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St. Agnes is usually abandoned at night, the bible studies and services over. It’s a nice quiet place to drink in peace, Ronan has found.Tonight is apparently not usual.“I didn’t think demons could enter hallowed ground.”Something cracks as Kavinsky stretches, a gunshot in the stagnant air.“Nice to see you too, Lynch.” As he sits up, Ronan sees a bag of white powder in the hand that was hanging off the side of the pew.“What are you doing here?”“Same as you.” Ronan stares at him, shifting his grip on the six-pack he holds.Kavinsky rolls his eyes and shakes out some of the powder onto the pew in front of him. He does the line off it then, kneeling as if he’s praying, and something lurches inside Ronan. A skipped heartbeat, a momentary lack of oxygen leaving him slightly dizzy. He fingers the crucifix under his shirt.Kavinsky cracks his neck and stands up, reaching out imperiously, chin tilted up to look Ronan in the eye. “Aren’t you going to share?” Ronan chucks a can at his head in response, which Kavinsky fumbles but catches. “Thanks, sweetheart.” His eyes are shocking, not matter how many times Ronan sees them, black holes incongruent with his skeletal appearance. With the pupils blown wide, his eyes are unmistakably demonic. Ronan cracks open his own beer. “Sit down, dickwad,” Kavinsky commands, wiping his mouth on the edge of his tank top.Ronan sits. He’s acutely aware of Adam right above them, probably doing homework or something important while they waste away the hours. He feels a little guilty, then angry at himself for feeling that way. “You forget how to talk, Lynch?”“Well, since I have nothing nice to say-”Kavinsky climbs abruptly into his lap swinging a leg over Ronan’s so he’s kneeling over him, one arm draped over Ronan’s shoulder, one hand curled around the back of his neck like a promise. Ronan can feel his heartbeat in his throat, in his chest, in his fingers. Kavinsky’d spilled a drop of his drink on Ronan’s forearm in his haste, and he brings it to his lips now to languidly lick it off, and it shouldn’t be,it shouldn’t make Ronan feel like,He wants.“Jesus Christ.”“Uh oh, Lynch, I think that’s blasphemy.”“Shut up.” He kisses Kavinsky then, pulling him in by the waist.It’s wet, as kisses go. Ronan doesn’t have much to compare it to.Good though.They’re finding a rhythm now, mouths slotting together in a way that feels right, or maybe just good. Good, good good. They pull apart slightly, but always crash back together. They’re much better at this than talking. Ronan feels simultaneously like he’s floating and the most settled in his skin he’s been in a long time. There is nothing else but this: no quest, no school, no family, only the cool wood of the pew rapidly warming under Ronan’s thighs and the warm weight of Kavinsky pressing into his lap and the urgent slide of lips and tongue and a hint of teeth, nipping Ronan’s bottom lip.They’re both panting when they separate, and Kavinsky never takes his hand off the back of Ronan’s neck, rubbing circles with his thumb in a surprisingly sweet and unsurprisingly possessive way.“Hey,” Ronan says, and when did his hands find their way under Kavinsky’s shirt? He dropped his can on the floor, sometime along the way, and it’s a miracle it didn’t spill.“Man, you’re easy,” Kavinsky laughs, and dips down to mouth at Ronan’s neck before he can think of something barbed and witty to shoot back.“Not there,” Ronan says, and, against his better judgement, tugs the collar of his shirt down so Kavinsky can suck a hickey on his chest, big and red and splotchy on his too-pale skin. His skin tingles even after Kavinsky pulls off with an obscene noise. It feels like a brand, like everyone will be able to see it even through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Ronan lets his head drop forward, tired suddenly, lets his face press into Kavinsky’s bony shoulder. He smells kinda good.Ronan’s never been this close to him before. He hasn’t been this close to anyone in a long time, and Kavinsky still isn’t pushing him away, so he lets himself drift a little, sleeping, almost, without dreaming. The rhythmic scraping of blunt nails in the short hair on the back of his neck lulls Ronan back to himself, eventually. Kavinsky’s opens his eyes slowly when Ronan looks up at him, stilling the motion. “What time is it?” Kavinsky shrugs, so Ronan fishes in his pocket, hoping he has his phone on him for once. “It’s 2:15.”“And?”“We have school tomorrow.”Kavinsky snorts. “Since when do you care about school?” Which is… fair.“K-” Kavinsky grinds down onto his lap then. Ronan lets out a smoker’s breath. “Dirty trick.”Kavinsky winks, something self-satisfied and assured reappearing on his face. “That’s the idea, sweetheart.” It’s probably sarcastic-it has to be sarcastic-but the pet name makes Ronan feel a little dizzy anyway. Not good or bad, but off-kilter. This is only temporary; they both know it. It’s only a matter of time before one of them goes to far and pushes the other away again. Better to keep his mouth shut, Ronan thinks, or at least occupied. Here, on Kavinsky’s shoulder. Here, on his sharp collarbone. Here, his jaw, his cheek, his mouth again.“Man, you’re desperate. Dick really doesn’t take good enough care of you, does he.”“He’s not my owner,” Roman snarls, a reflex, and Kavinsky laughs because all he wanted was a reaction. Because he can’t leave good things well enough alone. Because he’s just playing around: this is another game to him.And therein lies the problem: Ronan is still himself, and Kavinsky’s still himself, and this is a good day.
“It was never going to be you and me.”
Ronan pushes him off his lap, not hard, but not softly either.“Ronan.”He picks up his beer, and the rest of the pack for good measure.“What the fuck?”He takes his keys out of his pocket as he walks back down the aisle.“Learn how to take a fucking joke, man.”Ronan’s at his car when Kavinsky finally catches up to him, grabbing the driver’s side door before he can shut it on Kavinsky’s asshole face. “Ronan.”“What?”Kavinsky’s jaw tenses, a muscle moving where Ronan had kissed minutes ago.“I’m having a party. Tomorrow. Be there or be fucking square, Lynch.”“You’re always having a party.”“You don’t want to miss this one.” After a moment’s hesitation he kisses Ronan again, one hand still on the door handle, craning his neck down, and Ronan lets him, because fuck it. It feels good, and it doesn’t have to mean anything, and he wants to. It’s not a fucking crime.“Maybe,” Ronan says when they come up for air.“I’ll text you the details.”“Okay.”Maybe.