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revivalprojectooc2021-06-13 03:25 pm
trpmods) wrote in revivalprojectooc2021-06-13 03:25 pm
Entry tags:
Summer Test Drive Meme
SUMMER TEST DRIVE MEME
Application FAQ | Taken Characters | Reserves | Application
Welcome to the Current Test Drive for The Revival Project!
This game is a spin-off from the closed The Drift Fleet game. For more information about the game, including more details on the setting, please check out the FAQ here or the premise here.
A thread on the TDM will be required for all applications. Please view the FAQ for information about how this works. Any questions about the game please direct to the comment section of the FAQ as well.
If you are a Drift Fleet alumni bringing your character from the game, please label your character as 'DFAU' on your top level. Also, keep in mind you have complete flexibility on how your character comes here. They could be taken before endgame, after endgame, two years after, one year before, etc. It's up to you! If you want to completely restart your character, they're not considered DFAU anymore and won't need the label.
So go! Explore Agra 10! And, as always, HAVE FUN!
Thread ideas:
Hot Summer Time!
If hunting for food isn't what you came here for, then sunbathing is always an option. Even if the color seems odd, this sand, also, likes to go literally everywhere.
Simply hopping into the water is also rarely a bad idea. This close to the coast there are no harmful creatures in the water, so whether you brought a swim suit, hop in fully clothed or have no care in the world about who might stumble over you naked, Agra 10's ocean is yours to play in.
Explore the city!
Most of the buildings are run down and have clearly been abandoned for years; fortunately, the water treatment center appears to be working, but power is intermittent and unreliable. What used to be stores or places to live in lies in ruins, but there may still be something to scavenge among the rubble. Do you want to risk a swim in the flooded area that has turned into a deep lake that has yet to be fully explored; or does it draw you to some of the more prominent and partially restored buildings, such as the hotel, the hospital or the amphitheater.
If you are lucky, you might even stumble over The Deep End, the bar located on one of the mid-levels of the tower residences in one of the residence towers. Unfortunately no bright neon signs can lead you there, but it does exist.
Visit the spaceships!
Maybe look around anyway. Or try your hand at some repairs?
Try the network!
There be storms...
Should you step inside the storm, or even get lost in it, it will show ghosts of people you know and those you don't. It drains you of any super-human abilities and tries its best to keep you from getting to its origin. Are you going to try anyways? Or are you going to chase the whispers of people from your past? Maybe you will simply find yourself calling for help or stumble across another lost soul in need of assistance.
More information can be found here.
Wildcard!
✧ Premise ✧ FAQ ✧ Rules ✧ Test Drive ✧ Taken ✧ Reserves ✧ Application ✧
✧ Map ✧ Devices & Network ✧ Data Points ✧ Ships ✧ Flora ✧ Fauna ✧ Supply Requests ✧ Calendar ✧
✧ Activity Check ✧ Player Plot Suggestion ✧ Player Contacts ✧ Player Permission Code ✧ Hiatus ✧ Drop ✧
✧ Navigation ✧
no subject
The space they're in together is a derelict, run-down reflection of the derelict, run-down city they were in. But Ronan knew enough about dreams to know that what it looked like wasn't really the part that mattered. Usually, Ronan was in a forest, but he brought back all manner of things.
It's the casual way that Kavinsky shapes the sunglasses into his hand, and slides them onto the front of his shirt. And Ronan knows that they're what he'll bring back. And the truth is- he'd never considered that he got to choose, or that he could. It makes something snake through him, warm and giddy and he laughs with a slight shake of his head.]
Yeah... Yeah, I'm great.
[His voice tries to sound like he's not overwhelmed by the sheer possibility of all, like he can hide how much this all means to him, standing here with Kavinsky, closer than he's ever been to anyone. No one else really understood. He swallows and reels under the weight. Not knowing what to say, how to say any of it, and so instead it's this instead:]
Do you dream all of your shitty sunglasses?
[But he grins at K, like it's a joke they're both in on, not a rejection.]
no subject
He could shape this space into anything he wanted, even if the run-down buildings were comforting in their familiarity, now that he didn't need to play the role of thief. The forest wasn't here to muddy his intentions, to try and stop him. Besides that, his sunglasses were so familiar to him that he should have no problem pulling them from this dream.
Laughing, he reached over to ruffle Ronan's hair, because he could and what else was that hair there for besides touching and grabbing?]
Sometimes. They didn't make the trip with me.
[And he missed them. Was there ever really a time when he was without his sunglasses? Besides, he felt like he needed to bring something back with him from this dream.]
You're the first person to ever be in my head.
[He added. Which meant this was special, not just for Ronan but for Kavinsky, too. He usually wasn't sentimental, but sometimes, when there were important firsts, he could be persuaded. Like this moment. He wouldn't forget this.]
no subject
There's something to it, the way it feels being here in a dream with someone else. Having it be Kavinsky of all people should probably make it strange. But instead it just feels like something that Ronan hadn't even had the words to ask for. His world has always been small and insular, Gansey the only friend he didn't share blood with.
And now this. A first for both of them. Part of him wants to take K's hand and never let go, but he is still a teenaged boy raised where Boxing was a better form of communication with his brothers than words. So he doesn't say it.]
I'm pretty sure yours is nicer than mine.
[It's a joke, but it also isn't. It wasn't just the nightmare from the other night; Ronan's thoughts and his dreams tended toward the wild and untamed. Thorns and briars and impossible blue flowers, acid butterflies, horrors, even if all he woke with was a bauble or a whisper, his dreams themselves were rooted in the stories he'd grown up on: grand magic, and haunting green hills and misty forests, but also deadly bargains and doomed heroes.
Ronan didn't know what he wanted.
Kavinsky's dreamspace was.. different. It felt less frantic, more malleable, like taffy. He didn't have that sense like he did sometimes that there was something searching for him. Maybe it was the difference of having someone with him like this, maybe the other boy was just better at it.
He focuses on the dream, on pulling out something he can bring back. Something small. Something as familiar as Kavinsky's sunglasses. And slowly five leather bracelets appear on his left wrist. Borrowed from his father on one of his month-long trips, because there was nothing Niall appreciated so much as a thief and a liar. But Ronan hadn't been wearing them when he ended up here.]
How do you make sure you bring it back with you?
no subject
He liked this place better than the forest. The forest had always fought him, and even though he liked a little challenge sometimes, it was nicer not to worry about waking up scratched to hell by thorns. His favorite dreams, though, were the ones where he didn't plan on bringing anything back at all. Then there was nothing to worry about and he could fuck around to his heart's content, a king, a god.]
It's about intention. Knowing what you want and holding onto it. It's easier to get in and out before the dream knows you're there, so it doesn't fuck up your intent, but I can take shit either way.
[It was just easier when the dream was unaware.]
It takes practice, too. Months. Years.
[He'd worked hard to get to where he was and he was damned proud of it. Once, he'd been a boy, younger than Ronan was right now, with only tentative control over what he brought back and what his dreams held for him. He'd had no one to teach him; the burden had been firmly on his shoulders. But he'd done it, he'd conquered his dreams, given himself worth and purpose. He made his dreams work for him.
He wanted to ask why the fuck Niall Lynch had never taught his son how to dream properly, but it would open the door for questions about why no one had taught Kavinsky how to do the same. Maybe the older Dreamers were selfish. Maybe they didn't care. You'd think, with a gift as special as this, you'd want someone to know how to use it. That was part of why Kavinsky was going to teach Ronan.]
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?
no subject
A dog. [The memory was hazy, faded with time and how young he'd been, but the trauma of it made it sharp at the same time.] I didn't mean to, but I wanted a dog so badly.
[Something he could connect with in lieu of actual friends. He'd always wanted someone or something he could connect with, for as long as he could remember. Yet he'd never dreamed himself a companion. After the dog, he'd been afraid to.]
Dad, he- [Kavinsky made a face as he looked away. He could still remember the way his father had reacted, the horrible things he'd done. He remembered crying and being yelled at for that, too.
He wasn't going to say what had happened to his newly dreamed dog. He wasn't that cruel.] The fucker.
[Taking a breath, he looked back at Ronan, schooling his expression into something that said he didn't care about what had happened, even if it was a huge lie. His previous tone had already given it away.]
What about you?
no subject
But it means something; it's a glimpse that makes him more than the drugs and the rumors. Even more than the fact they're both Dreamers.
Something about the other boy tugs at something in Ronan, in a way he doesn't linger on. But it's a secret he knows, now: Kavinsky cares. And for someone like Ronan, especially this Ronan, who feels so much, it matters. K doesn't say what happened, but Ronan can guess at the shape of it. And it makes him hate Kavinsky's father for what he took from him.
At the question Ronan shrugs his shoulders a little bit sheepishly.]
It's hard to remember. I was young.. but I think it was flowers.
[He swallows at the memory of it, also because Ronan is still soft in ways Aglionby boys weren't always kind about. This is Ronan before the fights were a coping mechanism, but he was still no stranger to bloody knuckles.
His is a different sort of trauma, that he's not sure anyone who wasn't a Dreamer would understand. The sort of wonder and horror that were Ronan's dreams, of being utterly alone with that. Knowing there was not only no help, but no one that would understand -- no one he could tell when he woke up shaking with the taste of blood in his mouth, unsure if it was a sense memory, or something he'd brought back with him. He takes a breath and lets himself tell him, quiet but dream doesn't really care about the distance anyway.]
I was.. there was this thing, and I could tell that it wanted me, and I was running, trying to get away, to wake up and-- I fell. Grabbing on to whatever I could, and I woke up with them in my hands. Flowers and smashed petals and the way they smelled.
[If they weren't in a dream, if Ronan didn't know they were in a dream, he might have just tried to describe them. All stumbling words, fumbling to explain the impossibility of them, the ways they were wrong and different, the color, the way the scent on the air made you feel. But instead, he's able to tug at it, to gently ask the dream for what he wants, for Ronan's blue flowers to take hold in among the cracks of the ruined city they stand in. And he grins at K, all bright blue eyes, heart-racing with the adrenaline feeling of being able to show someone.]
no subject
Of course, it was flowers. [He said, but not meanly. He didn't know much about what Ronan usually dreamed besides night horrors and pens and cars both tiny and large, but somehow flowers didn't surprise him. He wished he knew more about what the other Dreamer usually dreamt of, not just because he was curious for the sake of knowing, but because he could-... Well, if being gifted cars didn't impress him, Kavinsky could find out what did.
It wasn't like him to want to impress someone; usually, it was up to others to do the impressing to hold his attention. But this was different. Ronan wasn't like other people. He had the capacity for greatness, a potential that could be unrivaled by anyone except K himself. Of course, Kavinsky didn't have any other Dreamers to compare them to, but he didn't want them. Ronan, choosing with him instead of against him, would be all he needed.
He crouched next to the flowers, touching the petals gently. They were beautiful, but he didn't say that. He could already tell there was such a difference in their dreams that made him feel a little jealous. They were each a product of their upbringing, and flowers and dogs might not have seemed that different, but ruling out the dog, most of Kavinsky's dreams were industrial. He'd had the forest as his dream place in Henrietta, and before that this place, but the things he'd brought back with him had been more mundane than fantastical. These flowers were the opposite of that.]
Is something usually after you in your dreams?
no subject
There's something about the gesture, about watching Kavinsky crouch next to the flowers, fingers touching the petals in this dream that they share, and it feels almost intimate. But he shrugs off the thought. Instead just lets himself smile at the appreciation- he might not say it outloud, but he can see it. And that makes Ronan feel almost giddy. Because he'd always wanted this, to be able to show someone and have them appreciate what he made, not tell him to bury it forever.
He shrugs a little bit at the question, and his smile thins into something that isn't so easy; complicated and a little bit fraught.]
Not always. But- sometimes. [Ronan tries to act like it doesn't mean anything, like it doesn't bother him, because he doesn't quite know how to ask for help. Doesn't really know if there is such a thing as help for the things that haunt his dreams.]
If it turns into a nightmare. Or if I try to change the dream too much. Sometimes it just- happens. Sometimes it's just some thing, sometimes it's the horrors. They chase me, and if I don't wake up first they...
[His words are tight and clipped until the end, when he trails off. Of course, Kavinsky's seen what they do to him. Seen the scars on an older body, seen what happens when he brings the damage back with him, but Ronan doesn't know that. Of course, maybe the telling part of how much it affects him, is how the dream starts to pick up on it. He doesn't mean to, but K might want to remind it that it's not what they want before Ronan accidentally makes things messy.]
no subject
He nodded slowly as he listened, stroking one finger along the flower petals before he straightened up. It wasn't like he didn't know about the night horrors, but he'd wanted Ronan to tell him about them. They'd been plaguing him for longer than Kavinsky had imagined, and he wondered what had spawned them in the first place. More importantly than that though, he realized the dream was picking up on Ronan's influence and he pushed back against it, trying to keep things stable and calm.]
Ronan. [Not Lynch like normal. This was a somewhat delicate moment.] Don't bring them here. You're safe right now; they can't hurt you.
[He took a breath. Maybe he could dream something to help keep Ronan's dreams on an even keel? But that would be close to drugging his dreams, stifling him, and Kavinsky wasn't sure he liked the idea of that.]
And if you stick with me, I'll make sure you never have anything to worry about again. I've got a gun, just in case.
[He might have had the one he'd dreamed with Ronan with him here in this place, but he'd had one before that, too. It was his safety measure against nightmares.]
I can teach you, too, how to keep them out of your dreams. [If he could, if it was possible. He was sure it had to be in some way; he'd come leaps and bounds himself, after all. If he could stomp down his own nightmares, he could help someone else overcome theirs.]
no subject
Okay.
[It's a simple acceptance, but there's something to the words. Letting himself trust the insistence that he's safe, that they can't hurt him here. That Kavinsky will keep them safe in the ways that Ronan's never been good at. It hits a chord in him, the feeling of being here, with Kavinsky offering the things he could never even allow himself to admit that he wanted.
Kavinsky is maybe the person from back home that Ronan should be most disinclined to trust, but they were both dreamers, and that made them something else. Especially in this strange place, it hard to see them as anything but together.]
I want to get better. I like dreaming most of the time, it's just--
[There's a wry curl of his mouth as he looks at the other boy. It's difficult to know what he wants, what he doesn't, and the dream doesn't always tell the difference. And then there's how fraught the dreams themselves can be, because Ronan hasn't figured out how to choose what he dreams. He's learning without a teacher, and more vulnerable to them- half a dream himself, even if he doesn't know it. He gestures with his hand, a breath that's sharp with something like dark amusement, considering what had almost just happened.]
You know.
no subject
Dreaming's freedom, where you can really be yourself.
[Without worrying about other people and what they thought. Unless, of course, you didn't know how to be yourself. Did Ronan know? Or had he been too smothered for however long? Kavinsky knew they had to keep the dreaming thing under wraps, but there was a difference between keeping secrets and being smothered.]
You'll get better.
[Kavinsky was going to help him. And they were, maybe, in a place that was safe for dreaming, so Ronan could practice more. He had faith in Ronan's ability to dream even if he didn't have faith that he wouldn't drop Kavinsky like a hot potato again.]
Did you want to set shit on fire or did you want to get out of here?
[Because he was starting to itch with the desire to hurl a Molotov into one of the empty buildings around them. It was safer than setting shit on fire for real, which took some of the thrill out of it but not all of it. Destruction was still destruction and there was nothing he could lay waste to for real right now without someone yelling at him, probably.]
no subject
[For Ronan, dreams sometimes made the real world feel pale in comparison, like it wasn't enough. But he's always been here alone, and so dreams never quite felt like enough either. The prospect that this was something that he could share, that he wasn't alone, that there was more here than just Ronan and the things he conjured was a thrill he couldn't have articulated if he wanted to.
There's a spark of something pleased when the other boy reassures him that he'll get better. And Ronan believes him. What can't they accomplish here, doing this together? Two dreamers. He almost wishes that he'd known before.
And then there's that question, and Ronan looks at Kavinsky and he grins. And this is a look shared between this Ronan and the one that the other boy knew better. Because not everything was different, not everything about him had changed. Trauma just shaved away all the things about him that had been soft or too weak to bear it- but there had always been pieces of him that were sharp. It was why he liked Gansey, back when he'd been burning, back when he was sharper too. Maybe why it's so easy to let himself slide into this odd rhythm with Kavinsky, too.]
I wanna set shit on fire.
[He says it like it's easy, obvious, and maybe it is.]
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
He took the molotov that Ronan offered him, eyes flickering to the car and then the rest of their surroundings. He was mindful of the blue flowers when he took a step, careful not to crush any of them, and threw the molotov through the window of the closest building. It smashed through the glass like it was nothing, landing inside and shattering everywhere. The flames spread quickly, catching on the old wood and carpets, crackling warmly. For a moment, he was enraptured by the creeping fire and had to pry his attention away to return his gaze to Ronan.
He opened his mouth, intending to say something about how hot Ronan was, but all that came out was-] Fuck.
You want another one?
[He could have done this for hours, burning shit, watching the flames, but he didn't know how strong Ronan's destructive urges were.]
no subject
There's something about this, about the way that Kavinsky takes the homemade bomb when he offers it back. And he doesn't say anything, but he notices how he's careful not to crush the flowers. It's such a small thing, but it touches him, somehow. Maybe just because it's the sort of thoughtfulness he doesn't quite expect. Maybe because it's followed by the other teen flinging the molotov into the window of a building, the way his fingers curl against the bottle. There's the sound of breaking glass, and then the rush of flames, the crackling as it rushes against old dry wood.
The interior might as well be kindling.
Kavinsky curses, and it just makes Ronan's smile that much brighter. Sure they're on an alien planet, and for the first time in his life, Ronan felt alone and cut adrift from everyone he's ever known-- but he has Kavinsky, at least. And impossibly, that means like something. This moment, this dream, it feels like something, like maybe he's not alone after all.]
Yeah.. there's still stuff left to burn.
[He looks at the other boy with a wicked sort of grin, easy and playful. But all of a sudden there's something about the fire around them, the way the shadows of it flickers on their faces. The sharp lines of Kavinsky awash in the light... Ronan feels it like a spark. But he doesn't let himself think about it; it feels too much like the sort of thing that could eat him alive.]
no subject
Instead, he molded another molotov into his hand, holding it out to Ronan. There was a lot left to burn, and the plus of them being in a dream was that at any point, Kavinsky could douse the flames and restore everything to its original condition. Meaning they could literally spend forever burning shit, if they wanted to. He'd passed many a night this way, before Henrietta. Before the street racing and Ronan and the opportunities to burn things outside of his dreams.]
More than the shit around us is burning.
[In this moment, he didn't care that he'd been kidnapped, that he might never see home again. He had what he'd always wanted right here. He'd both kill and die to have Ronan at his side, not just the power of two Dreamers, but a Dreamer, standing next to him, choosing him. He didn't know if it would last though, if something would happen to break them apart. He didn't feel like he was asking the world for much. He just wanted one boy, that was it. How was that so hard?]
no subject
He looks away- has to look away with his pulse racing- and instead focuses on the fire licking its way toward the fuel. He throws it at the building next to the one K had ruined, a gasp of his breath at the impact. Flame catching, spiraling up, leaping from one floor to the next, igniting wooden window frames so that the glass panes slowly superheat and shatter outwards. The fire roars, and Ronan lets himself laugh- the sound almost fearless, face flushed by the firelight.]
Doesn't matter what's burning. I just-- I like this.
[Simple and not at all. This is all of the things that haunt his best dreams- the ones that leave him trembling and euphoric when he wakes. Gasoline and fire and cars lit by moonlight. Boys that are sharp enough to cut himself on; sharp enough he wants to. Ronan's not angry about it, though. Not actively ashamed in the way he would be years later, but interest is still difficult for him, easier to hide under other things. A bomb or a car crash or a dead king. Ronan's sexuality is complicated for him, because he's a complicated boy.
If someone asked, he'd insist he was straight.
Well no: he'd roll his eyes with a smile and a middle finger for an answer, maybe call them a dickhead if he thought they were trying to say something about it, maybe start a fight if they smiled wrong. But it would be almost the same thing.
Ronan had grown up as a small child only knowing the Barns and his strange family, and it hadn't been until he started to notice the shape of people around him that he'd grasped he was different, that the things he wanted were not what other people wanted. Boys like Ronan didn't take things from their dreams, or dream about impossible flowers. They didn't feel boredom like a visceral attack, and they didn't want other boys. He tried to toe the line, but stumbled more often than not.]
no subject
He thought about his words carefully before he said anything, but they still sounded cheesy to him.]
What if it's me burning for you?
[It was cheesy, wasn't it? But it was true, and he was only slightly afraid of his feelings, afraid that he'd be rejected again. He just wanted so desperately and he'd never been turned down before Ronan. Maybe even this was too much too fast though. He didn't know. For him, he'd already sat on Ronan's secret and his own attraction for months and months.]
Forget about it.
[He added with a breathless laugh and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He formed his own molotov in hand, hurling it into the car Ronan had already set on fire, as if it needed more fuel to burn. The crackle of the fire made him feel alive, peaking his adrenaline, and with anyone else he would have been more reckless, impatient, but he kept telling himself to take things slow.]
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.]
no subject
Fuck.
[He agreed, turning to watch Ronan warily. The other boy hadn't immediately balked at what he'd said, hadn't laughed it off or told him off, and that was something. Kavinsky was a king; he bowed for no one and nothing, but. That didn't stop him from being a little uncertain.
His gaze flicked from Ronan's face to his hand, the briefest moment of hesitation before he reached out and took his hand, tugging him a little closer.]
What do you want?
[It was a simple question but he knew it wasn't necessarily an easy one. More than anything, he wanted the answer to be 'you'. He could give Ronan almost anything he wanted unless it was another person. He'd never had an actual relationship in his life, not something that was more than casual sex, but there could never be anything casual about him and Ronan, no matter how they fit together.]
no subject
He steps in so that they're eye to eye, Kavinsky's palm against his own feels almost like a brand, but he doesn't let go. It's like the dream makes it feel more, makes it more real, or maybe it's just the result of having someone want him, having someone's hands on his skin and knowing they mean it. He flushes, tips his head to the side, awkward with uncertainty. K asks that question and Ronan flounders, doesn't know the answer.]
I don't know. I never know what I want. I just want... A world that doesn't suck. To not be alone. Something that feels real. I want- I want everything.
[He's greedy in a way he's never been able to say outloud. Ronan's never had an actual relationship himself, either. He hasn't even kissed anyone yet. But he doesn't want something casual, doesn't want it unless it's real, unless it makes him feel alive. Right now he feels like he's burning, and that's just as good. They've only really just met, so he can't quite bring himself to say that he wants him.
But he holds onto him, and the truth is that nothing about this feels casual.]
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He brushed his thumb across the back of Ronan's hand, slow and gentle. 'Gentle' and 'Kavinsky' didn't usually go together in the same sentence, but there was no one else to see them; they had the most privacy they were ever going to get.]
I could give you most of those things. I don't know about making the world not suck, but we could carve out a corner for ourselves, do whatever the fuck we want.
[He'd never been desperate for someone to want him, before. He'd always been content with people liking him if they did, and saying fuck you if they didn't. This was different. He knew he'd fucked up before, and who knew, he might fuck up again, but he had a chance here.
He took a breath, scrubbed his free hand through his hair.]
I've always been alone. All those parties and shit? They don't fill the void, but they're as close as I can get.
[And then he'd found out Ronan was like him, and his world had teetered. He'd thought he was the only one, but he wasn't and it was mindblowing, and- He wanted to press his face into Ronan's hair, but he didn't move.]
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I think I'd like that. Someplace just for us? Whatever we want. Because we want it.
[He'd never had someone offer to give him the world before. Ronan found that he rather liked the feeling. He didn't expect Kavinsky to be an easy boy to want, but then Ronan wasn't either. Mercurial, temperamental, but also softer than most people knew what to do with. He was a storm with skin, both warm smiles or flames at any moment.
For the moment here- it's both. Attraction feels like a fire he can't put out, but he can't help the sad way he smiles as Kavinsky talks: understanding. He just watches him, listens, and there's an ache. Because he understands, in his own way. He had his family, bound by blood and shared secrets, but he still felt alone even in the middle of all of it sometimes. It was a feeling he didn't really know how to explain, and even if he had, there was never anyone he could tell.
Except, there is now. He reaches up, presses his other hand to Kavinsky's chest, flexes his fingers against their joined hands in a soft caress. His hand against the fabric of his shirt, but it seems almost like he could feel his heartbeat, maybe.]
All I had was my family, but sometimes- after dreams the world wouldn't feel real, and everything felt grey and so meaningless I could scream.. it was so impossibly lonely. But we're not alone now, are we?
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