"Nah," He frowns as he swoops low for the can but...ends up waving the can with that hand, fizz spattering out of the cracked lid. "Coming off, uh. Three and a half whiskey somethings, chased with like a pack of spearmint gum and--"
Guide him, he's pointing at Ronan as he totters backwards and hitting him with the unabashed come-on. "No cigarettes, so I wouldn't taste like shit when I saw you."
Ronan blinks, giving Quentin an amused look, and leans in just a bit closer to catch the full absurdity of his words. His smirk deepens, though his eyes shift in a way that says he's both mocking and not totally unaffected.
“Whiskey somethings, huh?” Ronan raises an eyebrow. “Spearmint gum. You’re a fucking disaster.” When Quentin points at him and stumbles backward, Ronan doesn’t flinch. Instead, he lets out a low, almost lazy laugh and steps forward, catching him by the shoulder to steady him.
“So,” he starts, his eyes ticking toward the room behind him before landing back on Quentin. “You wanna crash here? We could fuck off somewhere else, or just stick around. Up to you." Ronan lets his hand linger on Quentin’s shoulder for just a second longer than necessary, his smirk softening into something a little more genuine—though still laced with that trademark edge.
The deflection is so graceful and the offer so generous, Quentin can't be too embarrassed at the rejection. He doesn't chase the touch, doesn't even blush all the way to his ears. Just the nose and cheeks, and if he gets a beer in fast enough, he can call it a drinking flush. He is a fucking disaster.
"Here." He declares at last, turning to face in the direction he's moving in. That direction is the nearest surface for him to wrench a non-leaking can off the plastic rings. He hands the clean beer towards Ronan, sucks the foam off the rim of the messy one. "So--what kind of bad decisions are we talking here?"
He takes the offered can without a word, popping it open with a practiced flick of his thumb. Ronan tilts the beer to his lips, watching Quentin over the rim, his gaze heavy but unreadable. He lowers it slowly, the smirk on his face shifting—still teasing, but there's something darker in it now, a slow burn instead of a quick spark.
"Bad decisions," he repeats, voice lower this time, almost nonchalant. He flicks his eyes to Quentin's, holding the moment just long enough for it to feel deliberate. "Could mean a lot of things."
It’s subtle, but the implication is there, woven into the sharpness of his smirk and the way he’s watching Quentin now—waiting to see if he catches the hint, if he’ll bite.
That puts an electric little shudder between his vertebrae. The moment Ronan looks away, Quentin finishes popping the dented can and chugs it with an expertise that would be impressive if it wasn't so familiar. Crunches the empty as if they have gone out and the bar is rowdy, and drops it. "Don't look at me like that."
Ronan stands at the table, one hand resting on the surface, the other loosely holding the can. His posture is relaxed, but there's a sharper edge to his gaze, a quiet intensity that’s not quite as easy to shake off as it seems.
"Like what?" he asks, his tone smooth but cutting.
He shifts slightly, the space between them narrowing, and there's a twinkle of amusement in his eyes as he studies Quentin, almost daring him to say something more.
"Like a shark that smells blood." He's not good at playing chicken, not good at waiting in anticipation. Ronan narrows the gap and--impatient, anxious--Quentin closes it with a step in of his own. One wiry hand hooks in the waist of Ronan's pants and shakes him gently, the other splaying across one side of his chest with Quentin's thumb nestled neatly in the hollow of his throat. "Like you know something I don't."
Ronan freezes for half a second, the tension in the room coiling tighter, his smirk faltering just enough to let something raw slip through. The hand holding the can of beer lowers to the table, forgotten. His sharp gaze locks onto Quentin’s, electric and unyielding, but his breath hitches slightly when Quentin’s thumb settles at his throat.
"Maybe I do," Ronan says, voice quiet but loaded. He doesn’t move away; if anything, he leans just a little closer, like testing the line Quentin’s drawn between them. His hands stay loose at his sides, but the tension radiates through his entire frame, the kind of restrained energy that could explode at any moment.
"Question is," he adds, his lips quirking back into the shadow of a smirk, "you planning to find out?"
He can feel it--the air thickening between and around them. It tingles in his gut and the hinge of his jaw, makes him want to jerk away, run away, disappear maybe, he's been in this town long enough. Makes him want to sink his fingers in till he can hold Ronan's heartbeat in his hands. Feel life. Feel alive.
Quentin's eyelids shudder, lips too in one corner. He shakes his head, and tears shake loose with it. His thumb runs snug up the column of Ronan's throat, fingers rounding his jaw as Quentin leans, bumps, licks into his mouth.
For a heartbeat, everything freezes. Ronan doesn't move, doesn't breathe, his chest barely rising as Quentin's hand tightens, his thumb burning a trail up his throat. The kiss hits him like a jolt, raw and unpolished, and for half a second, he doesn't know if he'll respond or shove Quentin back.
But then something inside him snaps, that coiled energy unraveling all at once. Ronan leans into it, one hand curling around the back of Quentin's neck, not gentle but firm, pulling him in like it's the only thing tethering him to the ground. His other hand finds Quentin's hip, fingers pressing into the fabric as though he needs the contact to prove this is real.
It's messy, urgent—teeth grazing, breaths mingling, the salt of tears catching on his tongue. Ronan pulls back just a fraction, his lips brushing Quentin's as he speaks, voice low and frayed. "You're a goddamn mess, you know that?"
There's no malice in it, though. If anything, the words land more like a lifeline than an accusation, something grounding in the chaos of whatever this moment has become.
I don't have full smut thread energy, but I'd be down to ftb or write a little ff tag if you want!!
He whines into the grip, his other hand sweeping up to carve the hollow of Ronan's cheek, clutching this kiss close. "I've heard that before," Sighs heavily between them. Quentin toes between his heels, knees knocking together--buffeting Ronan back, back against the nearest wall. "So who does a guy have to blow for coke around here?"
Ronan lets out a sharp, breathless laugh as his back hits the wall, the sound edged with disbelief and something hungry. His hand tightens at the nape of Quentin’s neck, keeping him close, while the other presses firmly against the small of his back.
“I know a guy,” he says, voice dipping lower—his free hand slides to Quentin’s side, steadying him as much as pinning him in place.
“We’ll have to take a ride after this.” His lips twitch, threatening a full grin. “Assuming you don’t pass out on me first.”
"See, that's what the coke is for." An anemic attempt at a joke, but he's matching Ronan grin for slow grin. This is already starting to look better. He pulls another kiss, another, out of the corner of Ronan's mouth, explains with less humor, "Just...don't let me fall asleep."
They haven't talked about their dreams. They haven't talked about much, in large part because they're not usually doing much talking. But fuck around enough--hooking up and getting high, running each other or anyone they're with down to fumes--eventually you have to sleep, even if only briefly. They've both seen each other wake up in a panic, and Quentin tries not to think about the time or two he's accidentally tripped into Ronan's dreams and caught the shakes from the darkness in there. They don't have to talk about it to know that it's serious.
So that's what the coke is for. That's what the kissing is for. Quentin is as eager and easy today as he ever is, glad to be on his knees or over or under or wherever Ronan drags him by the hair. He's hungrier than sometimes--more tooth and claw, like the taste of tongue or cock isn't enough, like he has to get Ronan's blood in his mouth. Nevermind hickeys; he'll have to pull Quentin away from taking a bite out of him.
Coming makes more of a puppy out of him than a wolf. Boneless and buzzing, he grabs another beer for the road (open container laws? I don't know her) and another kiss for good luck off the back of Ronan's neck as they head for the car. While they find velocity and a high, ferocious purr in the engine, he's quiet but antsy, eyes wide and fingers drumming the dash or plucking the tab of his can--or sliding over Ronan's knee to squeeze when a swell of speed makes him feel like he's floating.
Or his hands are out the window, fiddling with the wind. He has to yell over the noise, but it still feels intimate in here. "You ever seen anyone die in the races?"
Ronan doesn't share his dreams. Not with anyone. They're his—private, sacred, dangerous. They're the parts of him that don't fit anywhere, even in the world he's built out of stolen moments and restless nights. Letting someone else in feels like ripping himself open, exposing all the soft, raw places he works so hard to bury.
But Quentin. Quentin is different. Not safe, exactly, but there's something about the way he moves through Ronan's life, crashing into all his edges, that makes it hard to keep the walls up. He's already stumbled into the dreams once or twice, and Ronan hated it. Hated how vulnerable it made him feel. Hated the way Quentin looked at him after, like he understood something he wasn't supposed to.
Still, there's a part of Ronan (a quiet, traitorous part) that wonders what it would be like to let him in on purpose. To drag him down into the dark and see if he can handle it. To see if he'd survive, or if Ronan would finally break something he can't fix.
"Don't fall asleep," he mutters, his voice still rough, almost teasing, as he grabs his keys off the table. The scrape of metal against wood breaks the tense silence. He doesn't wait for a response, doesn't look back as he heads for the door, boots striking hard against the floor in a rhythm that matches the pounding in his chest.
The night outside is crisp, bracing as it bites at his skin. The dark silhouette of his black, sharp-nosed BMW waits at the curb like an animal crouched and ready to pounce. Ronan slides in, slamming the door shut with a familiar force that reverberates through the car, a brief echo of his restlessness.
The engine growls to life, deep and throaty, a sound that sends a pulse of satisfaction through him as he grips the wheel. His knuckles tighten, white against the black leather, as he pulls out, the tires screeching faintly against the pavement. The streets blur past, city lights flashing like muted fireworks in his periphery.
"Not yet," he says, the words are flat like they're heavier than they should be. "Seen enough close calls to know it's only a matter of time. People don't know when to stop pushing."
A laugh barks out of him, and he throws a look across the console. Ronan looks tougher in the dash glow, sharper under streetlight. Quentin rocks in his seat, head dropping back with a grin. "Not like you. You're the picture of restraint. Discretion. Discipline."
He wants a cigarette. He wants to lean over the console and put Ronan in his mouth. He wants a razor. Quentin upends his beer and chucks the can. They're too far to hear it clatter before it even hits the road. "When do you know to stop pushing?"
The glow of the dash makes the lines of his face starker, the set of his mouth more cutting. His grip on the wheel tightens, and his knuckles press white against the leather. For a moment, there’s only the sound of the engine humming low and steady.
“When it breaks,” he says finally, voice calm, almost too calm, like he’s stating a fact that doesn’t need to be debated. The corner of his mouth twitches—not a smile, more a ghost of something bitter. “Or when I do.”
The house comes into view like a wound in the dark—Kavinsky’s place, lit up like a beacon of chaos. Music pounds faintly through the closed windows, the vibrations traveling through the air like an unspoken promise of destruction. Cars are scattered in the driveway and along the road, some perched half on the grass, others angled like the drivers didn’t care where they ended up as long as they got inside.
Ronan pulls the BMW up to the edge of the chaos, parking cleanly despite the mess around him. The car settles with a final growl as he kills the engine, and for a moment, everything feels too still. The glow of the dash fades, leaving shadows to reclaim his face, softening the edges Quentin had been watching the entire drive.
A hand lingers on the keys for a beat longer than necessary before he lets them drop into his pocket. He doesn’t look at Quentin as he pushes the door open, stepping into the night like it’s his to command. The air outside is colder, biting in a way that’s almost sobering—but not quite.
“Come on,” Ronan mutters over his shoulder, already heading toward the house. The bass from inside is louder now, vibrating in his chest, a pulse that feels like a countdown to something inevitable.
When was the last time you broke? It sets like smoke on the back of his tongue, close to leaking out from between his teeth, but the booming base interrupts him, and Quentin lets it stream out the window. The answer would take them somewhere else tonight, and Ronan is already leading them confidently down a path that Quentin is very comfortable with.
He follows like a shadow, feels like a shadow for how soft his edges are as he flickers after Ronan. He doesn't have to look back to know Quentin is following, and Quentin doesn't have to reach out and snag his hand to keep up. He might want to, but he doesn't. No touching until they pass the threshold out of clean night air and into the muggy, trembling air of the house. His heart scrabbles to get up to speed with the music that rattles the walls. Sweat-damp attendees wedge between them, and as soon as he's able, Quentin minnows back up to Ronan, a hand at his waist--around his stomach to keep them close.
"Looking for someone?" He has to be next to Ronan's ear to be heard.
Ronan doesn't flinch at the hand on his waist and doesn't pull away when it snakes further around to rest against his stomach. The corners of his mouth twitch, but it's hard to tell if it's a smirk or something looser, something softer. He doesn't look at Quentin right away, scanning the crush of bodies with a narrowed gaze like he's assessing a battlefield.
"Already found him," he says, voice pitched low but deliberate, cutting through the heavy pulse of the music. The weight of his words settles warm between them, an acknowledgment, a tether.
The crush of the crowd ebbs and swells like the tide, bodies brushing against them, sweat-slick and electric with energy. Ronan doesn't seem to notice or care, his focus sharp, locked on something—or someone—beyond the sea of people.
"But yeah," he adds after a beat, leaning back just enough for his lips to graze Quentin's ear as he speaks. "Looking for someone else too."
Ronan tips back, and all Quentin's limited focus snags on his mouth. Almost forgets what he was asking as those lips skim back to his ear, even takes an extra few seconds to process the answer. Humming, he butts his nose, his mouth against the back of Ronan's neck, trying to pull his attention together. "Mm. Okay. Who, uh."
His hand stays wrapped around Ronan, patting his stomach to the beat to get his head on straight. Focus. Focus. "What do they look like? It's fucking--swarming in here."
The briefest shiver ripples down Ronan's spine when Quentin presses against his neck, the warmth of his breath ghosting along his skin. He keeps moving, keeping one eye on Quentin and the other on the crowd, as if he's already anticipating something.
"Swarming is an understatement," he mutters, a grin slipping across his lips, though it's not one of amusement.
Quentin's hand stays firm at his waist, patting in time with the beat, pulling Ronan's attention away from the endless bodies. His body's heat is a welcome to the coolness that creeps in around them, but Ronan doesn't pull away. He likes the proximity.
"Tall, dark hair, looks like he just stepped out of a fucking soap opera," Ronan continues, his voice sliding low, a quiet hum under the pulse of the music.
It's hard to tell if soap opera is a compliment or an insult, but he gets the picture. Anything after a person or two away from them is a blur, though--it feels more like he's watching Ronan's back than anything else. "I don't see him...is he a hookup or what?"
"There," he mutters, tilting his head toward the direction of his find. It's impossible to miss now—Kavinsky, leaning against the far wall like he owns the place, the light catching on the razor-edged angles of his face and the unmistakable arrogance in his posture. Even in the middle of this mess, he stands out like a lit match in the dark.
"Come on," he says, throwing the words over his shoulder as he cuts through the crowd, expecting Quentin to follow without question. People around him seem to peel back, bodies swaying and shifting to make way without him having to push. Ronan doesn't waste time. Standing toe-to-toe with Kavinsky, his voice cuts through the bass like a blade.
"You got it or not?" No posturing, no pleasantries—just straight to the point, his tone low and rough. His eyes stay locked on Kavinsky's, unblinking, daring him to screw around.
Kavinsky's grin widens, as if he's savoring the moment. He tips his head back slightly, exposing his throat in a gesture that's equal parts arrogance and provocation. "Relax, Lynch," he drawls, the words dripping with mockery.
Ronan doesn't budge, his stance solid, unyielding. "I think you like hearing yourself talk," he bites back, the faintest edge of impatience creeping into his voice. "So, do you have it?"
Kavinsky's laugh is sharp and humorless, cutting through the haze of sweat and smoke around them. "Of course I have it."
Kavinsky's grin lingers as he dips a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket, pulling out a small, tightly wrapped baggie. He holds it between two fingers, just out of reach.
"See? Always deliver." His voice is silk wrapped around a razor blade, smug and dripping with self-satisfaction. "But you already knew that, didn't you, Lynch?"
Ronan doesn't rise to the bait, doesn't even blink. He just holds out his hand, palm open, fingers steady.
For a moment, Kavinsky doesn't move. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he drops the bag into Ronan's waiting hand. "Don't blow through it all at once," he says with a crooked smile, stepping back just enough to let the space between them breathe. "Unless you're planning on coming back for more."
Ronan's fingers close around the baggie, and his jaw tightens, but he doesn't say a word. Instead, he turns, the movement sharp and decisive, leaving Kavinsky standing there with that same smug grin plastered across his face.
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Guide him, he's pointing at Ronan as he totters backwards and hitting him with the unabashed come-on. "No cigarettes, so I wouldn't taste like shit when I saw you."
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“Whiskey somethings, huh?” Ronan raises an eyebrow. “Spearmint gum. You’re a fucking disaster.” When Quentin points at him and stumbles backward, Ronan doesn’t flinch. Instead, he lets out a low, almost lazy laugh and steps forward, catching him by the shoulder to steady him.
“So,” he starts, his eyes ticking toward the room behind him before landing back on Quentin. “You wanna crash here? We could fuck off somewhere else, or just stick around. Up to you." Ronan lets his hand linger on Quentin’s shoulder for just a second longer than necessary, his smirk softening into something a little more genuine—though still laced with that trademark edge.
"Just don’t puke on my floor.”
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"Here." He declares at last, turning to face in the direction he's moving in. That direction is the nearest surface for him to wrench a non-leaking can off the plastic rings. He hands the clean beer towards Ronan, sucks the foam off the rim of the messy one. "So--what kind of bad decisions are we talking here?"
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"Bad decisions," he repeats, voice lower this time, almost nonchalant. He flicks his eyes to Quentin's, holding the moment just long enough for it to feel deliberate. "Could mean a lot of things."
It’s subtle, but the implication is there, woven into the sharpness of his smirk and the way he’s watching Quentin now—waiting to see if he catches the hint, if he’ll bite.
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"Like what?" he asks, his tone smooth but cutting.
He shifts slightly, the space between them narrowing, and there's a twinkle of amusement in his eyes as he studies Quentin, almost daring him to say something more.
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"Maybe I do," Ronan says, voice quiet but loaded. He doesn’t move away; if anything, he leans just a little closer, like testing the line Quentin’s drawn between them. His hands stay loose at his sides, but the tension radiates through his entire frame, the kind of restrained energy that could explode at any moment.
"Question is," he adds, his lips quirking back into the shadow of a smirk, "you planning to find out?"
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Quentin's eyelids shudder, lips too in one corner. He shakes his head, and tears shake loose with it. His thumb runs snug up the column of Ronan's throat, fingers rounding his jaw as Quentin leans, bumps, licks into his mouth.
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But then something inside him snaps, that coiled energy unraveling all at once. Ronan leans into it, one hand curling around the back of Quentin's neck, not gentle but firm, pulling him in like it's the only thing tethering him to the ground. His other hand finds Quentin's hip, fingers pressing into the fabric as though he needs the contact to prove this is real.
It's messy, urgent—teeth grazing, breaths mingling, the salt of tears catching on his tongue. Ronan pulls back just a fraction, his lips brushing Quentin's as he speaks, voice low and frayed. "You're a goddamn mess, you know that?"
There's no malice in it, though. If anything, the words land more like a lifeline than an accusation, something grounding in the chaos of whatever this moment has become.
I don't have full smut thread energy, but I'd be down to ftb or write a little ff tag if you want!!
we can def ftb with a lil ff!
“I know a guy,” he says, voice dipping lower—his free hand slides to Quentin’s side, steadying him as much as pinning him in place.
“We’ll have to take a ride after this.” His lips twitch, threatening a full grin. “Assuming you don’t pass out on me first.”
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They haven't talked about their dreams. They haven't talked about much, in large part because they're not usually doing much talking. But fuck around enough--hooking up and getting high, running each other or anyone they're with down to fumes--eventually you have to sleep, even if only briefly. They've both seen each other wake up in a panic, and Quentin tries not to think about the time or two he's accidentally tripped into Ronan's dreams and caught the shakes from the darkness in there. They don't have to talk about it to know that it's serious.
So that's what the coke is for. That's what the kissing is for. Quentin is as eager and easy today as he ever is, glad to be on his knees or over or under or wherever Ronan drags him by the hair. He's hungrier than sometimes--more tooth and claw, like the taste of tongue or cock isn't enough, like he has to get Ronan's blood in his mouth. Nevermind hickeys; he'll have to pull Quentin away from taking a bite out of him.
Coming makes more of a puppy out of him than a wolf. Boneless and buzzing, he grabs another beer for the road (open container laws? I don't know her) and another kiss for good luck off the back of Ronan's neck as they head for the car. While they find velocity and a high, ferocious purr in the engine, he's quiet but antsy, eyes wide and fingers drumming the dash or plucking the tab of his can--or sliding over Ronan's knee to squeeze when a swell of speed makes him feel like he's floating.
Or his hands are out the window, fiddling with the wind. He has to yell over the noise, but it still feels intimate in here. "You ever seen anyone die in the races?"
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Ronan doesn't share his dreams. Not with anyone. They're his—private, sacred, dangerous. They're the parts of him that don't fit anywhere, even in the world he's built out of stolen moments and restless nights. Letting someone else in feels like ripping himself open, exposing all the soft, raw places he works so hard to bury.
But Quentin. Quentin is different. Not safe, exactly, but there's something about the way he moves through Ronan's life, crashing into all his edges, that makes it hard to keep the walls up. He's already stumbled into the dreams once or twice, and Ronan hated it. Hated how vulnerable it made him feel. Hated the way Quentin looked at him after, like he understood something he wasn't supposed to.
Still, there's a part of Ronan (a quiet, traitorous part) that wonders what it would be like to let him in on purpose. To drag him down into the dark and see if he can handle it. To see if he'd survive, or if Ronan would finally break something he can't fix.
"Don't fall asleep," he mutters, his voice still rough, almost teasing, as he grabs his keys off the table. The scrape of metal against wood breaks the tense silence. He doesn't wait for a response, doesn't look back as he heads for the door, boots striking hard against the floor in a rhythm that matches the pounding in his chest.
The night outside is crisp, bracing as it bites at his skin. The dark silhouette of his black, sharp-nosed BMW waits at the curb like an animal crouched and ready to pounce. Ronan slides in, slamming the door shut with a familiar force that reverberates through the car, a brief echo of his restlessness.
The engine growls to life, deep and throaty, a sound that sends a pulse of satisfaction through him as he grips the wheel. His knuckles tighten, white against the black leather, as he pulls out, the tires screeching faintly against the pavement. The streets blur past, city lights flashing like muted fireworks in his periphery.
"Not yet," he says, the words are flat like they're heavier than they should be. "Seen enough close calls to know it's only a matter of time. People don't know when to stop pushing."
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He wants a cigarette. He wants to lean over the console and put Ronan in his mouth. He wants a razor. Quentin upends his beer and chucks the can. They're too far to hear it clatter before it even hits the road. "When do you know to stop pushing?"
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“When it breaks,” he says finally, voice calm, almost too calm, like he’s stating a fact that doesn’t need to be debated. The corner of his mouth twitches—not a smile, more a ghost of something bitter. “Or when I do.”
The house comes into view like a wound in the dark—Kavinsky’s place, lit up like a beacon of chaos. Music pounds faintly through the closed windows, the vibrations traveling through the air like an unspoken promise of destruction. Cars are scattered in the driveway and along the road, some perched half on the grass, others angled like the drivers didn’t care where they ended up as long as they got inside.
Ronan pulls the BMW up to the edge of the chaos, parking cleanly despite the mess around him. The car settles with a final growl as he kills the engine, and for a moment, everything feels too still. The glow of the dash fades, leaving shadows to reclaim his face, softening the edges Quentin had been watching the entire drive.
A hand lingers on the keys for a beat longer than necessary before he lets them drop into his pocket. He doesn’t look at Quentin as he pushes the door open, stepping into the night like it’s his to command. The air outside is colder, biting in a way that’s almost sobering—but not quite.
“Come on,” Ronan mutters over his shoulder, already heading toward the house. The bass from inside is louder now, vibrating in his chest, a pulse that feels like a countdown to something inevitable.
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He follows like a shadow, feels like a shadow for how soft his edges are as he flickers after Ronan. He doesn't have to look back to know Quentin is following, and Quentin doesn't have to reach out and snag his hand to keep up. He might want to, but he doesn't. No touching until they pass the threshold out of clean night air and into the muggy, trembling air of the house. His heart scrabbles to get up to speed with the music that rattles the walls. Sweat-damp attendees wedge between them, and as soon as he's able, Quentin minnows back up to Ronan, a hand at his waist--around his stomach to keep them close.
"Looking for someone?" He has to be next to Ronan's ear to be heard.
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"Already found him," he says, voice pitched low but deliberate, cutting through the heavy pulse of the music. The weight of his words settles warm between them, an acknowledgment, a tether.
The crush of the crowd ebbs and swells like the tide, bodies brushing against them, sweat-slick and electric with energy. Ronan doesn't seem to notice or care, his focus sharp, locked on something—or someone—beyond the sea of people.
"But yeah," he adds after a beat, leaning back just enough for his lips to graze Quentin's ear as he speaks. "Looking for someone else too."
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His hand stays wrapped around Ronan, patting his stomach to the beat to get his head on straight. Focus. Focus. "What do they look like? It's fucking--swarming in here."
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"Swarming is an understatement," he mutters, a grin slipping across his lips, though it's not one of amusement.
Quentin's hand stays firm at his waist, patting in time with the beat, pulling Ronan's attention away from the endless bodies. His body's heat is a welcome to the coolness that creeps in around them, but Ronan doesn't pull away. He likes the proximity.
"Tall, dark hair, looks like he just stepped out of a fucking soap opera," Ronan continues, his voice sliding low, a quiet hum under the pulse of the music.
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"Come on," he says, throwing the words over his shoulder as he cuts through the crowd, expecting Quentin to follow without question. People around him seem to peel back, bodies swaying and shifting to make way without him having to push. Ronan doesn't waste time. Standing toe-to-toe with Kavinsky, his voice cuts through the bass like a blade.
"You got it or not?" No posturing, no pleasantries—just straight to the point, his tone low and rough. His eyes stay locked on Kavinsky's, unblinking, daring him to screw around.
Kavinsky's grin widens, as if he's savoring the moment. He tips his head back slightly, exposing his throat in a gesture that's equal parts arrogance and provocation. "Relax, Lynch," he drawls, the words dripping with mockery.
Ronan doesn't budge, his stance solid, unyielding. "I think you like hearing yourself talk," he bites back, the faintest edge of impatience creeping into his voice. "So, do you have it?"
Kavinsky's laugh is sharp and humorless, cutting through the haze of sweat and smoke around them. "Of course I have it."
Kavinsky's grin lingers as he dips a hand into the pocket of his leather jacket, pulling out a small, tightly wrapped baggie. He holds it between two fingers, just out of reach.
"See? Always deliver." His voice is silk wrapped around a razor blade, smug and dripping with self-satisfaction. "But you already knew that, didn't you, Lynch?"
Ronan doesn't rise to the bait, doesn't even blink. He just holds out his hand, palm open, fingers steady.
For a moment, Kavinsky doesn't move. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he drops the bag into Ronan's waiting hand. "Don't blow through it all at once," he says with a crooked smile, stepping back just enough to let the space between them breathe. "Unless you're planning on coming back for more."
Ronan's fingers close around the baggie, and his jaw tightens, but he doesn't say a word. Instead, he turns, the movement sharp and decisive, leaving Kavinsky standing there with that same smug grin plastered across his face.
"Let's go."