[ Rather than say more, Ronan fills the silence with taking more large gulps from the bottle of vodka -- the taste is familiar and for a moment it takes him back to summers in Henrietta and the sticky humidity that hung around until the early hours of the morning, nights he'd spend on the streets racing the sleek white Evo.
A long stretch of time passes before Ronan speaks. And in the time that he's silent, he does nothing more than stare at Kavinsky, drag his gaze out the window and then return it to the boy when the other throws his legs across his lap. It's still strange to see him sitting there. Ronan remembers the last few meetings like they'd happened only yesterday -- the home theater in Kavinsky's mansion, the vague sensation of hands on his body, red pills flowing like waterfalls all filled his dreams and he couldn't even recount how many times he'd woken up with his hands clutched around something that was just so obviously Kavinsky.
(And then he wonders how many times Adam noticed over those years. No one talked about the loss of the boy, here one day and gone the next. So Ronan buried everything he felt, or lashed out against inanimate objects -- or some drunk idiot who called him 'faggot' one night at a party.)]
You've been here the whole time? Since....
[ His eyes drift to where he knows their skin touches, where he can feel the heat radiating like fire right underneath his skin. His fingers twitch briefly before he curls them into a fist and shoves his hand down into the couch cushion, trying to douse the flames he feels starting to burn inside of him with another swig of vodka. ]
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A long stretch of time passes before Ronan speaks. And in the time that he's silent, he does nothing more than stare at Kavinsky, drag his gaze out the window and then return it to the boy when the other throws his legs across his lap. It's still strange to see him sitting there. Ronan remembers the last few meetings like they'd happened only yesterday -- the home theater in Kavinsky's mansion, the vague sensation of hands on his body, red pills flowing like waterfalls all filled his dreams and he couldn't even recount how many times he'd woken up with his hands clutched around something that was just so obviously Kavinsky.
(And then he wonders how many times Adam noticed over those years. No one talked about the loss of the boy, here one day and gone the next. So Ronan buried everything he felt, or lashed out against inanimate objects -- or some drunk idiot who called him 'faggot' one night at a party.)]
You've been here the whole time? Since....
[ His eyes drift to where he knows their skin touches, where he can feel the heat radiating like fire right underneath his skin. His fingers twitch briefly before he curls them into a fist and shoves his hand down into the couch cushion, trying to douse the flames he feels starting to burn inside of him with another swig of vodka. ]