[ It's the strangest mixture of sensations that Ronan's ever had to experience -- there's the flood of hot arousal that's pooling from somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, clouding his thoughts and making his heart pound against his chest and echo loudly in his ears. There's the guilt he feels for some part of him enjoying this, for having to fight down the way he wants to groan and grind against the pressure (a week with nothing more than his own hand leaves him pretty worked up.). There's the familiar wave of shame that's always attached itself to the thought of Kavinsky. And then there's all the memories -- he'd killed himself, Ronan had been there and afterward none of them had said a fucking word.

Those days following he wasn't sure what he was more angry with; himself and the fact that he refused to acknowledge any kind of grieving feeling, or everyone else as they went about their lives as though Kavinsky hadn't meant anything.

And to them, he hadn't. Ronan knows they'd never understand, they'd never get it and so he never brings it up. It's his cross alone to bear. ]

I remember. [ Ronan's head falls back and he focuses on the ceiling, swallowing thickly and only getting harder in the front of his pants. ] I'm the only one who seems to fucking remember. [ The sentiment comes out whispered, not meant for Kavinsky to hear. ]

I thought you would have jumped right back in once you got here.