That was always the difficult thing for Ronan - even now. Maybe even especially now, when those thoughts had less direction, fewer clear targets. Being able to work through his own desires, to be that honest with himself; these were still difficult things. What did he want?
He wanted this. At least he knew that much. He wanted to have someone that understood him, this part of him that no one else would talk about. It was a thrill- the transgression of being known, when it was the thing that was most forbidden. The fact that someone could still catches in his chest, his pulse like the beat of one of his favorite songs.
He traces his fingers against the bands against his wrist, trying to focus on the feeling, the way they're just a little loose on his wrist, the leather old and worn soft, warm. His teeth marks, the way it tastes when he gnaws on them, the weight light but firm enough that he feels strange without the press of them against his skin anymore.
Intention. Practice. He thinks he can do this.
Somewhere to start, anyway; it's nice just to have the promise of it. The energy of the dream around them, all potential and possibility. He was still figuring it all out, hadn't even dreamt the keys to the Camaro yet. He accepted what his dreams gave him, whether it was a pencil or a glitter globe or a piece of the night sky you could hold in your hand.
He'd asked himself a hundred times why they didn't talk about. He still didn't know the answer. But maybe it didn't matter, because they could talk about it, figure out the way through the dreams, how to feel what he wanted. The awe settles a little, but there's still a certain intensity in how Ronan looks at him, the way he watches.]
no subject
That was always the difficult thing for Ronan - even now. Maybe even especially now, when those thoughts had less direction, fewer clear targets. Being able to work through his own desires, to be that honest with himself; these were still difficult things. What did he want?
He wanted this. At least he knew that much. He wanted to have someone that understood him, this part of him that no one else would talk about. It was a thrill- the transgression of being known, when it was the thing that was most forbidden. The fact that someone could still catches in his chest, his pulse like the beat of one of his favorite songs.
He traces his fingers against the bands against his wrist, trying to focus on the feeling, the way they're just a little loose on his wrist, the leather old and worn soft, warm. His teeth marks, the way it tastes when he gnaws on them, the weight light but firm enough that he feels strange without the press of them against his skin anymore.
Intention. Practice.
He thinks he can do this.
Somewhere to start, anyway; it's nice just to have the promise of it. The energy of the dream around them, all potential and possibility. He was still figuring it all out, hadn't even dreamt the keys to the Camaro yet. He accepted what his dreams gave him, whether it was a pencil or a glitter globe or a piece of the night sky you could hold in your hand.
He'd asked himself a hundred times why they didn't talk about. He still didn't know the answer. But maybe it didn't matter, because they could talk about it, figure out the way through the dreams, how to feel what he wanted. The awe settles a little, but there's still a certain intensity in how Ronan looks at him, the way he watches.]
What was the first thing you ever brought back?