[ Hours pass and Ronan completely ignores the unread messages in his inbox. He knows who they're from and, more importantly, he knows that the second he reads them, his fingers will type out a reply and he'll be indulging in Kavinsky's little game again.
But, as the night goes on, Ronan becomes restless. He can't sleep and when he does close his eyes he can't dream -- and, fuck if that's not something he misses, like his own personal escape, a private sanctuary in a place that only a few know about. So he stares at his ceiling and thinks: about Henrietta, about Adam, Gansey, and Blue, about his BMW, about the few remaining red pills hidden away in an old Altoids container in the glovebox, about the white sunglasses hidden even further behind them.
And eventually, as he always does, about Kavinsky.
Snatching his phone up, he types only 2 words, sending them before regret can rear its ugly head and stop him. ]
you up?
[ Weakness in its truest form. How long had he lasted? Four hours? Maybe five? ]
no subject
But, as the night goes on, Ronan becomes restless. He can't sleep and when he does close his eyes he can't dream -- and, fuck if that's not something he misses, like his own personal escape, a private sanctuary in a place that only a few know about. So he stares at his ceiling and thinks: about Henrietta, about Adam, Gansey, and Blue, about his BMW, about the few remaining red pills hidden away in an old Altoids container in the glovebox, about the white sunglasses hidden even further behind them.
And eventually, as he always does, about Kavinsky.
Snatching his phone up, he types only 2 words, sending them before regret can rear its ugly head and stop him. ]
you up?
[ Weakness in its truest form. How long had he lasted? Four hours? Maybe five? ]