[Ronan has to swallow at the sight of it. There's something about the image of Kavinsky with a bomb in his hand, offering it to him like a gift. Maybe it's the way the flame reflects in his eyes, all stark dark hair and the way they stand in this place, cars dotting the road.
He liked his forest, the trees, but there was magic here too. There were two sides of him, one that liked the raw side of things, flowers and thorns and claws, and the other was this- explosions and cars. The side of him that liked electronica with heavy bass as much as harps and Irish pipes. Somehow, standing here with Kavinsky, the molotov sliding from the other boy's hand into Ronan's, he feels a little undone in a way he can't explain. Something about the boy next to him or the words or the fire.
It feels like holding his heart in his hand. He watches the flame lick against the rag stuffed into the mouth of the bottle, just for a moment while he picks what he wants, and then he throws it. Bottle arcing, smashing through the driver's side window, flames catching against the interior.
And Ronan laughs, all bright and breathless- grinning as he looks at Kavinsky, his pulse racing with the thrill of it. Flames and the feeling of setting something on fire that's always been primal, something he craved, whether it was with his brothers around the Barns, or helping Gansey at Monmouth, or Kavinsky and the Substance Party that Ronan hadn't experienced yet.
So he takes a breath, and copies the one that K had handed to him. Shaping it into the dream so that he can offer it back. Somehow it feels like he's burning instead of the bottle.]
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He liked his forest, the trees, but there was magic here too. There were two sides of him, one that liked the raw side of things, flowers and thorns and claws, and the other was this- explosions and cars. The side of him that liked electronica with heavy bass as much as harps and Irish pipes. Somehow, standing here with Kavinsky, the molotov sliding from the other boy's hand into Ronan's, he feels a little undone in a way he can't explain. Something about the boy next to him or the words or the fire.
It feels like holding his heart in his hand. He watches the flame lick against the rag stuffed into the mouth of the bottle, just for a moment while he picks what he wants, and then he throws it. Bottle arcing, smashing through the driver's side window, flames catching against the interior.
And Ronan laughs, all bright and breathless- grinning as he looks at Kavinsky, his pulse racing with the thrill of it. Flames and the feeling of setting something on fire that's always been primal, something he craved, whether it was with his brothers around the Barns, or helping Gansey at Monmouth, or Kavinsky and the Substance Party that Ronan hadn't experienced yet.
So he takes a breath, and copies the one that K had handed to him. Shaping it into the dream so that he can offer it back. Somehow it feels like he's burning instead of the bottle.]
Your turn.