databanking | TEXTS FROM LAST NIGHT

yeah but for you?
probably not. it'll probably have the opposite effect. retreat back inside of me or something.

dude, when are you gonna quit trying? it's still not ever going to be you and me.

i see u havent grown out of your lying.
pants on fire.
man ur really putting ur dick through the ringer.

ur fuckin hilarious if u think i spent all this time pining after ur pasty white ass.
im just fuckin amused that ur dead

who the fuck said i was lying?

what have you been spending it doing then, k? enlighten my pasty white ass.
what's so funny about it?

no one said it, dipshit, i fuckin know it.

its a party down u dense asshole, the fuck u think ive been doing
beause its like fuckn karma, sweetheart.

you still don't know shit.

so the same shit you did back in henrietta? getting high and pining over my pasty white ass? just without any of your old fuckboy cronies.
shut the fuck up, dude. like i said, you don't know shit.

right. so u never wanted me. not even a fucking little bit. riiiiiight. i dont know shit. how does it feel to still be lyin to urself after all these years???

get over urself. u aint shit around here, bitch. i stopped giving a shit about u a long time ago. you don't matter.

oh, i know. i know plenty. but plz keep telling urself that. its fucking cute.

remember. i've been here a while now. i've got a whole new life. ur new, arent u. you'll see how fast misery hits u and i wont be there to help u this time.

okay. you want the fucking truth, k? will that finally get you to shut the fuck up?
yeah. sure. i might have wanted you for a whole fucking second. then, you opened your fucking mouth and ruined any chance you had of that.
there could have been a you and me, but now it's ancient fucking history.

if i don't matter so much, why the hell are you still chasing me around?
you've got a whole new life here, but you're still doing the same shit you've always done. i'm not going to need your fucking help, dude. i never did.

uh huh. just like i said. like i been sayin all along.
aw, princess. so much flopping. how do u even keep ur stories straight?

ur the one still talking to me.
and ur a compulsive liar. do any of them know? u needed my help more than u ever needed anyone's help before. i saved ur fucking life, i taught u how to dream. i helped u figure out how much u liked dick.

but nah, thats cool. five years later and ur still lying to yourself. looks like ur the only one still doing the same shit you've always done.

i'm good.

come find me when u start getting so bored u wanna stab ur own eyes out

I'll give it a week.

the story doesn't flip-flop. it's been the same all along. sorry it's not lining up perfectly with your fantasies.

you really think highly of yourself, don't you? if you think you did any of that shit for me, you're more delusional than you used to be.
It was one fucking weekend. Five fucking years ago.

[ One fucking weekend, five fucking years ago that's burned permanently into Ronan's memories. ]

fuck off, kavinsky.
lose my number.

do u even hear urself? ur a fucking joke, bitch.

one fucking weekend five years ago and i did more for u than most ppl in ur fucking life.
clearly u need to think about that, cuz u been in denial for 5 years.
u wanna erase the past, that's on u. ur the one who had to live with it all this time. u know what u did.
i give zero shits about u.

nah, u fuck off. this is my place now. u thought it was bad before, there's even less consequences for me now.
don't fuck with me, lynch. i will make this party town a living hell for u.

you're not that damn important. get over yourself, shitbag
denial? you don't know what the hell i've been for 5 years. stop thinking that you fucking do.

if you give zero shits about me, then what the fuck are you still doing, kavinsky?

yeah. i'm really scared.

we'll see.

i'm doing whatever the fuck i want.

ur alone here. don't u fuckin forget that.

then do whatever the fuck you want without me.

maybe you are, but i'm not.

[ At least, not everyday of the week. ]

[NSFW PIC MESSAGE]

[ As much as he should have been expecting it, he nearly drops his phone at the message that arrives.

It's definitely been a while since he's seen that on the screen of his phone. ]

lose my fucking number, shitstain

see u soon, fucker.

fuck off

[ It's sometime in the middle of the night, after hours and hours of tossing and turning in his bed, right on the border of dreaming but not quite there yet, when Ronan finally tosses all of his blankets off the bed, throws on a pair of fitted jeans and his typical black tanktop, and then leaves his home in silence. He walks along the beach for a while, his hands shoved into his pockets, the sound of the waves lapping at the sand acting as a soundtrack to his own thoughts.

Nights were the worst. Insomnia hadn't seemed to leave him in the afterlife and Ronan had yet to get enough sleep in the short time he'd been there to actually dream. So he stays up, he drinks, he walks on the beach, he thinks about Adam back in the "real world", about the accident and eventually about Kavinsky.

Which is, he assumes, what carries his feet all the way to the boy's house -- almost identical to his own save for a few minor details -- the white Mitsubishi from his memories parked out in front of it. Ronan stands there for a long time looking at the place, debating whether or not to just keep on walking by, turn around and head back to his own home, or trudge up the front steps and knock.

He feels like he's hit an all-time-low when Kavinsky is the one person he thinks might get him (but, somewhere, Ronan knows that he always has.) and after a heavy sigh of self-disappointment -- one that Richard Gansey III himself would have been proud of -- he climbs the few front steps and knocks at the door. ]

[ The rest of Kavinsky's day had gone to shit, the words in those texts churning in his brain, unwilling to let him forget. He's been dousing them with alcohol ever since, spending all of his time going from one bar to another, trying to get the image of Ronan's face out of his head in the back room of the Quagmire, but nothing works.

Nothing ever worked before either, so he doesn't know why he thought any of it would change.

He hates how much Ronan still gets to him. Those few simple words 'It was never going to be you and me', splitting him open, making him angry in a way that he knows is just pure misery.

Ronan is wrong. Kavinsky doesn't want him. Kavinsky hates him.

He ends up passing out on the couch, bottle in hand and the knock to the door startles him. He's not used to people coming around at all hours like he used to be. It's harder for a dreamer to be relevant when people already get most everything they want.

Kavinsky takes a long swig of vodka to help him wake up, then pads over to the door, all drowsy eyes and wild hair, in nothing but a pair of briefs, swinging the door open.

Seeing Ronan standing there at his door, it definitely wakes him the fuck up]

Aw shit. You've got to be shitting me. Guess you really took what I said to fucking heart, huh.

[ In the time that it takes for Kavinsky to answer the door, Ronan's gone through about a thousand different alternatives to waiting around for him. He could leave, go back to his house and continue to drown his sorrows with whiskey until he eventually passed out. He could go find some afterhours bar and distract himself until they finally kicked him out. He could walk endless laps on the beach until exhaustion finally settled in likely sometime when the sun was finally peeking over the horizon.

Inwardly he often wonders if dreamers are even supposed to sleep at night. Or if the time when all others are off in their own dreamscapes is where they rule. It would have explained his insomnia all these years, if that were the case.

The door opens and immediately Ronan's stomach drops -- though his features stay as hardened and as sharp as ever. -- his eyes very briefly roaming over Kavinsky's frame. The darkness makes all of the hollows of his features seem even more sunken and somehow chiseled, his body pale and thin, not much more than skin, bones and sinewy muscles that are all the more accentuated by the little bit of light coming from somewhere inside of Kavinsky's house. His fingers twitch somewhere inside of his pocket, jaw briefly clenching as he tries to ignore the weird mixture of emotions turning inside of him.

He shouldn't be here, this was the last place that Ronan needed to be. But, just as it always does, history finds a way to repeat itself and there he is meeting Kavinsky in secret in the middle of the night. ]

Shut the fuck up. [ Ronan grunts out, his eyes eventually returning to Kavinsky's face. ] I couldn't sleep.

[ Ronan is probably right about dreamers and sleep. They were the rulers of the night. Were, being the operative word, because here, they are so much less. Maybe Ronan hasn't figured that out just yet, but it's been eating at Kavinsky for a while now. Just one more thing to add to the list.

It's like seeing a ghost, or a dream, or a drug fueled hallucination, Ronan lit up on his porch, only by the moonlight. The whole thing might seem so peaceful from afar, but Kavinsky knows they're anything but.

He wants to throw all of Ronan's words back in his face and tell him to fuck off, laugh at him and leave him out here with nothing and no one, just like Ronan did to him long ago, but when Ronan's gaze travels across almost every inch of him, then those fiery blue eyes find his again, something inside of him twists hard.

Ronan has this effect on him and Kavinsky loathes it with every fiber of his being. ]

And you thought this would be a good place to come for some fucking bedtime stories, or what?

[He intends for those words to hold so much more bite than they actually do, but he's so damn lonely and Ronan is right here, coming to him. He scowls, then opens the door wider]

Come in, shithead. Don't say I never fucking did anything for you.

[ Ronan honestly doesn't know a single thing about dreaming when it comes to San Junipero -- the logical part of his brain (yeah, that does exist in there somewhere.) telling him that there shouldn't be any way for him to dream in the current state he's in. His consciousness is stored on some kind of hi-tech flash drive -- at least, that's how he thinks it works. He didn't really pay much attention to the explanation of it all. -- how the hell was he supposed to even get himself to any sort of dreamspace?

No body, no brain, no nothing. Just a bunch of fancy coding and technology that he doesn't even want to try and understand. It went against everything that he'd grown up knowing and believing in. Throws a wrench in everything that he thought he knew.

He doesn't have a good answer for Kavinsky because he honestly doesn't know why the hell he came here of all places. Why Kavinsky seemed like the perfect candidate to help battle his insomnia. He'd simply been walking, and then there he was: in front of the boy's door, feeling desperate and defeated but not letting any of it show outwardly.

He's always been good at that, after all. ]

I dunno. [ He mumbles with a shrug of his shoulders -- something a little uncharacteristic, some of those feelings worming their way to the surface. ] Just figured you'd be up, don't look too deep into it.

[ The door opens a little wider and Ronan hesitates for a moment, as though he's still debating going back home, as though crossing the threshold into Kavinsky's house would have had some life-altering consequences, as though he's preparing himself to enter the belly of the beast.

And after a few short seconds, he brushes by Kavinsky and slips silently inside. ]

Yeah. Thanks.

[ Which sounds about as sincere as it always does -- which is, to say, hardly at all. ]

[Kavinsky thought he had experienced all of the worst of feelings he could possibly feel throughout his life, but he was wrong. Realizing he could no longer dream here like he could in the living world, that was the worst by far. If he felt dead before, this was certainly like dying all over again. Simulated sleep isn't sleep and the things that appear when he wants them, they're not his creations, they're only a part of this fucked up system. It's a nightmare.

He discovered this far too early on and that's when the suicide attempts started up again, except he couldn't do that either, because he would just keep waking up. Over and over again. For a long time he wondered if this was hell. Now, he's pretty much sure of it.

Kavinsky feels the same, or worse than he felt back then, only far more defeated. Ronan looks the same in some ways, but he can tell that there's a lot of differences as well. Ones he has to relearn (Why does he have to? He hates this piece of shit, damn it). And yet he's letting Ronan in, shutting his door and taking a long swig of vodka before holding it out to Ronan.]

I told you you'd get lonely being the only other fucker here like me. Does this place feel like paradise, or what?

[He snorts, his tone dripping with sarcasm]

[ Something deep inside of Ronan twists -- and from where the sensation comes from, he's not at all sure. He feels it all the way from the center of his chest down to the pit of his stomach -- he knows he shouldn't be here. He's always known that he shouldn't ever go to Kavinsky. It's what Gansey had kept telling him, it's what Declan had kept telling him, it's literally what every fucking person in the world kept telling him, but Ronan's never been one to listen.

Rebelling for the sake of rebellion, but somewhere he knows that's not what this is.

He and Kavinsky are too alike. That's what keeps them constantly orbiting one another. That's why despite how many times he's told the boy to fuck off, or never speak to him again, he still gives in. He still answers his phone, he still comes around eventually.

It was the worst habits that were always the hardest to break. ]

I've always been the only other fucker like you. [ Words he regrets the moment that they leave him, snatching the bottle from Kavinsky and trying to wash them away with a swing of vodka. ] Maybe it's not. [ Ronan eventually drops to take a seat on the couch. ]

Maybe we're stuck in hell. This is all some elaborate fucking game that satan is playing with us.

[ Truthfully, it didn't seem that unlikely to him. ]

[Maybe the truth of it is that Ronan did listen. He listened to those outside forces far too much and that's why he and Kavinsky are where they are today. It could have been different. Kavinsky always wanted it to be, but there were too many things tugging Ronan the other way.

Kavinsky, as angry as he is, wonders if things could be different here with none of that otherness around. But does he even want that anymore? He says he doesn't, he says he hates Ronan, but inviting him in says otherwise.

Or maybe Kavinsky is just bored and this is the only thing that has ever pushed that boredom away. ]

Been saying that for fucking years. Glad you've finally caught on. Guess the years have taught you well.

[He smirks, cause he sees how much Ronan hates to admit it, but there it is}

Guess we have the same thoughts on this shit as well. I mean, look at the fucking company.

[And yet, he flops down on the couch next to Ronan, turning just enough so he can stretch his legs out over the other boy's lap. Okay. So he fucking hates Ronan, but he makes a good leg rest. That, and wherever their skin touches, he can still feel all that shock through his system. It's a strange thing, seeing as they're not even alive anymore]

[ 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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