[Those words stick. Asked like a question, and his heart is racing, and he doesn't know what to say. Kavinsky says forget about it, but there's no chance that Ronan would ever have been able to. Maybe it was cheesy. But Ronan was a boy raised on myths and fairytales, on the oldest sorts of cliches. He feels like he's molten, and there's something rapt, something awed and breathless as he watches Kavinsky with sharp blue eyes.]
Fuck.
[He watches the other boy as he throws the molotov, blue eyes lingering against the shape of his fingers, tracing up to his shoulders, the way his body is like a knife. It's harder to ignore temptation when Kavinsky goes and says something like that. The sort of thing that Ronan can hardly admit to himself that he'd want someone to say. But it still hooks in his chest, catches on his ribs. The way that Ronan looks at him is hopeful, warm with interest in his eyes he doesn't know how to spell out.
He feels like he's caught, trapped between wonder and fear, but he doesn't flinch from it, doesn't pull away. If he thought the other boy was being a dick about it, it would have been easy to handle, to push back and not let it touch him. But this isn't that, isn't the way the Aglinbros treated him: like a different species there for their amusement. Kavinsky says it like it means something and that melts him down to his core.
Ronan doesn't know the words, how to say something when there's fire in his veins, hardly knows what the rush of attraction means. So he just runs a hand through his hair, trying to hide how he shakes. Then he holds out his hand like an offer. No explosives this time. Just fingers and touch and the bare skin of his wrist like something vulnerable.
I guess maybe we're both on fire- but he doesn't actually say the words.]
no subject
Fuck.
[He watches the other boy as he throws the molotov, blue eyes lingering against the shape of his fingers, tracing up to his shoulders, the way his body is like a knife. It's harder to ignore temptation when Kavinsky goes and says something like that. The sort of thing that Ronan can hardly admit to himself that he'd want someone to say. But it still hooks in his chest, catches on his ribs. The way that Ronan looks at him is hopeful, warm with interest in his eyes he doesn't know how to spell out.
He feels like he's caught, trapped between wonder and fear, but he doesn't flinch from it, doesn't pull away. If he thought the other boy was being a dick about it, it would have been easy to handle, to push back and not let it touch him. But this isn't that, isn't the way the Aglinbros treated him: like a different species there for their amusement. Kavinsky says it like it means something and that melts him down to his core.
Ronan doesn't know the words, how to say something when there's fire in his veins, hardly knows what the rush of attraction means. So he just runs a hand through his hair, trying to hide how he shakes. Then he holds out his hand like an offer. No explosives this time. Just fingers and touch and the bare skin of his wrist like something vulnerable.
I guess maybe we're both on fire- but he doesn't actually say the words.]