"No parties tonight?"
Kavinsky's spine straightens from his perch on his car's hood, and his head twists around.
They're on a hill, overlooking the nearby drive-in. Cars are chasing each other on the screen, but even if you could distinguish the sounds from this distance, Kavinsky's stereo would have drowned them out.
"Danced at every one of them," he says, turning back to the sky stretching in front of him. He's smoking something, and Ronan can smell the weed from several feet away. That would explain why Kavinsky appears to be so blunted, all edges broken and honed away.
"I texted you," Ronan says, devoid of inflection. His heart is in a snare. He didn't expect to find Kavinsky so defenseless.
With a flick of his wrist, Kavinsky whips out his phone to check. Then he huffs. "One text. Two hours ago. Can't have been that urgent if you managed to keep it in your pants that long. Or did Dick help you out?"
Maybe not so defenseless after all. That mouth of his definitely needs a permit to be handled. And Ronan wants to handle it with his fist. They're quivering by his sides. Instead of decking Kavinsky, he says, "Thought you might have been lying in a ditch somewhere."
Kavinsky's smile widens into a grin, as if he were flattered. "That's your favorite fantasy, right? Me, dead. Out of your life."
He drops the butt of his joint and crushes it underfoot. Stuffing his hands into the thin zip hoodie with its rolled up sleeves, he peers up at Ronan again, as if expecting something. Did he want Ronan to confirm or deny it?
"What other fantasies of me do you have?" he asks, but rather than getting into Ronan's face like he usually does, he sits back down on the hood and puts his foot on the grille.
"One of you on the ground with a bloodied nose, if you don't shut up soon."
"Relax, man. It's so difficult to get along with you before you've had my cock in your mouth." Ronan glares. He still doesn't want to acknowledge what they've done in the past, even if it's the very thing he's here for now. The mere mention of it slices through him. "Come sit." Kavinsky pats the hood of his Mitsu. "Smoke with me. Tell me all about the nasty things you want to do. Maybe we can do some after."
"Doubt it," Ronan says and approaches.
"Come on, man. Try me." Kavinsky pulls another joint from behind his ear and lights up. "Can't imagine you to be into stuff that's too hardcore for me. I'm game for pretty much anything." He exhales a large white cloud of smoke and hands the joint to Ronan. "Or do they all involve Gansey? Because, yeah, that I can't help you with. Yet."
Ronan eyes the joint between his fingertips, then the other boy. Kavinsky's expression is amiable enough, more interested in whether Ronan is going to accept the peace pipe offer than in talking trash – that is automatic. "If we're gonna do this, I want you to leave Gansey out of it. Completely."
"So you want this to be between just the two of us?" Kavinsky's lips quirk into a broad smile and his glazed eyes are trained on Ronan's fingers. Or his mouth. It's hard to tell in this light. "That's cute."
Ronan's hand clamps around Kavinsky's throat and rams him down onto the hood. He bears down until he hears Kavinsky choke from the pressure. "If you find it too hard to keep your trap shut, I can think of a number of ways to shut it for you, got it? This is just one of them." Ronan then takes a drag, perhaps too deep, because it burns in his throat and lungs, and he has to really keep himself together to not start coughing. Once it's safe enough, he blows a strained column of smoke straight into Kavinsky's face and offers him the joint.
"Sure, man," Kavinsky rasps, rubbing his throat. "Whatever you want, however you want it. Promise."
The moment Ronan tries to back away, he notices Kavinsky's legs hooked over the backs of his thighs. Come to think of it, did Kavinsky grind himself against him? Ronan thought he might have been struggling. Did that shit turn him on?
"Smoke a little more," he continues and his legs release Ronan as Kavinsky sits up again. "It'll calm you down. Come here."
Ronan leans against the Evo as Kavinsky pulls on the joint and curls his fingers around the nape of Ronan's neck, guiding him closer. Ronan doesn't protest when Kavinsky's lips slide against his own, urging them to part. Just like always, something dark and sharp twists in his gut when their tongues touch. His mouth fills with smoke and it takes him by surprise although it shouldn't. There is something hellish about Kavinsky, something that goes together well with smoke and brimstone.
He's dangerous, just like Declan said, though not in the way he meant it.
Ronan dissolves into a fit of coughs.
"Boy, you really suck at this." Kavinsky laughs, but there's no menace behind it. It's not meant to cut. It's just that: a laugh. He's amused, genuinely, as if they were friends and Ronan had just told a funny joke. "Seriously, Lynch. Try to keep up."
Sometimes Ronan wonders if there's a real person behind the drug dealer mobster trash guise or if Kavinsky's personality is just a function of whatever drug he's taken last. Because Ronan can't keep up like that.
Kavinsky rubs his back until the coughing subsides and slaps his shoulder in a companionable gesture. When he squeezes it, hard, intent, like his eyes, it doesn't feel so companionable anymore. "Let's do that again. But this time, inhale, okay?"
He takes his hand away to re-light the joint and Ronan feels infinitely colder for the loss of it. This time, when Kavinsky slots their mouths together, Ronan is prepared. This time, he inhales and holds it long enough to make out with Kavinsky. Or he thinks he holds it, because the smoke spills out of both their mouths as if they were statues honoring Moloch, with furnaces in their bellies.
"Wanna try it?" Kavinsky asks, eyes hooded, lips spit-slick and puffy, and Ronan thinks he must have a furnace inside him because he is burning up and he is hungry for a sacrifice.
The bass pounding from the stereo is thrumming through the car's body, and Ronan's. His fingertips brush Kavinsky's knuckles as he accepts the joint. Kavinsky sucks in his bottom lip as he watches Ronan, who takes slow puffs, careful not to choke this time.
It's difficult, breathing out into someone's mouth when all you want to do is forget about breathing and just kiss that person until they, too, forget how breathing works. He manages somehow, to breathe, but not to make Kavinsky forget how to. Unlike Ronan, Kavinsky holds out until they break the kiss, then exhales a stream of smoke, grinning.
"That was better," he says, smug as always, and it pisses off some part of Ronan he thought was turning a blind eye to this.
Ronan takes another drag, throws the butt over his shoulder, and cares not a fig how he breathes out this time. Kavinsky meets him with equal fervor, mouth hot and voracious and everything Ronan needs right now. Smoke spills from their mouths unheeded, dissipating in the night air. Kavinsky's fingers clutch at his shoulders, his back, the fabric of his tank top, restless in their search for bare skin. He's right. Clothing items are a nuisance.
He lets Kavinsky yank his tank top over his head and himself only manages to get Kavinsky's zip hoodie off before he slams him down so hard his head bounces off the hood. Neither of them care enough to stop for even a moment. Kavinsky is feeling his way up each of Ronan's individual ribs, and Ronan slots himself between Kavinsky's legs, kissing and biting Kavinsky's mouth because his lips are simply creating that urge in him. Kavinsky groans when their hips grind against each other; Ronan is uncomfortably hard, and from the feel of it, Kavinsky is, too.
Kavinsky, using his car's grille for leverage and not caring a whit for the paintjob, rolls his hips up against Ronan's, until Ronan puts an end to it by pinning them down. Kavinsky strains against him, sharp hipbones digging into palms, but knows he can't win this. He grins into their kiss as his hands snake between them and get to work on Ronan's fly. Ronan hisses when one hand dips inside and touches the tip of his prick through his boxers. They're soaked with precome and stick to him a little when Kavinsky tries to peel them off. The chill night air makes him twitch and seek out the warmth of Kavinsky's teasing fingers.
He moans against Kavinsky's lips and runs his thumbs along Kavinsky's low-slung waistband. In the time it takes Ronan to open Kavinsky's button, the other boy has yanked Ronan's jeans down to his thighs. His ass feels exposed, but he's occupied both with the feel of Kavinsky's hands on him and with the need to get Kavinsky out of his stupid skinny jeans. They're shit to contend with. He just wants to have Kavinsky like this, hands and mouths and bucking hips, but their clothes are making that impossible.
He curses as he tries to extract Kavinsky from his fucking pants. Kavinsky just laughs, but does raise his hips to help. Ronan grinds against Kavinsky's now freed cock and fuck, that feels amazing. Except his zipper is chafing his balls and his jeans feel too coarse against his thighs although this has never bothered him before.
With a huff, he draws back and pulls Kavinsky's pants to his ankles. His high tops are easily discarded and then his jeans are, too. Crouching in front of the car, Ronan is level with Kavinsky's cock, and the other boy is sitting up again, stroking Ronan's buzzcut, and a shiver runs through him, amplified by the wild electronica screaming from the stereo, sounds like writing on glass, like breaking glass, like shards falling onto tarmac, crunching under tires.
Kavinsky opens his mouth but before he can say anything that could potentially kill the mood, Ronan swallows the head of his cock. All that comes out of Kavinsky's mouth is a helpless moan. Ronan hates to admit it, but he loves that sound, because he's the one who made Kavinsky do it. He also loves the feel of his cock on his tongue, warm and hard and heady, just as he loves the way Kavinsky looks at him when he's too far gone to pretend to be a prick, but not gone enough to no longer see Ronan. Or maybe he doesn't see Ronan anymore, maybe he sees just what he wants to see, but Ronan likes to believe that the desire burning in his gaze, that's all for him.
"Fuck, you're so..." Kavinsky bites his lip, scratching the back of Ronan's neck and squeezing his shoulder, "you're going all pro on me."
He probably means Ronan alternating between long, lazy licks and sucking him so far into his mouth until he nearly chokes, but Ronan is not thinking of any of that. It's as automatic as Kavinsky talking shit. He's concentrating on own dick in his fist, stroking in time to his bobbing head, although sometimes he loses track because squeezing himself nice and slow takes precedence in his mind. That is, until Kavinsky nudges him with his prick or the hand on the back of his head.
"I'm quite proud of the progress you made." Kavinsky giggles. He fucking giggles."As they say, practice makes perfect."
Lips still wrapped around his cock, Ronan looks at him although there is barely anything to make out. He releases his dick with an audible pop and spits against it. But no matter how aggravating Kavinsky can be, Ronan can't leave it at that, so he licks it off again and swallows him deep.
Kavinsky sucks in a sharp breath. "Fuck, man. That's what I'm talking about."
"I wish you'd stop talking." With his own cock in hand, Ronan gets up, much to Kavinsky's displeasure, and lets his jeans drop to the ground. Stroking himself, he wraps his fingers around Kavinsky's throat, pressing lightly this time.
"Are you just gonna make me watch?" Kavinsky asks, eyes on the head of Ronan's prick as it disappears in his grip and reappears from it. Since he asked so impatiently, Ronan is intent on taking it slow, really drawing it out, to tease Kavinsky as much as he can.
Kavinsky is tugging on his own glistening cock and Ronan could swear he's leaning forward into the hand around his throat.
"Look, man. I'm getting cold here and I'm craving a smoke, so can we speed this up a little? Preferably with you sucking me off again."
Ronan's smile is all canines. He strokes his thumb over Kavinsky's Adam's apple and something delightful thrills through him when the other boy swallows hard.
"Well?" Kavinsky prompts, more breathless than he has any reason to be.
Ronan lets his hand trail lower, over Kavinsky's clavicle, flicks his gold chain up and hooks his index finger over the collar of Kavinsky's tank top. He has a clear image of what he wants now. Letting his own prick go, he uses both hands to strip Kavinsky naked, scoot his hips down so they're flush with his own and keep them there.
"Fuck, Lynch," Kavinsky breathes as their dicks touch, and reaches out to run his fingers over Ronan's chest and abs. "Just fuck."
Ronan breathes out through his nose and presses Kavinsky back down with a hand to his sternum. Kavinsky's fingers curl around Ronan's shoulders, dig in, and run down his sides. His eyes are dark and glittering, and his lips are bitten raw and needy. Grinding against Kavinsky, Ronan leans on his chest and captures his mouth in a kiss. Kavinsky groans against him, cradles the back of his skull to keep his face exactly where it is, and winds his legs around Ronan's thighs to ensure the same for his hips.
Kavinsky's panting turns into wheezing from the pressure on his lungs and a short laugh turns into a cough. "Don't be a chicken," he says as Ronan takes his hand from Kavinsky's chest. "Do it properly."
"You mean this?" Ronan asks and grips Kavinsky's neck again.
"Fuck yeah," Kavinsky breathes, fingers playing with the nape of Ronan's neck.
"I thought you wanted to cater to my fantasies tonight."
"This not one of yours?" Kavinsky grins.
Ronan grins back and answers with a thrust of his hips and the press of his palm. A cool gust sweeps over them, rustles through the leaves overhead, and raises goosebumps on Ronan's back, but the car vibrating beneath them and Kavinsky's hot hands stroking along his spine manage to chase away the chill.
Kavinsky's pulse is hammering against Ronan's palm, the barest hint of stubble scratches his skin, and the little choking noises Kavinsky makes are stoking the fire in Ronan's blood. Kavinsky is rubbing their dicks together ever more frantically, clinging to Ronan with the strength of the desperate, but Ronan is not ready yet.
He thrusts into the vice grip Kavinsky has on their cocks, almost leisurely compared to the other boy's ceaseless rocking, and then Kavinsky is slapping his shoulder and whining and going taut all at once, and it takes Ronan a moment to release his throat because he couldn't catch up fast enough. He's beginning to grow light-headed himself.
Kavinsky inhales a big, gulping breath and quivers and comes in hot spurts against both their bellies. He continues to twitch as Ronan chases his own orgasm.
"Holy fuck, Lynch." Kavinsky is laughing, high-pitched and free. "I thought you were gonna let me pass out."
Kavinsky's hand is still fastened around their dicks, so Ronan pries it loose and pins it next to them on the hood. He does the same to the other wrist, because Kavinsky stretched out beneath him and trembling in the wake of his orgasm is quite a sight to behold.
He's turning limp and liquid under Ronan, legs falling open, which doesn't afford him enough friction. Kavinsky's head lolls to the side and his exposed neck provides Ronan with just the right target. He bites. Kavinsky hisses and his legs clamp around Ronan's hips. Yeah, that's it. He bites harder, to keep Kavinsky's legs in place and fucks him like this until he comes.
It's not amazing as far as orgasms go, and Kavinsky has wrung some amazing orgasms from his fucked-out frame, but it's nice and satisfying and leaves Ronan with warmth suffusing his whole body.
He unclenches his jaw and presses a kiss to Kavinsky's abused skin. He's feeling fuzzy and light, like he's made up of air and has no body to speak of.
"Fuck, that's gonna leave a mark." Kavinsky rubs the spot, nearly ramming his watch into Ronan's nose. So maybe he still does have a body.
"Wear hoodies," Ronan mumbles, resting his head on Kavinsky's shoulder. He might have liked a blanket covering his exposed skin, but Kavinsky's body heat is bleeding through him and his stroking fingers are chasing some of the cold away, enough to lull him.
"Hoodies don't cover this. Though it's not like you know or care, right?"
Ronan negates this and tries to tuck some of Kavinsky's more jaggedy parts away to make him more comfortable, but it seems futile so he just leaves it be.
"Aw, man. You're not falling asleep on me, are you? Fuck. You're a heavy shitbag. Get off."
Ronan feels himself turning, tumbling, impacting on the ground like a ragdoll, or a sack of potatoes. Kavinsky is moving beside him, picking something up, clicking his tongue, throw that something over Ronan's torso. There's the swish of fabric against fabric, a zipper, more grunting noises. A foot kicking him.
"Come on, man. I can't have you catching a cold on the ground."
Kavinsky pulls up his boxers and suddenly his ass is a lot warmer. He tries to pull up Ronan's jeans too, but gives up when Ronan doesn't move a muscle to help.
"Oh, whatever. Suit yourself. I don't care."
Footsteps retreat. There's a metallic creak, a pause, some rustling. Then a bang and footsteps approaching again. Something heavy and warm is thrown over him and something soft is wedged between his head and the pebbly ground.
"Sweet dreams, dickhead."
"I'm good," Ronan says and throws the pillow Kavinsky's general direction.
"The fuck you are."
Ronan struggles to sit upright. He doesn't feel like he's inside his own body anymore. It's like things are happening to it and he's barely aware of what they are. It's a bit like being drunk, only with less nausea and more fuzziness.
"I got you, man." Kavinsky puts Ronan's arm around his shoulder and hauls him up.
"Just get me to my car."
"What, so you can drive into the nearest tree? Not on my watch."
"Sweet of you, fuckface. But I can handle."
"Yeah, right." Kavinsky opens a car door and manhandles Ronan inside and throws the blanket on top of him.
Ronan looks for his keys and the steering wheel before it dawns on him that he's in the passenger seat of Kavinsky's car. The music should have been a clue. He fumbles for the handle.
The car jostles beneath him; Kavinsky's just got in. He grabs Ronan's arm to stall him. "Why are you in such a hurry to get away?"
"Gansey..." Ronan says and lets his head sink back against the seat behind him. Maybe getting up wasn't such a good idea.
"Is not going to like the sight of you stoned out of your skull." His fingers trail down Ronan's forearm, play with his leather bands. "Or dead around a lamppost, for that matter."
"Fuck, man," Ronan groans and scrubs his hands through his face. "What shit did you give me? It's stronger than any I've ever had."
"Special dream blend." Kavinsky sounds amused and turns down the volume. "Like it? Bet it made you feel real good."
"Not anymore, though."
There's the rasp of a lighter, Kavinsky inhaling, then blowing out smoke. "Just sleep it off, lightweight. You'll feel better in a couple of hours."
"Can't stay that long."
"What is Gansey? Your mom? Though if he were, I doubt you'd want to fuck him that badly." The tip of the cigarette glows bright orange, then dulls. "Or would you?"
"One more word about my mother," Ronan warns, blindly pointing his index finger like a weapon. When he opens his eyes, Kavinsky's silhouette is outlined in blue from the dashboard lights. One hand is hooked over the top of the steering wheel, holding a cigarette, the other is resting on the center console, as if Kavinsky weren't sure what to do with it.
"Okay, you kinky shit," Kavinsky finally says and flicks Ronan's nose. "I'm driving you home. Need anything from your car?"
"Just my keys."
"Aren't they in your pocket?"
"Don't know," Ronan mumbles, massaging the bridge of his nose. "Feel free to check."
Laughter erupts from Kavinsky. "That is such a cheap way of asking me to grope you again," he says, but he switches his cigarette between his hands and pats down his pockets anyway. "You're lucky it's working."
"Works 'cause you're cheap."
"Come now, no need to get nasty." He finds the pocket with the keys, their edges biting his skin. "I thought we were having a moment here."
Ronan scoffs. "Just like you to confuse touching me with us having a moment."
Kavinsky's thumb is drawing little circles on Ronan's hipbone, and his smile is a wicked thing. "Keep telling yourself you don't like it."
Heat slices through him as Kavinsky's hand travels up his abs and splays his fingers over the searing pain in Ronan's chest, before sliding around the back of his neck. Kavinsky leans in, to press his lips against Ronan's, and the kiss is so without intent to force a reaction from him that Ronan feels suddenly ill. It's a kiss that hurts, not because it is cruel, but because it might mean something. His throat tightens.
Kavinsky is getting soft on him. There's no way around it. Ronan's heart is clawing its way out of his chest, and it repulses him. Kavinsky acting all nice and cavalier repulses him. The whole situation repulses him. A sour aftertaste clings to his palate. Kavinsky's weakness is his own weakness.
He needs to do something, to channel the tension beneath his skin, maybe beat up Kavinsky and be done with all this. It's itching under his skin.
Ronan is aware that whatever decision he comes to now could irreparably damage this little truce they've established. No, not could: is going to. The thing about Ronan, you see, is that when you give him a knife, he wants to use it.
Ronan grits his teeth and shoves Kavinsky away.
"We're done here."
"What?" Kavinsky looks bewildered, and the tower of ash atop his cigarette butt crumbles to the floor.
"You heard me. I'm ending this."
"Fuck you, man. Are you serious?"
"Yeah," Ronan settles back, ignoring the ashen taste on his tongue. "I'm tired of your shit."
Kavinsky draws back and punches his shoulder. His expression is scorched, just like that time he dreamed the Camaro. When Ronan told him it was never going to be them. He should have stuck to that.
"Are you going to drive or what?"
"Right." Kavinsky makes a strangled noise, takes one last drag from his cigarette and throws it out of the window. Ramming his back into the seat, he grips the steering wheel tight. He exhales through his teeth and it sounds like a steaming hiss. "My bad," he says. "I should have burned you when I had the chance."
A tense silence settles over them on the road to Monmouth Manufacturing, it's setting Ronan's teeth on edge. This wasn't exactly how he'd pictured the night to end. A few insults, sure, but nothing so bitter. Nothing so final. It reminds him of the day he drove off in the dream Pig, perfect down to its smallest details, leaving Kavinsky behind without a thought. After that day or weekend they spent together, he needed some distance between himself and Kavinsky, and the emergence of the Camaro replica from his dreams gave him the longed-for excuse. He doesn't trust himself when the other boy is around, and he needed some perspective.
He needed Gansey to give him that perspective.
From Gansey's perspective, Kavinsky is a nobody, he doesn't matter, not in the long run. Kavinsky is a cokehead slut who lives for danger, and one day, danger will be the death of him. Tough luck. Ronan thought it would be okay to do this, to see Kavinsky, because Kavinsky doesn't matter and because there would be no attachments – Kavinsky would fuck him, forget about him, and move on to the next conquest.
Or so he thought.
He didn't think it would become a semi-regular thing. A ceasefire of sorts, or maybe a white flag, a surrender. Kavinsky has been leaving him well enough alone since it started, no annoying text messages several times a day, no unwanted gifts waiting in his parking lot, because Ronan would be in touch sooner or later. It was easier to ignore him, ignore that they were seeing each other at all.
Ronan is half-asleep by the time Kavinsky pulls up in front of the stairs leading up to Monmouth's second story. Kavinsky nearly drags him out of the passenger seat and across the parking lot before he dumps him at the bottom of the stairs. The sky is slowly turning gray on the horizon. Kavinsky comes back to spread the blanket over Ronan's body, and to pad out the stairs with the pillow he gave him earlier. Then there's a squeak and Kavinsky is drawing his wet index finger over Ronan's forehead. Or no, that's not right. This pungent chemical smell... Fuck, Kavinsky is doodling on him with a sharpie.
He swats the other boy away before he can continue marking his cheeks.
"You could have had this a lot easier," Kavinsky says and stamps the sole of his sneaker onto Ronan's chest. There's a flash of light, but no thunder, or camera shutter. He must have turned that off. "I would have helped you get into Dick's pants if that's what you'd have wanted. You want to end this? Let's end this right."
With one last kick for good measure, Kavinsky leaves. Ronan stays on the bottom of the stairs, in his makeshift bed, unable to move more than an inch at a time. He thinks he must have made a mistake somewhere down the line, but he's not sure if it happened today or sometime during the past few weeks. He thinks, shit, this is going to get ugly.
Then he thinks nothing at all.