[team sonic] stuck inside a circumstance
Starting words from here.
Title from Bosco by Placebo.
On top of the car hood isn't the most comfortable position for certain activities. Kavinsky doesn't care. He has Ronan good and furious at him, and he knows he'll never get anything from him, he knows it with a particular ache in his chest that lingers under the last rib and never goes away. But it doesn't matter.
Kavinsky has always been far too clever at being able to find the thread that will unravel even the most tightly woven situation. In other words, he knows how to end things, how to find the end, and there's nothing more person than knowing one's own demise.
He can feel the flames and shrapnel and shredded glass tearing through his skin already.
"I can't fucking do it," Ronan snarls at him, pressing him into the metal of his Mitsubishi evo, incarnation number who-the-hell-cares-anymore. The rage in Ronan's face is pale in comparison to the fire he can already feel lapping at his skin, devouring his bones. It feels like a kiss. His eyes flutter shut, just for a moment, just for pretend.
Give me this.
And then he opens his eyes and lets all his emotions leak out through the gaping hole in the bottom of his heart.
"Stop being such a fucking child," he retorts, disdain dripping off his tongue, a particular shade of malachite that tastes bitter in his mouth. Love me, he doesn't say. Will never say. Instead, he takes the pills out of his pocket and dumpts them in Ronan's hand, the palm lying open limply.
"Make it happen." Kavinsky lets the words lie between them for a moment, hovering in the air like pointed blades, before slipping down off the car. There are already bruises along the nobs of his spine and the skin is worn through around his lower back, but he doesn't care.
He won't leave Ronan, not when it's almost over, but he slips a pill into his mouth and swallows it dry instead, the lump burning as it slowly inches down his esophagus. There are so many more ways of leaving.
Title from Bosco by Placebo.
On top of the car hood isn't the most comfortable position for certain activities. Kavinsky doesn't care. He has Ronan good and furious at him, and he knows he'll never get anything from him, he knows it with a particular ache in his chest that lingers under the last rib and never goes away. But it doesn't matter.
Kavinsky has always been far too clever at being able to find the thread that will unravel even the most tightly woven situation. In other words, he knows how to end things, how to find the end, and there's nothing more person than knowing one's own demise.
He can feel the flames and shrapnel and shredded glass tearing through his skin already.
"I can't fucking do it," Ronan snarls at him, pressing him into the metal of his Mitsubishi evo, incarnation number who-the-hell-cares-anymore. The rage in Ronan's face is pale in comparison to the fire he can already feel lapping at his skin, devouring his bones. It feels like a kiss. His eyes flutter shut, just for a moment, just for pretend.
Give me this.
And then he opens his eyes and lets all his emotions leak out through the gaping hole in the bottom of his heart.
"Stop being such a fucking child," he retorts, disdain dripping off his tongue, a particular shade of malachite that tastes bitter in his mouth. Love me, he doesn't say. Will never say. Instead, he takes the pills out of his pocket and dumpts them in Ronan's hand, the palm lying open limply.
"Make it happen." Kavinsky lets the words lie between them for a moment, hovering in the air like pointed blades, before slipping down off the car. There are already bruises along the nobs of his spine and the skin is worn through around his lower back, but he doesn't care.
He won't leave Ronan, not when it's almost over, but he slips a pill into his mouth and swallows it dry instead, the lump burning as it slowly inches down his esophagus. There are so many more ways of leaving.