam wasn't fond of answers.

You: Kavinsky fell back, only slightly, taking the simple pleasure of watching the lovers quarrel, feeling - with a jolt of unease - how similar his and Gansey's positions were right now. Both on the sidelines of something bigger than themselves, both hoping for a certain outcome, albeit opposite sides, and both fighting to hide how they truly felt in that moment. The only difference was Gansey suppressed his emotions with icy politeness and Kavinsky covered his with fire, dripping from his lips. He was waiting for a moment to jump in again, to say something that could finally push one of them over the edge - Adam, Gansey. Hell, even Ronan. But although Ronan and Adam were barely speaking, K couldn't get a word in edgewise, feeling the air around the two of them crackling with hurt and distrust, and Kavinsky could just see how desperately Ronan wanted Adam to just admit why this hurt. Adam didn't have to work and pick Ronan apart piece by piece to finally get what he wanted, as K had. All Adam had to do was exist, like this. Ronan simply wanted Adam in ways that he would never want Kavinsky, but that much had never been a secret. The sting from it was lesser and dull this time around. "Just because I don't - /God/, Ronan." Ronan, in this instance, sounded like please. "You want everything now, and you want to know exactly how I'm feeling at every moment, and you need this constant fucking reassurance that I'm not going to run and leave you, but all you do is push me away." Adam, too, couldn't catch the tremble in his voice, squeezed both hands into fists to distract himself from how weak he sounded. Repressed memories of how he'd sounded as he begged his father no, please. Don't. This was why he found it so hard to let Ronan have all of him, the way he wanted, because he'd stood on his own two feet for the longest time, and he didn't know what it was to be able to lean on someone. Didn't know anything about love or loyalty or friendship until he'd met them - Gansey and Ronan and Noah. Then, Blue. It was all too much, too fast. Adam took a breath, looked down, steadied himself again and looked back up, that same fierceness radiating from him. "I am not going to stand here and.. whatever this is. Fight for you. From him." He finally cut a look at Kavinsky for the first time that night, and K stared right back, that fucking smirk finally dropped.

Stranger: A knife drilled itself into Ronan's heart without much ceremony. The worst part was that everyone was there to see -- that he didn't have the time or the right mind to try and catch his voice, let alone his face anymore, his heaving chest. He bit his split lip through the silence he shrouded the four of them in. It started bleeding. There hadn't been a part of Ronan that had considered he was asking for too much. Was acknowledgement or rejection too much? A simple yes-or-no, not a love confession or a fucking proposal. He wasn't one to talk about shit. Feelings, whatever. About where they were going, or why. But the grey area they had been in until a second ago was fucking unbearable. Rejection, it turned out, was worse. Adam didn't want him. Truly, honestly, actually didn't. Adam wasn't fighting, wasn't admitting to the slightest affection fonder than friendship. Even if it was written on his face he cared, it was obvious Ronan shouldn't read it like /that/ anymore. He wasn't worth fighting for. He would've moved fucking mountains, burned down cities, for Adam. Too much. Adam would leave. Adam /was/ leaving. Any second now. Not coming back. Ronan's mind flashed to his parents' bedroom -- bed messily made but lacking Niall who had fitted into it cozily just the night before; the breakfast table, Aurora's smiley eggs, Niall's empty chair; a lightning bug haphazardly dreamt through concealed tears and thoughts of 'Gansey, why?'. Ronan's swiped at his eyes once, shook his head, furrowed his brow. He had gotten his answer. "Then don't." And with that, he turned around to march towards the Mitsubishi.

You: Kavinsky stayed put for just a second longer, held Adam's gaze even as he was turning round and following Ronan back towards the car. A thought at the back of his head reminded him that the only reason Ronan had chosen him was because the alternative was rejection - he would be gone in a second if Parrish could just get the fucking words out that K knew were there, on the brink of his lips. Still, it didn't take away the high that was Ronan walking towards the Mistu, walking away from the Camaro and its two heated occupants. "That wasn't - I didn't mean it like that." The desperation in Adam's voice carried through the air, whipped and turned with the last remaining embers. Kavinsky kept walking, despite the fact that Ronan had slowed slightly. He wasn't going to hang by his side, wouldn't show that side of him to Dick Gansey. Instead, he pressed on, making it to the side of the rubble before turning back. Ronan was dead-centre between himself and Adam, still. "I meant. If it's going to be like this, with /him/. I'm not doing that. It's me or him." Kavinsky was struck with the similarity of the situation, the words exact mirrors of what he'd told Ronan just last summer. Adam didn't know if it was fair to place this ultimatum up in the air, but he knew it was the truth. There wasn't much he understood - how to be what Ronan needed and wanted, why, out of everybody, he had Ronan's love offered so readily to him. He didn't know what the hell to do with it, but he knew this much: no matter what they currently were, or what they could be, it had to be only him. No Kavinsky. "Ronan," Gansey warned, so much written in that one word - a reminder of all that he had done for Ronan, a reminder of all the /bad/ that Kavinsky had done. Through that one word, he was reiterating Adam's point - it couldn't be both of them. Us or him.

Stranger: If Adam's voice had stilled him, it was Gansey's that swivelled Ronan around -- not in fear, but desperate anger, agitated want. Kavinsky bravely sauntered on, posing unconcerned by everything -- after tonight, Ronan knew he wasn't truly. Even though he was an asshole, it wasn't fair if he got scapegoated in this particular scenario. It had been Ronan, after all, who was the one to seek him out. Another thing Ronan had learned, though, was that Kavinsky really was at his beck and call. That, even if he was storming towards Adam now, fury and tears mingling on his stubborn face, Kavinsky was unlikely to drive away the second he sat his ass down in the car. There was comfort in that. Ronan shot Gansey a /look/ that Gansey reciprocated with a meaningful twist of his mouth -- of course, it said, there wasn't a world in which Ronan wouldn't come walking, if not running, back. He only stopped walking when there was all but an inch between Adam and him. "So tell me what that means," he said, raw and fucking booming, amplified by the lack of space. "What the fuck does it mean to you if I 'pick' you? What do you want from me?" Amplified yet more with every word, until 'from' was a loud growl and 'me' a thundering shout. Adam's betrayal may have been misinterpreted, but that didn't mean it wasn't still cutting Ronan's chest, his heart, his pride -- aided by months of pent up pondering and hope, nights stayed up figuring out intentions, talking himself out of doing something stupid as shit like texting the wrong person to take the wrong things out on. "Tell me what you fucking want, Parrish, or I swear to God, I'll --" Ronan didn't actually knew what he would do. He sounded less dangerous than boisterous without a real threat in the sentence.

You: Adam was an inch smaller than Ronan, which Ronan had never let him forgot in the three years they'd been friends, and Adam was aware of it now as he glared up at the other, pushing back his shoulders and straightening up. He tried not to wince when Ronan's voice rose, too used to loud voices up in his face - but this time, it wasn't to tell him that he was useless, or worthless or to get the fuck out of the house. It was to beg for him to understand, to give an answer. To just tell Ronan what he /wanted/. He almost replied that he didn't know, but it only would've been half-true. He didn't know exactly what he wanted, but he recognised the feeling in his chest when he saw the bruises on Ronan's neck, both finger and mouth shaped. He was jealous, furiously so, but that was buried somewhere deep underneath the feeling of hurt. Gansey was lingering somewhere behind them and Adam found himself wishing that they could do this in private, but he'd forfeited that right when he'd refused to answer Ronan just hours before, in the comfort of his box-sized room at St Agnes. "I want to try." He steadied his gaze on Ronan, feeling a blush burning his fair skin. He didn't know how to do this. "I'm not going to promise that I'll know how to - to handle this stuff, and. I don't know how much of myself I can give away, but I want to try." Adam heard the slam of the Camaro car behind him as Gansey got back into the drivers seat, giving them their privacy. It seemed that Kavinsky had done the same, but Adam could see from here that the window was rolled down. Kavinsky's gaze was straight-forward, arms loose on the steering wheel, but the bite of his jaw gave away his eaves-dropping. The hitch in Ronan's breath dragged Adam's gaze back and he resisted the urge to reach up and wipe Ronan's face, knew it would embarrass him more than anyway. He pretended to ignore it. "You. I want - I want you. In whatever way we can."

Stranger: Maybe the flip Ronan's stomach -- the three flips, actually, total 360s that would've made any professional acrobat green in the fucking face, but Ronan wasn't about to admit that -- would've been enough two, three days ago. It would've shut him up and made him meekly reach for Adam's hand, remember, shove his hand in his pocket. Adam looked devastated. Ronan /was/ devastated. And relentless. "What's the way /you/ want."

You: "Jesus, Ronan." Adam huffed, and then he kissed him. Not in the chaste way that Kavinsky had done just hours before, but not in the hungry way that K had either, not quite desperate, but with purpose. He could taste the hint of iron left behind by the split lip. With their chests pressed together, Adam could feel the hammer of Ronan's heat, matching his own. He'd always imagined his first kiss would be awkward and hesitant, but he fitted against Ronan like they'd always meant to end up here eventually. When the conversation hit an abrupt end, Kavinsky dropped the calm facade and snapped his head to the side, searching for the two of them in the dark. If anyone asked K what he'd felt as he watched Ronan's hands rest upon Adam's cheeks, he would say that he felt nothing. Maybe a little pissed that he hadn't managed to get any further with Ronan before they showed up, hadn't had a chance to test out those lips. He'd play it off with something crude and definitely not that he could feel his stomach twist, that he could feel a burn at the back of his throat. "Fuck this," K muttered under his breath, turned the car engine on and slammed his foot to the accelerator without taking off the hand-break, just to make the engine roar. He wasn't going to watch Ronan walk away again, fuck it.

Stranger: The world went quiet. As did everything inside Ronan. It was as if he'd suddenly be thrown, had suddenly fallen, tripped gently, into a deep, deep lake. The dashes of noise he did catch -- a bird flying past, wheels crackling over concrete, trees rustling -- all came back to him in slow motion and sounding very far away. Like fucking whale songs or some shit, he thought as Adam's hands fit around his waste with confident precision. Ronan's mind, for the first time that night, was entirely quiet. Sure, the quiet was punctuated by the his breath catching; his lips catching Adam's, again and again and again, hungry and relieved and needy; and finally by the soft thud of Ronan's forehead falling against Adam's. "Oh," just above a whisper. His face was uncomfortably wet in the breeze that was picking up. His heart was glowing softly. He didn't want to uncurl his arms that had loosely folded themselves around Adam's neck. Didn't want to pick up the metaphorical needle and prick the bubble around them to little specks of foam. It was bad enough Ronan knew he fucked up in the worst possible way, that he was ashamed. It was worse that it was Kavinsky he was ashamed of. Kavinsky, who deserved a lot of the shit he got, but who, underneath it all, the shades, the pills, the sneers, was a person, too. He had no place here, though. Between Adam's eyes fluttering open and Ronan's heart stopping at the sight, between Ronan's nose nudging Adam's, Adam's smile at the fact. They were both trembling, still. Ronan wished he was wearing a jacket to put around Adam's shoulders.

You: "Yeah," Adam breathed, voice so quiet it threatened to get lost behind the hum of the Camaro's engine. There was a sun where his heart should be, shining bright in his chest. All the concerns that he'd had - what would they do when he went to college, will Ronan be able to manage on his own, did Adam deserve this kind of love - fell away with each press of Ronan's lips. With his hands resting on the small of Ronan's back, he could feel the slight indents of what he knew were scratch marks, and ran the pad of his index finger over one of them. There was no more rage left inside of him, but that jealousy still buzzed somewhere inside of him, knew that Ronan could see it in his eyes. With the prompt, he turned his head to watch Kavinsky who was beginning to pull out of the field, furious hands wiping at his face. Adam couldn't see from here, but he also didn't believe that K knew /how/ to cry. A kiss to his temple pulled him back here. To Ronan. /Ronan./ "You gonna come home now?"

Stranger: Something had changed in Adam's eyes when they found Ronan's again. Where there had only been bliss before, there now was something like dedication, too. Something like pride, like possessiveness. Ronan vowed to himself he wouldn't look back, needed little convincing to drag his gaze away from Adam, anyway. It wasn't fair, but he /had/ gotten what he wanted. Exactly what he wanted. As long as he didn't consider how Kavinsky had poured his heart into the scratches on his back. Ronan wondered what Adam's nails would feel like -- felt heat pink bloom up his towards his ears, hid his face in Adam's neck. Adam smelled like sweat and cheap, green soap -- which was to say, like childhood summers. Ronan sighed into him, and nodded.

You: Gansey said nothing as the two of them got into the Camaro - Ronan in the passenger seat and Adam in the middle at the back. He didn't mention how his anxiety slipped away as his two friends fit into their places so well, where they were supposed to be. Ronan to his side and Adam right there, between the two of them. He returned Ronan's sheepish, small smile with a fixed look and a kind one back. There had been no doubt in Gansey's mind that Ronan would've picked them, in the end. But he'd been unsure to how tonight itself would go, especially with the freshness of Kavinsky, something new in his eyes. Something more than just a need to piss off the world. Discomfort twisted in Gansey's gut at the implications of what that could have meant if Ronan had reciprocated those feelings, more than the bite marks on his neck, which were now being covered hastily as Ronan tugged his shirt back on. The Mitsubishi, usually silent and stealth, now ripped its way out of the feel, engine roaring with the promise of danger to come. Gansey hoped, absently as he turned his own key in the slot, that Kavinsky wouldn't burn himself up with the fire he was going to try to light on Ronan. Before K had left, he'd pulled out his phone with trembling fingers -- definitely more to do with the half-bag of coke he'd just emptied down his nose, nothing to do with Ronan -- and typed out a simple message. "I'm going to fucking burn you." He knew the threat wouldn't carry the same weight it would've before this night, before he'd emptied his fucking heart to Ronan and begged him to understand, before he'd pressed his lips to the others, over and over and over again, with something more than just lust. Kavinsky felt sick at all he had given to Lynch. All the parts of him that he'd exposed, and he vowed to never let anybody see those broken, beautiful parts of him again.

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