thisavrou_log | o1 🔥 SOME SAY YOU'RE TROUBLE BOY

Entry tags:

o1 🔥 SOME SAY YOU'RE TROUBLE BOY

Who: Ronan Lynch & Joseph Kavinsky
When: Late October/Early November, during the Desiderium Festival plot/fallout
Where: Moira Gardens
What: Kavinsky trolling Ronan with pyrokinesis in the Gardens, which is definitely a good combination.
Warnings: Offensive language, possibly involving misogyny, homophobia, mental illness, etc.

[a maleficar and the greywaren walk into a bar.

except that it isn't a bar, it's the gardens that keep the crew aboard the moira bright. and the greywaren was already in here— is already in here, probably. kavinsky doesn't know a lot about what his counterpart gets up to aboard this spaceship, but he has a set of crude but not necessarily inaccurate assumptions about his preference for stupid hick shit like 'trees' and 'fresh air' and 'solitude.' and while kavinsky wouldn't ordinarily opt into that kind of shit himself, well

the festival left him with a number of unexpected new features. blue and gold-flecked skin, for example. claustrophobia, for another, which has made the prospect of returning to his room unpleasant every time he's tried.

and of course, the pyrokinesis.

he's walking in now, the grass a sharp contrast to his dark-skinned feet. and behind him, trailing like crazy ragged wings out of a biblical nightmare, there are two plumes of flame, spiraling toward the distant ceiling. the flames give off no smoke, nothing that would set off alarm in the shipboard systems, but the heat is immense, making the light waver around him in some sort of warped and distorted halo.] Lynch, [he shouts.] BITCH ARE YOU HERE?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Bored-sounding, Ronan speaks from somewhere behind Kavinsky:]

Wow. You evolved into your final form.

[He's sitting cross-legged on the floor, which probably makes him difficult to spot at first. There's a potted plant in front of him, and he's idly trimming dead leaves to encourage new growth. He hasn't paused in this task. Kavinsky only received a brief glance, and now Ronan's eyes are back on the plant.]

I know you love peacocking, but this is kind of over-the-top, don't you think?

Nah, [is probably the predictable response, really.] Disagree, sweetheart. [he wiggles his fingers, and fire snakes out from over his shoulder, unspooling through the air in a way that physics insist would be impossible. heat kisses the skin of ronan's hand, his arm.

in a few seconds, the leaves of the potted plant begin to dry visibly, and then one blackens, curls, catches brightly alight.] They got any marijuana in here? [kavinsky asks, stepping closer. his weird alien eyes blink across ronan's other potted companions nearby.] Coca tree?

[Ronan sighs and closes his hand around the combusting leaf, smothering the flame in his palm. The first of many burns he expects he's about to receive. He's not happy about those fire snakes, but he looks more annoyed than frightened.]

I'm not keeping a fucking inventory.

[kavinsky grunts, stepping nearer again. the fire flicks down lower, consuming more of the plant, the stem blackening and furrowing on itself. for a moment, the bulgarian boy's eyes are on that, instead of on ronan. it's like hypnosis. he does so love watching things burn. the stench of it, the sight of something collapsing in on itself, feeding the thing that destroys it.

there's not much in the world-- the multiverse, even, that he genuinely believes to be beautiful. but burning is in his top five.]

C'mon, Lynch. [he looks at ronan again. (speaking of the top five.) a flick of his finger, and the flame leaps onto the next plant over.] Let's go find 'em.

[Ronan watches the tendrils of fire lash from this plant to the next, his face remaining impassive. It bothers him, it really does, but he doesn't want to let Kavinsky know that. He knows what Kavinsky's doing, and he intends to stand in defiance of it. As fire engulfs the plant in front of him, he pushes it away yet makes no move to follow Kavinsky.]

Find them yourself.

Aw, come on Lynch. [a dark eye goes over kavinsky's shoulder. despite the weird alien recoloring of his complexion, he still has the same long, thin nose, gaunt cheeks, macabre exaggeration to his lips.] You know how I hate to be alone.

[it's one of those jokes that isn't a joke.

the next little baby plant catches fire, and kavinsky drops into a crouch in front of the other boy. folds his arms on top of his knees.] Play a game. No fucking racing here. What else we got?

[Ronan swallows, his jaw tightening with the effort to keep his expression calm and cool. Kavinsky looks like a nightmare thing, the sort that might tear him apart if he was asleep right now, and it's difficult to keep looking at a thing like that without wavering. He's hyper-aware of the fire around them and its proximity to him and Kavinsky's ability to set him alight as easily as he's doing to the garden.]

...Fine.

[Oh, but he hates it. He hates feeling this helpless. Kavinsky can probably smell the fear on him, that fucker.]

[kavinsky smiles at the other boy. no teeth to stand out in relief against the weird blue of his skin. in the firelight, the golden flecks on his face look like they're burning, wavering and brilliant orange.] We'll go easy, [he says. this is mostly a lie, but it isn't entirely.] You're not like me, right? That's the story.

So cry.

[anybody with a soul can cry, especially after the life that ronan's led, death in every other chapter, from every side. loss and terrible grief. kavinsky's stare is as unblinking as a snake watching figures through the glass of its cage.]

One fucking tear, and I stop setting your Irish hick-in-space bullshit on fire.

Like I care about any of this shit.

[That is... half-truth. He does care. He cares to the extent that this was a place he could go to be alone and avoid Kavinsky. But it seems that aspect of it is already ruined. If the rest goes up in flames, Ronan can dream it back.

Besides, he can't cry.

Okay, sure. He has occasionally become misty-eyed in the face of tragedy, once his rage has been exhausted. But it takes more than pyromania and the destruction of property to push him to that kind of despair. If Ronan's eyes are watering at all right now, it has more to do with the smoke.]

[the smoke is legitimately becoming a greater problem. it's not too bad yet-- the plants were small and kavinsky has adequate control to finagle the smoke a little, with the way the flames are blowing. but it's by no means a comfortable experience.]

Higher stakes? [kavinsky offers, pretty lightly, like they're talking about the weather or the price of gasoline. he studies ronan's face with mild interest. the plants continue to wilt and crumble.] Okay. I won't come down here again. One fucking tear, and this place is all yours, Lynch. Come on.

[pop pop pop. he snaps his fingers. it's absurdly loud, and looks strangely out of place with his alien complexion.]

[At this point, Ronan isn't sure which would be worse: actually bursting into tears in front of Kavinsky, or admitting that he isn't physically capable of expressing his sadness no matter how sweet the deal.

Tears still aren't remotely close to appearing, no matter how irritating the smoke is getting, so Ronan sighs.]

As if you'll even keep that promise.

I swear on cocaine and all that is holy, [kavinsky raises a gold-flecked hand, his other arm still casually lax across his knees.] Between the two of us, I'm not the one bullshitting my lying ass off about giving no fucks about this place. Come on.

[and then his hand snaps forward, forefinger and thumb coming to pinch at ronan's nose. rock his head back and forth.] Show me your soul, bitch.

[Ronan slaps that hand out of his face before it makes contact. Danger and fiery horror be damned, he will not let Kavinsky touch him.

For the life of him, he can't summon up a single tear. There's heat in his head and in his heart and his chest aches with the urge to scream. His muscles are locking up as he strains to hold himself back from leaping into attack. It would be foolish, he tells himself. He doesn't fully know what Kavinsky's capable of in this form, but at least one of those abilities could set his whole body on fire, so he'll have to stay his hand.

Obedience, though? He can't. He can't.]

...I can't.

[kavinsky's lip curls around something akin to a sneer. he stares at ronan. it probably doesn't take a boy of even kavinsky's sharp intuition to realize that there must be

a lot going on, in the irish boy's buzzed-off head. how could there not be? with fire on every side, and the last time he had seen kavinsky surrounded by burning light. he lets his hand fall. the stinging on his wrist doesn't subside, but he kind of likes that.] Think about when your daddy died, [he suggests.] You didn't forget. Hey, I'll sweeten the deal.

I'll leave somebody alone. [he looks around as if to find prospects, but there's nothing except a very literal ring of fire.] Dealer's choice.

[Thinking of his father does many things to Ronan. His stomach twists itself up into a knot. The sweat on his skin gets colder. In the back of his head, there's a buzzing that's more like a feeling than a noise. His mouth goes dry and his knuckles itch for a surface to pound.

Tears? No.]

I don't care about anyone here.

Maybe.

[kavinsky's face is a slice of twilight against the backdrop inferno. but his eyes are the same. terrifyingly sharp, strangely unreadable. once you got to the monster behind the poofy lips and thin nose, he'd seemed like the kind that would kill anybody sooner than himself, and he looks that way now. nihilism in a seventeen-year-old body.]

But you will. People are like fucking cows. Box up a few together, long enough, and somebody's gonna get a stiffy. If you weren't such a fucking faggot, you'd be a breeder, Lynch. It's not gone from you now.

Fuck you.

[Ronan's convinced that Kavinsky's wrong about him. Under even the best circumstances, he considers himself removed from others. Detached. But here? He's determined to have no one. There will be nothing to hold him to this place, nothing to make him hesitate when he finds the first opportunity to escape. He and Noah and Chainsaw will find their way back home, and Kavinsky can rot in Hell.]

You're the one who's desperate for company. You can't help yourself. Didn't you notice? I was doing just fine by myself down here, but here you are, begging me to play.

[kavinsky's eyes flicker a little, but that might just be firelight. that might be nothing at all. the heat intensifies. ninety degrees of summer.]

I guess fairies beg real different in Ireland.

[the corner of his mouth curls upward. he sits down, a backward drop of a couple of inches, maybe. he spreads his hands generously. he takes back some of his fire, the roiling flames rolling backward, a gap opening behind ronan's back. three plants blackened and smoking.]

One fucking tear, and I kill myself right here.

[Ronan's heart stops at that. And he isn't quick enough to stop the flash of horror from reaching his eyes. A split second, there and gone, but it's enough to betray that Kavinsky's death isn't something he wants. Not again. The image of Kavinsky's corpse is burned into his mind, and for all of this that's going on between them, Ronan still doesn't want to see it again.

Too late, he tries to cover that falter by reaching up to wipe the sweat from his forehead.]

Don't be so fucking dramatic.

[kavinsky's eyes sharpen. ronan's suffering is his whetstone, go figure.] Says the cunt who wept blood over his ass-master's shitty tangerine Camaro.

Naw, [he changes his mind the next instant.] That's uncool. It was a cute car.

[and then his weird, recolored face breaks up into laughter. he rocks back on his heels. the flames abruptly collapse in on themselves, suck down, swirling through the air over his shoulder. they plunge down, down, into a single burning ball of fire, sitting tidily on the curl of kavinsky's forefinger, like balancing a baby bird.] You wanna kill me. You've thought about it before. Why stop now?

[He wants to kill Kavinsky. He doesn't want to kill Kavinsky. He doesn't know what he wants. His heart feels like the fire under Kavinsky's command, burning with something that threatens to overwhelm him. It could easily be the urge to leap on Kavinsky and beat him to death with fists alone.

He doesn't know what's stopping him.]

You're already dead. There's no point.

[Is that it? Kavinsky's suicide wasn't an act of contrition, but the chapter closed. The fight ended. Justice came around and swallowed him whole and snuffed out his life while Ronan watched. While Ronan protested.]

This could just be over. We could be done. I don't get why you keep doing this shit.

Not here. [chapter still hanging open like a bad prolapse joke. kavinsky rolls the ball of flame along his hand, absent-minded but happy enough with his own power. he'll grow bored of it slower than he did with the pen that wrote cursive, the chainsaw pulled out of the ether. those magics had been one-note and tiresome.

there are a lot of notes involved with fire.]

I don't get why the fuck you're here. Without Dicky Dickardo, baby Matt. Without nobody but me, sweetheart. [abruptly, the fire flattens, spreads across his dark hand like a shimmering, translucent glove.] You wouldn't be here with me if you weren't meant to be. Some Catholic shit, right? It's all you now. [kavinsky looks almost thoughtful. he also looks profoundly insane, looking back at ronan.] No more running.

[Ronan is working very hard to keep his eyes from drifting to the flame, to keep from showing just how afraid he is. Kavinsky, ruled by his random whims - Kavinsky, who's sworn revenge and promised to break him - holds the power to destroy Ronan very painfully if he says the wrong thing. And Ronan is so very bad at biting his tongue.]

There's a difference between running and walking away.

[To demonstrate, Ronan slowly climbs to his feet. Unhurried despite his terror, every muscle moving with deliberate calm. He should not be challenging Kavinsky. He is absolutely challenging Kavinsky.]

You don't fucking matter to me. You're something that happened a long time ago. Now you're gone and I don't think about you anymore. You wanna pretend like this means something, you and me stuck in this place together, but it's just a story you're telling yourself. Like the rest of your pathetic life. You were a nobody before and you're nobody now. You're gonna be a nobody forever because that's how you decided to end it.

Whatever you try to do to me won't change that.

[the burning hand snaps out like a snake strike. burning fingers hooking in the denim of the other boy's jeans, heat licking up painfully hot near the skin of his hip. fabric beginning to blacken, to smoke, a stink that's different somehow to the clean burn of vegetable fire.]

Everybody dies, Lynch. You're not ready to watch me do it again.

[which is confounding. hilarious but strange, infinitely unreasonable. kavinsky's eyes are as flat and blank as death. there had been more life in the lenses of his sunglasses, that july. he curls his lip, a flash of tooth; a sneer.] Don't think you're ready to do it, yourself.

[Kavinsky is correct about that. Which is why Ronan doesn't indulge that flame-soaked hand for more than a second before he lashes out in return, fist aimed for a solid hit to Kavinsky's jaw.]

Don't touch me.

[kavinsky's head snaps back. he almost stumbles. he does actually lose his grip on the fire in his hand-- it's an intuitive skill, but obviously not one he's had time to practice much. not nearly so much as dream theft.

and then he blinks, silent for a moment in the thin-rising smoke. he laughs, the kind of sound that should be riding the manic winds of a race or bouncing off the walls of an insane asylum.]

Potato nigger.

[Ronan is dimly aware that he's giving Kavinsky exactly what he wants. But in that moment, it doesn't matter. He leaps at Kavinsky to seize him by the collar, to punch him again and again before the flames reappear or he pulls out some other deadly magic power. Ronan wants to silence that laughter. He wants to make Kavinsky bleed. He wants Kavinsky just close enough to death's door that it's agony to remain alive, and that's exactly where Ronan wants to leave him.]

[kavinsky catches the first hit in the face, squarely. it's not until the second one that he starts to bleed, a super fun lurid spurt out of his nose. he should probably start worrying about his septum thinning or some shit.

he should probably start worrying about dying.

worried is ever the wrong word for kavinsky, though.

somewhere between the second and third punch, he stops laughing. and then somewhere between the sixth and eight punch, he lunges up, sudden as a snake, and nothing like his self-destructive indifference to taking punches in henrietta. the bony peak of his knee is out, straight for ronan's gut, eyes as wild as they were on racing nights.]

Edited (I SURE DID) 2016-11-11 10:24 (UTC)

[Ronan's been beating Kavinsky for so long and so thoroughly that, by that point, Kavinsky making an attempt at self-defense doesn't even cross his mind as a possibility. So the knee takes him by surprise, and he's caught without a second to defend, and Kavinsky knocks the wind right out of him. His fingers release Kavinsky's collar reflexively as he doubles over and both arms curl around his abdomen.

As Ronan stumbles and gasps for breath, he's still aware that Kavinsky might follow through with another attack. Too soon to throw his fists up again, he turns his face and his body away to keep the most vulnerable parts of himself out of Kavinsky's reach, giving him a shoulder to hit instead.]

[if kavinsky were still colored like kavinsky, he'd have spectacular bruises spreading across his pale face. as it is, his cheek is a little split and bleeding the wrong color, but his teeth show in sharp contrast. not a smile anymore. something like a snarl, too unkind to be anything but human.

two hits, his knuckles jarring into ronan's shoulder with the strength of cocaine.

and then it's a tackle, kavinsky's skinny frame flying through the air, his dark face like a slice of gold-spangled space crushing in to take him.]

[Kavinsky trying to tackle Ronan would normally be like a chihuahua trying to knock over a doberman, but Ronan's so off-balance that he crumples under the flying weight of Kavinsky and they both topple to the floor, Kavinsky on top and Ronan flat on his back. Long limbs flailing to cover both offense and defense at the same time, Ronan - as a boxer - is at a severe disadvantage when he's on the ground. He gropes blindly, trying to snag Kavinsky by the jaw to force him off, hooking his fingers into Kavinsky's mouth in the process of it.]

[kavinsky's teeth come down at around the same time as his fist.

it's bad form, poor technique. niall would be ashamed. but he's all crazed adrenaline and amphetamines now, his knuckles knocking squarely into ronan's lip and his own teeth grinding down sharply against the calluses of the irish boy's fingers, stopping where they meet bone, and indifferent to where ronan's blut nails cut into the flesh inside his mouth.

kavinsky's meager weight ends up on ronan's belly. it's not a perch that would last-- ronan's knees behind him, ronan's superior strength below him, all kavinsky has is surprise and how many vicious punches he can rain down on his head. but he does.]

[And Kavinsky lands several, each hit brutal as Ronan fights to regain the advantage. He's seeing stars and his mouth is full of blood and he can't tell where exactly all that blood is coming from. An amped-up, magically-transformed Kavinsky is a shockingly difficult foe to overcome. Dimly, Ronan's just grateful he's not on fire.

Ignoring the teeth grinding into his fingers, Ronan pushes and twists Kavinsky's head until it's enough to throw him off balance, and then it's Ronan who's rolling on top of him and trying to pin his chest beneath one knee.]

[and just like a puppet with its strings cut, kavinsky goes back to being himself.

not too strong, not too big. terrifying to look at, and maybe all the moreso when he loses the natural urge to defend himself. his arms hit the grass. he looks up at ronan. there's blood on his teeth too.]

Gonna tell you straight, [he says, his voice thick and coarse from exertion.] I don't really see the 'ppeal.

[Ronan's barely listening to Kavinsky's words. He grunts in frustration as he drives one more punch into Kavinsky's shoulder. Then he rolls his tongue in his mouth, gathering up a wad of blood, and spits it in Kavinsky's face.]

[half of it winds up on his mouth.

and then in his mouth, with a lick. and then he spits it squarely back into ronan's face, with enough bizarre alien blood of his own.]

You're gonna fucking die here, [he says, hoarsely.] The Hell you think is gonna happen to your shit at home?

[Ronan swipes a hand across his face, wiping the blood away. He's still catching his breath, or he would have gotten off Kavinsky already.]

I'm not gonna die here.

[kavinsky is a helpful sort. he plants his hands squarely against ronan's chest and shoves, with enough force to send the boy off backward. he rolls off to the side, in the meantime.]

And you're gonna stop me by--

[That works. Ronan catches himself as he falls back, using the momentum to propel himself to his feet. He wobbles as he finds his footing, seeing double after taking so many hits to the face.

Kavinsky's words, at least, draw a laugh out of him. Not unhinged like the other boy's, but sharp and cruel.]

You? Please. You don't seriously think you're gonna make good on that threat, do you? Mary Mother of Fuck... K, you're the least of my fucking problems here. This?

[He gestures to the space between them, to the smoldering plants around them.]

This is schoolyard shit.

[kavinsky's arms flop out on the grass. he blinks his eyes, hard, trying to get them to hurt maybe-- but they don't. his whole body buzzes with injury, but nothing recognizable as real pain.

that'll teach him to use cocaine before partying with ronan lynch. (it has.)]

I used to bring a gun to school, [he says.] And h--ey, [his breath catches raw in his throat. he sits up again. a little slow, a little sore. there is an indifferent, almost academic quality to his question when he asks,] you ever find out what happened to Proko?

[that he died, kavinsky means. that kavinsky brought him back as a meat puppet. it's not like kavinsky is an entirely non-lethal person to kick it with.]

I don't give a shit.

[It probably isn't the best idea, since Ronan's still disoriented and likely concussive, but he can't resist: He steps forward to aim a kick at Kavinsky's ribs. Apparently the fight isn't over as long as he's conscious and Kavinsky's in front of him.]

[kavinsky grabs the leg. it's like watching a rattlesnake strike, if only because the rattlesnake is striking for prey that would ordinarily be faster and more graceful were it not for a slight bout of brain damage.

he twists, pulls, heaves the other boy down on the ground beside him with punishing force, a flashpaper spark of laughter breaking out of him.]

[Ronan lands hard, with enough weight that his brow splits open on the relatively soft dirt. Stupid, stupid, stupid. His vision is nothing but hot white noise for a good ten seconds, and when images fade back into view, they're all spinning and impossible to focus on. If he didn't have a concussion before, he certainly has one now. He mumbles something but it's incoherent even to him, the thought passing from his mind before it's fully formed. He probably meant for it to be threatening, but of course it isn't, because he's barely conscious now.]

[kavinsky laughs. a glob of sweat taks down on ronan's shirt-- easy disdain from a baby monster who only expresses affection in the worst of ways.

for a given definition of 'affection.'

he gets to his feet, slowly, more than slightly sore. buoyant despite it. adrenaline coursing through his alien-tinged veins feels more real to kavinsky than most of the food he eats and the machines that keep the air flowing through the ship and his lungs. he thinks about killing ronan. he does. but he isn't so sure he wants to sit in the brig or get off at their next destination. what if the aliens aren't biologically equipped for anal sex?] Don't get sleep raped, princess, [he says, scraping grass of his pants.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

o1 🔥 SOME SAY YOU'RE TROUBLE BOY

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw homophobic language

no subject

tw suicide

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

tw the n-word i'm sorry he's the worst

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

btw there are rival camps on whether kavinsky knows matt is a dream thing, thoughts?

oh yeah I totally figure he knows

maggie "if people would just give a close reading" stiefvater

no subject

cw drugs, joke about school shootings

no subject

no subject

no subject

tw rape joke