[Ronan is still coming off the last pill he took, obvious from the way that he's lolling on the grass like someone fileted his bones out with a deftly-wielded knife. Still, Kavinski holds out the latest. It's pink. Like, cotton candy, dye-for-strawberry, Pepto-Bismol pink, high-gloss and shaped like an egg. Kavinski balances it on his skinny forefinger with long-practiced ease. Long, long practice.
He's looking at Ronan's mouth with the creepy weird fixedness that means he'd like to feed it to the other boy a different way, but it's an idea right now. In development. But a really good one, if you were to ask him.]
[ whatever kavinsky had given him last, it separated him from his body, and he's only now returning to it. he can move his fingers again. his toes flex inside his combat boots. he can feel every individual blade of grass that brushes his skin wherever it peeks between his clothes.
he registers the pill balanced on kavinsky's finger before the question (that's not really a question) catches up with him. his eyes slide from the pill to kavinsky's face, to that look, the one he's become all too familiar with lately. the one he doesn't know what to do with. ]
Shit, man. I don't know.
[ with some difficulty, he pushes himself into a sitting position. he leans on one arm and reaches for the pill with the other. as he takes it, his fingers graze kavinsky's and his nerve-endings crackle like a firework. he rolls the pill in his palm, groping beside him for his half-finished beer to wash it down with. ]
Are you gonna tell me what it does, or do I have to find out the hard way?
[Kavinski's grin is serrated. He has good teeth; mom bought them for him at some point, probably, and the kinds of substances he likes to abuse don't tend to fuck them up.
With the possibly exception of Ronan himself.]
You don't even remember what the last one did, [he says. It's neither a question nor a real challenge; it's a statement of fact, completely unconcerned, except that his eyes are still decidedly hollow and hungry in that weird way that suggests
well, a lot of things. Mostly that he's up to something fucked up. Kavinsky sits back on his heels. There is half of a dandelion clock sticking out of his head.] It makes things bigger, baby. [His smile widens. Nothing that bright should be that dirty, but there you go. He thieves the stray beer off the grass and passes it to him, knuckles grazing Ronan's palm.] So don't dream anything you wouldn't wanna drown in.
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action; (potential nsfw)
[Ronan is still coming off the last pill he took, obvious from the way that he's lolling on the grass like someone fileted his bones out with a deftly-wielded knife. Still, Kavinski holds out the latest. It's pink. Like, cotton candy, dye-for-strawberry, Pepto-Bismol pink, high-gloss and shaped like an egg. Kavinski balances it on his skinny forefinger with long-practiced ease. Long, long practice.
He's looking at Ronan's mouth with the creepy weird fixedness that means he'd like to feed it to the other boy a different way, but it's an idea right now. In development. But a really good one, if you were to ask him.]
Man up, butt boy.
yesssssss
he registers the pill balanced on kavinsky's finger before the question (that's not really a question) catches up with him. his eyes slide from the pill to kavinsky's face, to that look, the one he's become all too familiar with lately. the one he doesn't know what to do with. ]
Shit, man. I don't know.
[ with some difficulty, he pushes himself into a sitting position. he leans on one arm and reaches for the pill with the other. as he takes it, his fingers graze kavinsky's and his nerve-endings crackle like a firework. he rolls the pill in his palm, groping beside him for his half-finished beer to wash it down with. ]
Are you gonna tell me what it does, or do I have to find out the hard way?
no subject
With the possibly exception of Ronan himself.]
You don't even remember what the last one did, [he says. It's neither a question nor a real challenge; it's a statement of fact, completely unconcerned, except that his eyes are still decidedly hollow and hungry in that weird way that suggests
well, a lot of things. Mostly that he's up to something fucked up. Kavinsky sits back on his heels. There is half of a dandelion clock sticking out of his head.] It makes things bigger, baby. [His smile widens. Nothing that bright should be that dirty, but there you go. He thieves the stray beer off the grass and passes it to him, knuckles grazing Ronan's palm.] So don't dream anything you wouldn't wanna drown in.