[We. That was all Kavinsky had ever wanted. He didn't even want to turn Ronan against his friends or separate them--necessarily. He would if he had to, but he didn't want to. This place had done half the work for him, and so far he'd never been so grateful to be whisked off to an alien planet.]
You know, all things considered, I think we could.
[And not just because they were both Dreamers, but because they were both stubborn and determined. When they wanted something, they put their mind to it and got it. Except when Kavinsky had failed to get Ronan.
The point was though, he could imagine the theater as something grand, or even something less grand but livable. Someplace they could be themselves without worrying about other people. As if Kavinsky had ever done much worrying himself, not since he'd been a kid, when he'd still been learning to control what he could do. Ronan was more dangerous, he figured, with those fucked up bird things in his head and whatever else he dreamed about.
He watched Ronan out of the eye while he waited for an answer to how he'd been sleeping, studying the profile of his face, the way he bit his lip. Like garbage, that didn't surprise him in the slightest. He wondered if Ronan ever slept well.]
I'm not sleeping bad. Could be better, though.
[He was practically itching with the desire to spill the beans, to say that he knew exactly why the other boy was having trouble sleeping. Kavinsky knew what he was capable of.]
I could always lend a hand.
[Or at least dream himself up another gun to shoot whatever Ronan unintentionally brought back that was dangerous. Which was still, in his opinion, lending a hand.]
no subject
You know, all things considered, I think we could.
[And not just because they were both Dreamers, but because they were both stubborn and determined. When they wanted something, they put their mind to it and got it. Except when Kavinsky had failed to get Ronan.
The point was though, he could imagine the theater as something grand, or even something less grand but livable. Someplace they could be themselves without worrying about other people. As if Kavinsky had ever done much worrying himself, not since he'd been a kid, when he'd still been learning to control what he could do. Ronan was more dangerous, he figured, with those fucked up bird things in his head and whatever else he dreamed about.
He watched Ronan out of the eye while he waited for an answer to how he'd been sleeping, studying the profile of his face, the way he bit his lip. Like garbage, that didn't surprise him in the slightest. He wondered if Ronan ever slept well.]
I'm not sleeping bad. Could be better, though.
[He was practically itching with the desire to spill the beans, to say that he knew exactly why the other boy was having trouble sleeping. Kavinsky knew what he was capable of.]
I could always lend a hand.
[Or at least dream himself up another gun to shoot whatever Ronan unintentionally brought back that was dangerous. Which was still, in his opinion, lending a hand.]