Ronan was dreaming again.

The dream was dense and viscous, and it resisted him as much as sucked and forced him further under. His dream-body felt heavy and unwilling. It was years until he reached Cabeswater.

"Miss me, Lynch?"

He was sitting at the base of a tree. His neck was bent back, resting against the trunk, and he stared at Ronan listlessly, his mouth slightly apart, looking very much like he was either high or very depressed; he couldn't tell. It was a disconcerting demeanour for him. He looked strangely stripped, without his infamous metallic armour: no gilt chain around his neck, no glinting earring, no steel-lensed sunglasses. Not even gelled hair. Just the white vest and combat pants. Ronan wondered if he owned any other clothes.

"The hell are you doing here?" Ronan returned.

Kavinsky's eyebrows jumped up. Then he leaped up, onto his feet. He tilted his head to the side and his mouth turned downwards mockingly. "Missed you too, honeybee." His face barely upheld the joke: there was no sincerity to his ridicule. He looked too sick and decayed and emotionless and exhausted for anything. Kavinsky gestured around them, "This is your head, man. You tell me."

Ronan knew, then, why he'd dreamt this construct. He needed to say something to him. And Ronan didn't even need to think about the words, this time. They were simple. But it wasn't to say. Ronan drummed his fingers on the side of his pant leg nervously; he was burning with embarrassment when he finally spat ungraciously, "I'm sorry."

For a brief moment, Kavinsky's face betrayed something like real shock, and then Kavinsky fell back into place. That was what Ronan had dreaded. He could easily deal with that Kavinsky than he could a real Kavinsky who pretended to be a real human being for once. "For what?"

Ronan's frustration billowed. He knew Kavinsky knew. The bastard just wanted to watch him squirm. To be entertained. Ronan glanced around the forest furtively. As always, Cabeswater seemed charged with supernatural energy, gleaming like the lacquered, hyper-real world it was. Eventually, Ronan got round to saying it. It took a ridiculous amount of nerve. His voice, when it emerged, was low and infinite, "You know."

I'm sorry you're dead.

"Oh," Kavinsky murmured. Ronan looked at him, surprised. "Oh, that." A smirk perched on one side of his pale lips. "Oh yeah. I know about that."

Ronan went rigid. Ronan Lynch's pauses were an entirely different force of silence: an act in itself, a creeping thing, it caught hold of your ankle when you weren't looking, and flayed you alive. Kavinsky, though, didn't appear bothered. That was what pissed him off. Ronan proceeded to lift an eyebrow, arched with marvelously precise disdain over his maliciously blue eyes. "You do? And what is that?"

Kavinsky kept that surprised look on his face, as if he meant to say, Isn't it obvious? "Well. You're sorry that you passed up a perfectly good opportunity to get a stiffer fuck from me than you ever will from your precious Dick Gansey," his pitch hiked up effeminately at the end. He smirked tauntingly.

Ronan's thoughts drenched tar-black, sliding straight into a pit of violence. He imagined lashing out, but he restrained himself. Perhaps it was Gansey—the invocation of his name—that did it. Gansey, who was there in Ronan's head, telling him in his imperial, ardent voice, You know the difference between us and Kavinsky? We matter.

Ronan stepped right up to Kavinsky's face. His dead, dead face. The sagging bags under his eyes were gory purple things against his tanned, gaunt face. Suddenly, Ronan realised he'd never noticed his eyes before. They were hazel. Like Gansey's. He had long, dusty eyelashes. Like Adam's. They lent his eyes a deceptively harmless, easily-hurt look that Ronan hated. Ronan shook his head and looked him up and down. "The drugs really fucked you up, man."

"Nah…" Kavinsky breathed. A tiny thing twisted the edge of his debauched lips upward, briefly, before it disappeared. "The drugs kept me alive."

"Alive? Not much a life."

He snorted. "You think you're so much better than me, don't you, Lynch? Mommy and Daddy loved you so fucking much. But did you ever think….Where would you be without your precious Gansey? Huh? Even if you'd survived the nightmares slashing up your veins, you'd have kicked yourself off a chair by now…Or," Then he whispered, leaning, "you'd be exactly like me."

"Like you were," Ronan corrected.

He grimaced. "Fuck, man, Dick got you going to spelling bees, too?"

Ronan gritted his teeth. When he spoke, the words slithered out between the cage of his teeth. "It's amazing how you're fucking dead and yet you're still an insufferable asshole."

"Aw, yeah, but, come on, at least I have a good one, right?"

"Fucking God man—" Ronan stepped away, cursing incoherently.

Kavinsky ignored him, and continued blithely, "Or at least in your head I do—"

"What did you say?" Ronan demanded.

"I said: at least in your head I do." Baffled, Ronan did not know what to say. Kavinsky let out a raucous laugh. "Oh God, don't tell you didn't lie awake fantasising about bending me over the back of that crappy goddamn BMW of yours. Ha ha ha ha! And don't even bother lying, Lynch. You're shitting bad at it."

"I don't have to lie, you worthless piece of shit."

"Wait, are you saying—did Princess' balls finally drop? Well, congratulations!" He grinned and opened his arms wide, "Now he can get it up and you can finally get rid of all that wet-dream frustration—"

Fuck this.

Ronan punched him. The blow knocked Kavinsky wide; he nearly went to the ground, but he flung out an arm at the last minute, steadying himself on the trunk of the tree. He breathed heavily for a moment while Ronan shook out the pain blasting through his knuckles. Kavinsky groaned and swivelled around, hunched and massaging his jaw. "Looks like Little Miss Sensitive still has that pipe up her ass,"

In a second, Ronan had collared him and pinned him to the tree. "Say one more word about Gansey and I will fuck you up—"

"Oh I hope so—"

Ronan punched him again. Their proximity and the resulting impact meant that Kavinsky instantly went limp and crumpled. Ronan let him fall, and then slammed a few well-aimed kicks into his stomach. Both of them were breathing hard before Ronan stopped. Kavinsky rolled over. Ronan knelt down beside him and said, "You know what the best thing is about this, K? I'm not even lying. It's not Gansey. Never has been. Christ, I think it's you who has the crush on him." Ronan began to smile, feeling dirtily triumphant. "You haven't even guessed."

Kavinsky's face flattened and then: "Aw, no, man. No. Tell me it's not HIM." Ronan didn't reply. "Aw, fuck, man. Really? Really? Gansey, at least, I get—bet he's horny as shit under all that stupid-ass nicey-nice-facade crap he has going on—but him? The skinny little poor boy? That one? Fuck." His lip curled in disdain. "Didn't know you liked charity projects."

Ronan spat viciously, "Screw you—"

"Dude, you know he's as straight as a rod, right? You're not getting any blowing off him—"

Ronan punched him. This time round, he knew the blood striping Kavinsky's face was from his own mutilated knuckles, but in his fury, he managed to ignore the pain, and learnt to relish it instead. Suddenly, Kavinsky began to laugh. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. "Aw, fuck, do it again!" When Ronan paused, Kavinsky glared, raised himself up on his arms, and shouted hostilely, "Think you can hurt me, now Lynch? I'm dead you stupid shithole!"

"Yeah," Ronan said through gritted teeth, "But if you'd just come down from that fucking car like I said then you wouldn't be!"

Kavinsky scoffed. "Please don't tell me you're sorry for me, man. I'm not sorry. All that chasing around was fun."

Ronan dropped him, abruptly disgusted. "Fun? Kidnapping my brother was fun?"

"Oh, hell yeah. Little guy nearly wet himself. He is a cute little teddy bear, isn't he. See why you like him so much—"

"Leave my brother out of this, you motherfucking—"

Kavinsky laughed again and shook his head sadly. "So emotional. Too easy to wind you up, man. You need to learn to chill, Ronan." The utterance of his first name was a transgression: a mellifluous thrill, shamelessly squeezing and stretching the vowels, exploring the cusp of every syllable with his mouth as he said it.

A strange kind of blasphemy. He told him earnestly, "You really are a rare piece of shit, Kavinsky."

"Oh yeah. Only thing I'm proud of. Listen, man, don't be sorry for me. I sure as hell am not. Being in hell's better than being in there," he gestured behind Ronan, to the far-away lucid world. Then, he got up, leaving Ronan kneeling there.

Ronan looked up as Kavinsky turned his back to him. He was walking away when he said, "Oh, before I forget." Then, he turned around, retrieved something from his pocket, and threw it. Ronan caught it in his palm, and stared at the object, dumbfounded.

Kavinsky said, "Don't leave her to just sit. And when you do, make sure you give you a proper fuck, man. She hates it when you go gentle,"

Ronan did not know what to say. Kavinsky grinned. "Don't worry, you don't have to say it. I already know." He winked at him and turned around.

Ronan watched him walk away.

And then he was awake.

Instantly alert, his heart thumped violently in his chest.

He slipped out of bed, his bare feet touching the cold floor, as he dropped the Mitsu's keys on the bedside table, and pulled on some pants.

Where was he going? He didn't know. Wherever it was, he didn't expect to find what he was looking for, doing what it was doing: its head inclined fawningly, stood over the couch. A muted, tender smile was tipping the corners of its mouth while an awed, hesitant hand extended—caressing the top of Blue's bulbous clouds of dark hair, tufted sleepily on the arm of the couch. Its fingers dipped into it, and the smile widened divinely.

Ronan felt deeply disturbed. "Dude. What are you—"

Gansey gasped and jerked away from her. "Lord, Ronan." He started mumbling something else, something about fright and sorry and doing.

Ronan cut him off. "If your idea is that you can get away with doing illicit things at night because no one can see, you might want to re-think that strategy—living with a chronic insomniac and a ghost."

Gansey's glare was tired, but impressive. "I wasn't doing anything," He insisted.

"Gansey. I saw you—"

"And it wasn't illicit."

"Your face says different. Jesus, why is she even here?" Ronan gestured to the couch. "Doesn't she have her own bed?"

Gansey's voice went hard. "We're going to be out in a few hours, that's why she's—you know why she's here. And regardless, she can stay any time she pleases. I own this place."

"And does Adam know about this?"

He glanced down at the couch, aware of movement, as he saw the dark hair move around; a little huff followed. Gansey leaned towards him. "Can you keep your voice down?"

"I'll take that as a no."

Gansey hissed, "What is your problem, Ronan?"

"My problem?" He stepped towards Gansey. "My problem is that this," he gestured between Blue and Gansey, "is turning into some soap opera bullshit, and I'm tired of watching it, man."

Gansey returned, his tone snapping and cold, "I do apologise. I didn't realise I was performing for your benefit. I'll be sure to work on that,"

"Gansey." Ronan said heavily. "You need to sort this out."

"Sort what out, Ronan? I can't. I never meant for any of this happen."

"It's easy to solve. Get rid of Blue."

"Wh—" Gansey began to exclaim, stopped, and then whispered threateningly, "what? How could you even suggest that?"

"Have you not noticed? Everything bad that happened only started when she began hanging out with us. There's only one common denominator in all this, Gansey. That's her."

Gansey was silent for too long. "Yes, you're right."

Ronan was stunned. "What?"

"There is a common denominator in this…" Gansey looked around forlornly, and finally rested on Ronan. "Me."

"What?" Ronan exclaimed, bewildered how he'd come to that conclusion.

"Me," Gansey repeated, staring at the ground. "All this is my fault," Shaking his head miserably, he walked past Ronan and disappeared out the room, round the corner.

"Where are you going?" Ronan called.

"It doesn't matter," He mumbled back.

Ronan waited. Eventually, he saw Gansey appear on the drive, open the door to the Camaro, slam it; heard the engine chug biosterously as he turned the ignition, and sped away.