"The fuck are you doing here?" Kavinsky asks, more bored than welcoming. Ronan would have expected him to gloat the moment he saw him back on his doorstep again. He's not gloating. He's pressing the heel of his palm against his eye and leaning heavily on the door handle. "Know what time it is?"
"If you care so much about what time it is, why'd you open the door?" Ronan shoots back and pushes past him. If there's one thing he can rely on, it's that Kavinsky is always up for a confrontation.
"Good evening to you, too. I'm fine, thanks for asking." There's a tension in the way he's carrying himself. Ronan can't quite characterize it, but it's not like when he's ready for a fight. It's almost as if he's wary, as if he doesn't want Ronan to come too close. He can't remember having seen Kavinsky like that before, but he's also not scouring his memory for it very hard.
"You look like shit, though." Kavinsky is holding his gaze, face empty and unblinking. Ronan notices how coiled he himself is, like they're circling each other, waiting for the opportunity to strike.
"Flattery won't get you anywhere. Or do you only come here for my dashing good looks?"
Ronan scoffs. "You're right. You look like shit on most days."
Kavinsky's lips quirk. It's not his trademark grin, but it's getting there. "As if you're such a looker yourself," he says and scrubs his palm over Ronan's scalp.
He closes the door and leads them to the basement theater, not his room. That's telling. He's fucked him there on multiple occasion, but it usually means he wants to tease him first. Fine. Whatever. Let's get on with this.
"What's your poison?" he asks as he moves over to the liquor cabinet. The lock on it is only for show.
Kavinsky comes back carrying two bottles containing varying amounts of whiskey in them and hands him one. It might be the one he'd been nursing the last time they've spent in the basement, but Ronan can't imagine Kavinsky would remember who drank from which bottle. It's been some time.
Ronan grabs Kavinsky's elbow as he's making his way to the theater seats. "Let's go to your room," he says. He's not drunk enough to ignore how uncomfortable these seats can be.
"Straight for the money, huh?" Kavinsky says pleasantly, yanking his arm away. Now he sounds more like the Kavinsky Ronan has come to expect. "Must be frustrating, right? Seeing Dick all the time, but not getting dick. Wonder how you managed to hold out so long."
There they are, the mean-spirited comments he’s looking for.
It’s a form of self-torture, coming here to be reminded of what he can’t have, but that’s what makes it so potent. It burns like overproof vodka.
"Did you miss me?"
Kavinsky's room is a mess: the blankets have been kicked off the bed, liquor bottles line the shelves, and clothes litter the floor, obscuring bottle caps and cigarette lighters. Ronan can't be sure, but he could have sworn a maid comes about two or three times a week to straighten the house. It's surprising how much chaos Kavinsky can create in the interim.
"Just give me a second," Kavinsky says and moves over to the bed. He places the whiskey on his nightstand that's crammed with more bottles and an overflowing ashtray. He lets himself bounce off the mattress and takes a tiny plastic bag out of the drawer.
"Do you have to?" Ronan finds himself asking.
Kavinsky eyes him like he's claimed one and one was three, and for the first time that night, Ronan really notices how fucked up Kavinsky looks. The shadows under his eyes are dark like bruises and his shoulders hunch like he's been drained of all energy.
And his eyes... his eyes aren't the glittering pools of darkness he's come to associate with the other boy, they're a freakishly warm, yellow-flecked brown just this side of glassy and Ronan is convinced he's never seen Kavinsky this sober.
"Look, man, it's simple," Kavinsky says, "either I get high, or you don't get laid."
"Can't get it up without?" Ronan challenges, coming to stand right before Kavinsky. He’s never thought about it before – never cared about what Kavinsky is getting out of this, apart from the obvious power rush. But as much as Ronan staunchly refuses to care about him, it’s difficult when he looks so miserable. It just makes him want to punch Kavinsky.
"Ohh, darling. I can fuck you up without my cock, but you seem to be starved for it. Else why would you bother bringing it up?"
Fuck. Ronan both loves and hates how Kavinsky does that, flip a knife on him.
"What I can't do is fuck you up in my sleep, which is where I’m headed if I don’t get high."
Ronan takes a long pull from the bottle. It scorches his throat and spreads in fiery tendrils across his body. Screwing the cap tight, he places the bottle next to him as he kneels to be at eye-level with Kavinsky. Then he kisses him. Kavinsky's spine straightens like a zipper. His fingers ball up the fabric of Ronan's tank top. But his mouth is responsive enough. This close, the smell of gasoline and exhaust fumes tickles Ronan's imagination, but also reminds him of countless hours spent cradled in warm grass, drunk on the discovery of dreams.
He distributes his weight, moving closer and ready to tip them both into the bed's pull of gravity, but Kavinsky is like a rock before him.
Kavinsky's throat pulls tight and he closes his eyes for a long moment before he speaks again. His voice is strained and breathless.
"How about we pop some E? I've got enough Xanax to help us come down after."
Ronan shakes his head.
Kavinsky's thumb brushes his bottom lip as he nuzzles the side of Ronan's head. "It feels amazing," he whispers, seductive like the idea of leaving all these fucked-up feelings behind.
Kavinsky's exhale sounds defeated. "No can do, princess."
"Oblige me," Ronan says. Kavinsky never listens to his weak-willed protests, so why should he? His hand is a steady pressure traveling up Kavinsky's thigh.
"Fuck," Kavinsky curses under his breath. "You must be really desperate for it if you can't wait another two seconds. A guy could almost feel sorry for you."
Ronan feels like he's floundering; this isn't the way it usually goes. Usually, Kavinsky is the one calling the shots and has a clear idea of where they're headed. Ronan isn't even sure why he's so determined to keep Kavinsky from getting high again – it's not like he'd be clean in a few hours if only he held out long enough. Yet he can't help wondering what this – he hasn't given this a name yet and doesn't intend to; that way he can pretend it's never happened even as it's happening – what this would be like if Kavinsky were mostly sober.
A dangerous thought. As long as Kavinsky is high, Ronan can tell himself he will forget what they've been doing, but if he's not, this becomes too personal. He would be providing Kavinsky with an even bigger target than he already has.
Still, he can't let this go now that it's right in front of him.
"Well?" Kavinsky says. "Aren't you going to blow me?"
Ronan has no biting comeback. It's not the first time he's taken Kavinsky in his mouth, but it's certainly the first time he's been so eager for it. He undoes Kavinsky's fly and pulls his jeans down to his knees. He's not exactly disappointed when he sees his half-hard prick sprawling over his thigh, but it's strange to reconcile this sight with the memories he has. Kavinsky has never greeted him with anything less than a boner so proud and ready that it almost hurt to look at it. Ronan didn't have any qualms jerking it roughly or using his teeth, but he does feel he ought to be gentler with this one.
He runs his fingers down and up the length, feeling it harden beneath his touch. He looks up at Kavinsky, whose eyes are hooded and lips are parted, but who's otherwise very still and attentive. Ronan takes the tip between his lips and flicks his tongue against it. Kavinsky sucks in a breath. Little by little, Ronan sinks down deeper, emboldened by the heaviness of Kavinsky's breathing.
Kavinsky's touch at the back of his neck turns into a bone-crushing grip. "Fuck. You look so good when you're on your knees for me."
Ronan can't help the flash of heat that shoots through him. It sounds almost like praise.
"Get up here," Kavinsky finally grinds out.
Ronan flattens his tongue against Kavinsky's prick one last time before he pulls off and lifts his head in search of Kavinsky's mouth.
"Undress," Kavinsky puffs against his lips instead of closing the gap between them.
Without thinking, Ronan does as he's told. He should be surprised, or taken aback, that he follows these instructions so readily, but his brain is empty and there is no thought he can reach no matter how much he strains for one. There's only the immediacy of skin on skin.
As Ronan is flying out of his clothes faster than he's comfortable acknowledging, Kavinsky is stepping out of his own jeans. He props himself up against the headboard and reaches into the drawer next to him.
For a moment, Ronan's heart thuds angrily against his ribcage, the burn of betrayal hot in his chest. But Kavinsky doesn't take out any drugs. He throws Ronan a clear bottle and puts a cigarette between his lips.
"Fuck yourself with your fingers," he says and flicks on a lighter. "I want to watch."
Again, a twisting sort of heat flashes through him. Slowly, as if on auto-pilot, his hand reaches toward the bottle. Kavinsky's eyes are smoldering behind the screen of smoke and his legs splay to give Ronan a good look as he's lazily stroking his cock.
Ronan uncaps the bottle and pours some lube onto his fingers. His cheeks are blazing. He's always left this part to Kavinsky, who seemed to enjoy making him squirm, even making him come just from that. Now, Kavinsky is staring intently, having forgotten about both his prick and his cigarette.
It's a lot weirder to be doing this himself. The angle is off and his finger doesn't seem to go in as effortlessly as Kavinsky's seems to be able to. He moves his other hand to his balls, to take his mind off the pressure, but Kavinsky kicks it away.
"No touching," he says, sporting a wicked grin. Ronan realizes he hasn't seen him smile that wide all evening.
When Ronan is pushing two fingers inside himself easily, Kavinsky stops tugging the head of his own prick and swings his feet off the mattress. He walks behind Ronan, runs a hand along his shoulder and over his hair. A shiver wrecks through him.
"I wonder what you're thinking about now," Kavinsky says, voice hypnotic in his ear. "Even more, I wonder what Gansey would be thinking if he could see you now. Or the other one, the trailer trash boy. What's his name?"
Ronan's breath comes out in unsteady bursts, but his fingers don't stop. Fuck, no, don't go there.
"Parrish, right. What would they say if they could see you in my bed, with your fingers up your ass, getting ready for me? Are you hoping they'd also want a piece of your tight, little hole?"
Kavinsky's mouth is ghosting over his neck, breath both hot and chilling against his sweating skin.
"Would you like them to share you? Would you like to suck off Gansey while Parrish is fucking you from behind?"
Ronan shakes his head wildly, trying to get away from those words, those thoughts, those images in his head. "Sh—shut up."
"What if they could both fuck you, at the same time? Like this?"
Kavinsky's words have barely left his mouth that Ronan feels him pressing his own fingers to join Ronan's inside him. Ronan's mind blanks out, and he keens, and then all he knows is his body going taut as his release spatters the blanket beneath him.
He's panting heavily when he comes to again, head nestled in the crook of Kavinsky's shoulder. Kavinsky smacks his cheek lightly. Ronan's entire skin is buzzing.
"Told you I didn't need my cock to get you off." Kavinsky sounds so smug Ronan would bite him if he had more control over himself. All he manages is a weak nip. Kavinsky laughs.
It burns when Kavinsky pulls out his fingers to slap his ass, too. Ronan's hand falls bonelessly to the bed.
"So, what's next?" he asks, and scratches Ronan's scalp. His other hand strokes down his chest to his softening prick.
"Give me a minute, man," Ronan mumbles and swats Kavinsky's hand away. He pushes himself off and lands flat on his face. With his nose in his own come. Great. He rolls to the side.
"Don't tell me you're tired, Lynch. If I'm not allowed to be, you're not either."
"Fuck you. You're not the boss of me." Kavinsky's not giving him time to relax, to sort himself out, to banish those images in his head far enough away that he doesn't have to think about them.
Kavinsky moves in front of him to shove his rock-hard cock into his face. "What's it gonna be? Mouth, hand, or—"
"I said, give me a break." Vaguely, Ronan wonders whether Kavinsky did snort some coke or ingest something for him to be so energetic all of a sudden. But maybe he's getting high on tormenting Ronan like that.
His hands are warm on his when he curls down to whisper in Ronan's ear. "I want you to ride me."
Ronan opens his eyes at that. Kavinsky's not one to give up control readily, but he's scooting back to lean against the headrest and beckons him to follow. Ronan feels amiable enough and drags himself to his hands and knees so he can crawl over to him. His interest is waking him quicker than he thought it would, and by the time he's nose to nose with Kavinsky, he's definitely ready to get this on.
Kavinsky stops stroking his glistening dick to slick up Ronan once more and run his fingers over Ronan's prick that's hanging between his thighs. The touch is electric and reminds him that it has gone too long without attention.
Ronan positions himself in Kavinsky's lap. It's strange to see him from up here; usually, he's the one outlined by the ceiling light. When Ronan guides his hot length into him, he's grinning, but it's not his usual cutting grin. This one is full of glee and anticipation, so unlike his tough guy act. Ronan wonders what other kinds of smiles he's hiding behind it.
It slowly dissolves as Ronan is bearing down on him, giving way to something akin to... awe, perhaps?
"Fuck, that's hot," Kavinsky breathes and his hands are fanning out across Ronan's chest, trying to reach as much skin as they can.
It's a bit uncomfortable at first. Gravity is pulling him down faster than he's ready to go, but if he goes slow enough, this actually feels really good. Kavinsky's eyes are trained on him, and his face is displaying so much more emotion than usual that Ronan barely has the chance to process it all.
Soon enough, his own prick fills out again and he's going faster, sliding up and down the entire length of Kavinsky's cock. He's thinking of nothing but the blinding heat building inside him. He's getting so close it's overwhelming, and his hand is flying over his cock to help him along, and then it breaks over him and sweeps him along like he weighs nothing, nothing at all.
Kavinsky pulls him down for a kiss before Ronan crashes. It's deep and languid and almost sweet, but Ronan doesn't have the mind to think about any of that. He's high and glowing and Kavinsky is too hot but his presence is welcome all the same.
They lie with their limbs entwined for a while, sharing the same air. Kavinsky's fingers are restless on his back, his neck, his face, but it's nice in the way it's drawing the tension out of him. He lets this continue until his bones grow heavy and sleep is not only a possibility, but a certainty. Almost reluctantly, he jerks upright, disentangling himself from Kavinsky. Forcing himself off the bed and through the motions, he searches his clothes together and gets dressed mechanically.
"Master calling you home already?" Kavinsky asks. His face looks a lot like it did when Ronan first arrived.
Part of him wants to stay, but if he did, he'd be destroying this moment he’s shared with Kavinsky. If he fell asleep now, it would be like a dream, none of it real. It already feels made up, but in leaving, he can convince himself that it wasn't and hold on to it if only for a moment longer.
For one last time tonight, he turns to kiss Kavinsky, and pours out everything he has because he doesn't want it. Kavinsky's hands are clutching and possessive and trembling a little. If he thinks this means something, well, let him. After the upside-down experience he's had tonight, Ronan's not so sure it doesn't, anymore.
He knows he feels like this because endorphins are flooding his body. He also knows that once he's burned through them, he's going to crash and maybe even hate himself for coming here. The same goes for Kavinsky. Ronan doesn't want to be around when that happens.
He's barely out of the door when he hears Kavinsky do a line. Why shouldn't he? He's waited long enough.