[team sonic] according to Freud
Starting words from here.
Title from Max Barskikh's по фрейду.
Underneath his coat, tucked into pockets, Ronan's fingers are twisting around, skin over bone. Kavinsky knows the feeling. Stealing from the other place eventually has its cosequences, but he's damned if he'll let that stop him. The high of creation is too big to pay heed to anything else.
Anything except the sharpness of the cheekbones on Ronan's face, the fact that he's looking even more lethal than usual. Kavinsky would drag him to breakfast but that's not his style. Other people might look at Ronan and see darkness, tattoos and scarls and a coiling scowl, but Kavinsky is so much more used to fronts. Looking at Ronan's clean slate, everything scrawled on the surface for the world to read, he can only feel the deep sticky rotteness that makes up everything inside himself.
You have your dreams as an adventure. Mine are the only thing I have left.
If the dreams lose their power, there's no more point to swimming above the current.
"What would you do if you stopped being able to dream?" Ronan asks, and he sounds bored, but he also sounds like he's paying very close attention to what's being said.
Kavinsky doesn't sugar-coat it, but his words are so much thicker, heavier than Ronan's are anyway. Too much history I've let in. "I would stop."
Ronan looks confused. "Stop what?"
It's too hard to explain. Kavinsky is a million fragments of muck coalescing to sludge through his veins and and arteries. The only stitching in the painting are the knots.
"I would stop being." He saves a cache of pills in his car for exactly that reason, dreaming his failsafe into duplicate after duplicate after duplicate. A last escape into a better place.
Kavinsky plays with the idea of Ronan dreaming him back into existence but the plan is only self-indulgent. Kavinsky lets himself dream on, for a moment, but the concept is fleeing. There's not enough of him to do anything.
Ronan has hands in his pockets. Kavinsky's are empty.
Title from Max Barskikh's по фрейду.
Underneath his coat, tucked into pockets, Ronan's fingers are twisting around, skin over bone. Kavinsky knows the feeling. Stealing from the other place eventually has its cosequences, but he's damned if he'll let that stop him. The high of creation is too big to pay heed to anything else.
Anything except the sharpness of the cheekbones on Ronan's face, the fact that he's looking even more lethal than usual. Kavinsky would drag him to breakfast but that's not his style. Other people might look at Ronan and see darkness, tattoos and scarls and a coiling scowl, but Kavinsky is so much more used to fronts. Looking at Ronan's clean slate, everything scrawled on the surface for the world to read, he can only feel the deep sticky rotteness that makes up everything inside himself.
You have your dreams as an adventure. Mine are the only thing I have left.
If the dreams lose their power, there's no more point to swimming above the current.
"What would you do if you stopped being able to dream?" Ronan asks, and he sounds bored, but he also sounds like he's paying very close attention to what's being said.
Kavinsky doesn't sugar-coat it, but his words are so much thicker, heavier than Ronan's are anyway. Too much history I've let in. "I would stop."
Ronan looks confused. "Stop what?"
It's too hard to explain. Kavinsky is a million fragments of muck coalescing to sludge through his veins and and arteries. The only stitching in the painting are the knots.
"I would stop being." He saves a cache of pills in his car for exactly that reason, dreaming his failsafe into duplicate after duplicate after duplicate. A last escape into a better place.
Kavinsky plays with the idea of Ronan dreaming him back into existence but the plan is only self-indulgent. Kavinsky lets himself dream on, for a moment, but the concept is fleeing. There's not enough of him to do anything.
Ronan has hands in his pockets. Kavinsky's are empty.