This Thing That Builds Our Dreams Yet Slips Away (The Raven Cycle)

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THIS THING THAT BUILDS OUR DREAMS YET SLIPS AWAY

Summary: Who waits forever anyway?

Characters: Joseph Kavinsky/Ronan Lynch

Words: 1,500

Notes:

The song Kavinsky is playing in his car, as should become incredibly obvious very quickly, is “Who Wants to Live Forever” by Queen.

And to be very clear: I don’t condone anything about the way Kavinsky treats Ronan: the put-downs, the stalkerish obsession, the rampant disregard for consent. But it turns out it’s weird and fascinating to try to get inside Kavinsky’s head, so… this happened. (Also, this particular Queen song screams Kavinsky and Ronan to me, and wouldn’t let me go until I’d done something about it!)

It takes a little creative squinting to make this fit into the canon timeline, but go ahead and imagine this takes place sometime very shortly before the epic night of dreaming replica Camaros.


Read on AO3, or here below:


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Asphalt and cut grass. The hazy hum of cicadas rising up over the whole dozing town. And the sight of Ronan Lynch, bent over the open hood of his BMW in front of Monmouth Manufacturing, bare-armed and shaved-headed and his dark tattoos glistening with sweat.

These things are summer.

Joseph Kavinsky dangles one arm out of his Mitsubishi’s open window and takes a minute to enjoy the view. Then he cranks up his music to full blast, the heart-pounding blast of speakers that do whatever he wants them to, because they come from a dream. He blares out his song, and knows Lynch can’t fail to catch the beat of it, the urgency.

Who wants to live forever?
Who wants to live forever?

Lynch straightens up from his car’s engine long enough to glare out into the street, where Kavinsky sits idling.

“Lynch,” Kavinsky shouts, as the music soars into a blistering crescendo. “Get in the car. We’re going for a ride.”

“Fuck you,” Lynch says. Coming from him, that’s very nearly a promising start.

“Sure, that too,” Kavinsky agrees magnanimously. “But first, get in the damn car.”

Ronan slams down the hood of his BMW and stalks to the Mitsubishi. As he does, his face performs a master class in scowling, a set of expressive gymnastics meant to inform the world that just because he’s doing a thing, doesn’t mean he wants to. He leans in, one muscled arm slung over the roof of the car so his scowl can peer in at Kavinsky through the open passenger window. “Why?”

“Because we’re going on an adventure.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanna show you something.”

“Why?”

“Because I just like you that damn much, asshole. Get in the car.”

Lynch very clearly considers saying “Why” again. But then, maybe to his own surprise, he yanks open the door and flings himself into the passenger seat. “So drive,” he growls.

Kavinsky does.

Ronan props one foot in its black combat boot up on the dashboard, like he’s daring Kavinsky to tell him off for it. Kavinsky just smirks. If Lynch thinks watching him flaunt his legs in those tight black jeans is some kind of hardship, he’d better think again.

Lynch taps his fingers on the dash in an off-kilter rhythm, jangly and on edge. He took so long back there, dragging his feet about getting in the car, that by now the song has cycled back to its start, still a gloriously ear-splitting wail: What is this thing that builds our dreams, yet slips away from us?

“You listen to this old shit?” Ronan sneers.

“At least some of us have taste, Lynch.”

Lynch sneers again, a beautiful twist of his mouth. Kavinsky loves getting under his skin.

He drives them out of town, straight toward the mountains. He thought about taking Lynch to the fairground where he practices his dreaming; he thought about a lot of things. Kavinsky knows what he is, and he knows what Lynch is. But Lynch doesn’t know yet. He doesn’t know just how much they share, and Kavinsky gets to be the one to show him. But the time for that isn’t quite right, not yet.

Soon, though. Soon Lynch will know, and the anticipation of it is the best high. A secret knowledge coursing under Kavinsky’s skin.

He stops high on a ridge looking over the town. Doesn’t give Lynch any warning, just veers to the shoulder and yanks the parking brake.

Lynch doesn’t even flinch. He stares through the windshield for a beat, two. “This?” he demands, refusing to turn and look at Kavinsky. “This is what you took me all the way out here to see, a lookout spot with a pretty view?”

Kavinsky cuts the engine, and the silence blares louder than the music did. “Nah. This was just the practice round.”

Now Lynch turns and glares at him. “Practice for what?”

“You and me, Lynch. You and me.”

“Fuck you.”

“In your dreams, sweetheart. Speaking of which, how’s Dick?”

“Leave Gansey out of it.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

“I don’t talk about your friends,” Ronan growls. “So don’t fucking talk about mine.”

There are so many sides of Ronan Lynch, but Kavinsky likes this one best: snarling and wild and barely contained by some slim sense of decency; barely contained by those boring, law-abiding friends Lynch for some reason holds onto. All it would take to break him loose is a little nudge, Kavinsky’s sure of that. A nudge when the time is right.

Lynch is broken, angry and beautiful, and Joseph Kavinsky is the only one who really sees him. The only one who can offer him things that are as dark and dangerous as Lynch himself.

Racing, pills, parties, that’s just the start of all they could do. They’d be brilliant together. Like a firework in the final second before it explodes.

“When are you gonna race me again?” He leans over toward Lynch when he says it, breathes it in his ear, just to watch him suppress a flinch that’s like a little shiver.

Ronan lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t you want it to be a surprise?”

Kavinsky laughs in delight. He likes snarky Ronan, too. He likes a lot of Ronans. He leans back into his own seat and slaps Lynch’s shoulder. “Yeah, darling. Surprise me.”

“Here’s a surprise,” Lynch says, then bites his lip like he’s going to stop himself from saying it. But he says it. “Sitting around here is stupid. Let’s keep going. But this time, let me drive.”

“Ooh, ooh, ooh,” Kavinsky sings out. Turns out he likes bold Ronan best of all. “I don’t know, bro. Drive my car? Think you can handle it?”

“This thing?” Lynch says, all disdain. “I could drive this piece of shit in my sleep.”

He doesn’t know that Kavinsky knows how true that is.

Kavinsky makes a split-second decision, like all his decisions. He tosses the keys at Lynch, fast and underhand, and Lynch reaches out and plucks them from the air. Sexy.

They get out to switch seats, and Kavinsky takes his time strolling around the car. Ronan stands and watches him with his arms crossed, clearly regretting ever having asked for anything. Kavinsky lets him stew in it, enjoying the dark expressions that move across Lynch’s face.

Back in the car, Ronan adjusts the seat to fit him. He even adjusts the fucking side mirrors.

“Quit stalling, Lynch,” Kavinsky suggests very kindly. “You don’t need the mirrors. You’re never going to need to look behind you.”

Lynch rolls his eyes and Kavinsky grins at him, a big wolf grin. Pissed-off Ronan in his driver’s seat, all settled in like he owns it, is better than anything Kavinsky could have imagined.

Lynch turns the ignition, and the music blasts back to life.

Who wants to live forever?
Who dares to love forever?
When love must die.

“Seriously?” Lynch shouts over the music. “This shit, still?”

“Seriously,” Kavinsky agrees. “This shit, always.”

Lynch shakes his head and guns the motor.

It’s unbelievably sexy: Lynch, touching his steering wheel. Pressing down on his pedals. Taking the curves tight and fast, as steep mountain drop-offs whizz past just beyond the Mitsubishi’s wheels. They speed, untouchable, through the summer heat.

And Lynch likes it, though he’ll never say that. There’s fierce joy playing at the edges of his sharp, dangerous mouth, as he drapes one arm along the open window of the car. Of Kavinsky’s car.

Kavinsky is offering something, whether Lynch understands that yet or not. Offering something that’s dark and angry and beautiful, just like Lynch is. Just like they both are. It’s a long, bottomless way down, and he loves watching Lynch teeter at the edge of the abyss.

The car’s dream-powered speakers wail, battling for dominance over the rush of the wind. The words get caught up the slipstream, blending into the roar of the air that blasts past them as the road twists them higher and higher into the mountains, away from Henrietta, away from everything. Lynch is nodding along to the beat, just a little, maybe without meaning to.

But touch my tears with your lips
Touch my world with your fingertips
And we can have forever
And we can love forever
Forever is our today

Kavinsky hovers a hand near Lynch’s thigh, not touching, just knowing that he could. Lynch twitches, but pretends not to notice how near Kavinsky is.

Kavinsky feels that fire again, racing under his skin. They’re so close now to being exactly what they’re supposed to be. They’ll be brilliant together, a non-stop explosion.

He’ll run his hands up that razor-sharp jaw and down the muscles of those powerful arms. He’ll show Lynch the pills that make them dream. They’ll make monsters and miracles together, they’ll be unstoppable. And Lynch will be grateful, because Kavinsky is the only one who could pluck him free from this life of boredom he’s been leading.

Next time. Next time is when he shows Lynch everything.

.