[Kavinsky knew there was something he liked about Ronan. Not just that he was a dreamer, not just that he was hot as fuck, not just that they raced a lot. He liked the races but not the losing part. He liked that Ronan was incendiary, a ticking time bomb even if some of his edges had been smoothed by age. Or rather, the reversal of age. Once upon a time, Ronan had thought he was better than Kavinsky--he knew that, too--but things were different here.
He grinned, wild and pleased. Cars dotted the run-down road around them, weeds growing up through the cracks in the pavement--the cars hadn't always been there, but a little tweak of the dream, a little push, and it was like they'd existed the whole time. Between them and the decrepit buildings, some of them in better shape than others, there was plenty to set on fire.
A lit Molotov appeared in Kavinsky's hand, melting into existence, and he held it out to Ronan, the flames reflecting in his dark eyes.]
Pick your poison.
[He gestured with his other hand to their surroundings.]
no subject
He grinned, wild and pleased. Cars dotted the run-down road around them, weeds growing up through the cracks in the pavement--the cars hadn't always been there, but a little tweak of the dream, a little push, and it was like they'd existed the whole time. Between them and the decrepit buildings, some of them in better shape than others, there was plenty to set on fire.
A lit Molotov appeared in Kavinsky's hand, melting into existence, and he held it out to Ronan, the flames reflecting in his dark eyes.]
Pick your poison.
[He gestured with his other hand to their surroundings.]