marlowemuses | Suddenly, I'm a fiend and you're all I need

Entry tags:

Suddenly, I'm a fiend and you're all I need

Declan didn't want to be here. He had more important things to do, more important places to be. He had so many responsibilities, and here he was driving down to Henrietta to yell at his idiot younger brother for his shitty life decisions yet again.

He'd given no warning for this visit. Ronan wouldn't answer the phone if he called anyway, and if he had any inkling that Declan would show up, he certainly wouldn't be there. At least Declan could visit Matthew after this, and he'd be here for church the next morning, so it wasn't as if the trip would be wasted even if Ronan was ... himself.

Rapping sharply at the door to Monmouth, Declan stood slightly to the side so that he wouldn't be visible to anyone peeking to see who was at the door. He'd learned his lesson about that.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Gansey was already having a rough night even before there was a knock on the door. Ronan had been in a mood earlier, which meant Gansey took the brunt of it, and that he was out- which he was entirely entitled to do. He hadn't actually attempted to give him a curfew, no matter how attractive the idea could be at times. But it left Gansey sliding from frustration to worry and through guilt as he tried to focus on the math problems that were the last of his homework, and not think about Ronan and that need to keep him safe.

There's that itch under his skin, the ache in his heart, that makes him feel hollow inside. An awareness that portents an inability to sleep for another night, and midnight calls to Adam many hours later; anxiety he couldn't let anyone else see. And so he shuttered it in his heart and tried to focus on the numbers on the page. But its an agonizing struggle, and really the knock on the door almost saves him from himself, at least for a moment or two.

Really no one he wanted to be there would hide from the doorway like that, but he's not thinking about Declan, he's hoping for Ronan. He takes the half-step outside, just past the front doors of Monmouth. Knocking was more gesture than requirement half the time anyway, if they were honest.

"Declan. I wasn't expecting you," he smiles, slick and breezy. That way it almost seems easy as he adjusts his glasses against the bridge of his nose. But the mask he wears has just a touch of an edge that curls his mouth and glints in his hazel eyes.

"I can save you time- he's not here," he offers, looking up at him with that cant of his chin to the side. "Or do you want to see for yourself?"

If he's honest, he thinks that sometimes part of the reason he dislikes Declan these days is because he says Gansey's fears outloud. The ones where he's not doing enough.

Declan is so ready for a fight with either Ronan or the scruffy poverty case (who constantly has a look like he wants to bite someone) that the ready razor on his tongue catches in his throat at the sight of Gansey.

Gansey. Looking at Gansey always makes him feel like he's swallowed glass. He remembers a time when Gansey was his best friend, too, not just Ronan. He remembers Gansey being the only one who made him feel like he mattered just as much as Ronan, that he was just as interesting as Ronan, like the things he said were worth hearing. And then Gansey picked Ronan.

Part of Declan was grateful for it. Ronan needed him more. Ronan might not be alive if Gansey hadn't made the choice he had. Ronan needed people to protect him, and there was no better person than Gansey.

And that's fine, too, because there is no other part of Declan. He doesn't need Gansey. He doesn't need anyone. He can't rely on anyone. No one will ever choose him, not if they have a better option, and there are so many better options. That's fine. It's all fine. He'll wear people like accessories and swap them out without guilt. He doesn't know what loneliness is, anyway.

Turning his sharp face aside, Declan coughs once, dislodging the razor from his throat and readying it again on the tip of his tongue. "I got a concerned phone call from Aglionby because my brother hasn't been there in ... how many days is it?"

His eyes are icy when they lock once again on Gansey's face. There's no blood in his throat. There's no loneliness in his heart.

Gansey has to resist the urge to lean into the doorframe with the way that Declan makes that pronouncement to the air, and it felt cold, almost biting. He wishes it was a surprising development. He's not that naive, to think that the dark cloud of Ronan's temperament didn't yield other consequences. Some days it felt like as soon as he managed to drag him through a test or a project or whatever he was currently managing to keep him from failing, Ronan would fall through somewhere else.

Gansey picked Ronan, because the younger Lynch needed him more. Because he was honest and genuine and raw, because no one else would. But it feels like a complicated thing between them sometimes; the graveyard of a friendship. But if Declan ever notices he never lets on, and so he allows the older boy to parade him and the things that meant so much to him as staging for his conquests, because they're the cost for Ronan.

He's not sure if they've ever been alone in a room together since. If it's always overlaid with Adam or Ronan or a pretty girl. Other things to focus on instead of the space, whether it's defusing a bomb or lipstick and a laugh. Tonight it feels almost eerie, quiet and empty.

"Three. It's been three days, I know," he says with an exhale of breath that comes out sharper than he intends it to, but it's aimed at himself. Gansey doesn't know if he's doing the right thing, not really. He's doing the best that he can, trying so hard that it hurts, but he doesn't have answers, doesn't have that certainty no matter what he likes people to see. He just, he tries to believe that this place, the promise he pulled from Ronan's lips, his attempts make a difference. His fingers fidget even as his tone stays careful.

"There's still weeks until exams, and I'll fix it. I can fix it."

Unlike Ronan, Gansey can't just shut down a discussion he doesn't like by being mad at it.

"You'd better." He knows it's petty. It sounds petty, coming out of his mouth, but he doesn't care. He wants it to sting. You'd better not fuck this up. You'd better not have abandoned me only to fail Ronan.

Bristling, he shoves his hands into his pockets and lifts his shoulders. It's not as ferociously as Ronan would do it nor are his shoulders brought up as high--on Ronan they're like wings, lifted up to his ears--but it's still a distinctive Lynch gesture. He isn't aware that it makes him look like Ronan, just like Ronan would be indignant to be told that sometimes when he's fearsome and brilliant in Latin, incandescent with his own knowledge and power, he looks like Declan. He doesn't want to fight, but he also isn't going to back down, and there's no way he can casually say 'ok thanks, I drove all this way just for that, guess I'll go sit alone in my hotel room for the next seventeen hours until church tomorrow.'

Nor can he ask to be invited in, despite Gansey's offer for him to see for himself that Ronan's not in. Gansey wouldn't lie to him so boldly. The poverty case would. He's a liar, like Declan. Paranoid, like Declan. Ambitious, sharp-edged, simultaneously commanding and forgettable. Like Declan. Sometimes he wonders what that means.

So he waits for Gansey to politely tell him to go fuck himself. Something along the lines of 'thanks so much for visiting today, Declan. I hope Karen is in good health.' Gansey always seems to remember the names of Declan's girlfriends. Sometimes Declan has had to take a moment to figure out who Gansey's talking about, because Declan has not remembered the name of his own girlfriend. He very carefully doesn't ever wonder about what that means.

It stings, but Gansey just looks at him with a slow flutter of his eyelashes over his hazel eyes. "I know that," he says, voice softening just a little, a knot that twists in his chest of all the things he can't say to anyone. Declan's words might be petty, but it's nothing he doesn't already know, that he hasn't told himself a dozen times or more.

He can't fail Ronan, he can't get this wrong, and he isn't even entirely sure that there are right answers here at all, maybe just better and worse ones. Gansey just had to do everything he could to make sure he still had a life left, to give Ronan enough time to find something that could do what he can't.

He watches the way Declan moves, because he can't quite help it, that way his shoulders move with his hands in his coat. The gesture is so intently evocative of Ronan that it twitches a hint of a smile to his mouth, even if he shockingly manages to keep himself from saying it outloud. He's not arresting in the way that his brother is, sharp in different angles, but you can see their shadows in one another.

The truth is that Gansey doesn't want him to leave, which is a terribly reckless desire, that leads into worse ideas. But it's why Gansey doesn't find a nice smile and a question about his girlfriend and murmur polite well-wishes.

He cants his head to the side, and there's something in his eyes when he finally asks the question- "Do you have a date tonight?" Someone else could have mistaken it for the exact sort of line that he had been expecting. But it's a careful sort of flirtation, and he shifts a little, the way his head tips to the side.

This will end in fire, but he does it anyway.

It's not quite a dismissal, and it defuses the sharp tension in the air enough to let Declan relax back into his usual sharp-edged aloofness. Declan Lynch, political intern. Declan Lynch, magic black market businessman.

"I'm only in town for the night." Which is to say, no. Avoiding a direct answer to the question lets him protect his pride.

What he wasn't ready to protect against was the flutter of eyelashes, the hint of a smile, the invitation in that tilt of Gansey's head. It tugs at Declan's stomach, curling heat in his belly in a way that he has learned to fiercely deny.

Gansey's always been younger, closer to Ronan's age than his own, and those years ago, when they'd still been friends, that year was a vaster difference. Declan had been still new to desire, and he never would have considered young, innocent Gansey.

Time has hardened Gansey, firming his muscles, lifting his height, carving the edges of his jaw. Looking at him is like looking at a classical statue. An idealized beauty. Declan has a deep appreciation for classical statuary. When you're staring at a classical statue, no one suggests that maybe your appreciation for it is anything but good taste in art. Especially if you're someone who spends just as long looking at statues of either gender.

Declan clears his throat, but it comes out louder than he intended. His cheeks feel hot. He desperately hopes he's not blushing. He doesn't blush. No one ever manages to ruffle or arouse him enough for that. Just because Gansey grew up stunning with more personal magnetism than any one person should ever possess, that's not going to dent Declan's defenses.

Edited 2021-03-16 01:48 (UTC)

He hums softly as he says he's just in town for the night, and Gansey hears the no he doesn't say. Declan's lifestyle had never really appealed, but this was something a little bit different. A touch of something just a little selfish, something he wanted, that he could lose himself in for a while.

He's watching him, and it doesn't seem like discomfort, not an excuse to leave. And he can feel the way that he watches him, which sends a hot thrill curling up his spine. He shifts with an air that seems casual but isn't, moving slightly to so the way they face each other gives him a better view. The curve of his smile is an invitation, all warmth and charm and a genuine sort of offer as he looks up at him.

He takes a moment to enjoy the view, the way that Declan looks a little ruffled at the edges just with the heat between them. Gansey's a little flushed himself, just along his cheeks and that glint in his eyes. It takes just a few paces to close most of the space between them, and the proximity makes him tremble. He's not innocent, but the contact feels electric. One of his hands pressing lightly against his chest, fingertips sliding down against the fabric.

Gansey isn't overly experienced, but he knows what he wants here, and willingness covers for a fair bit. Their bodies could be closer, so that his polo's pressed up against Declan's suit, but for the moment he just lets his fingers trace down against his shirt, letting fingertips brush against the buttons of his shirt as they trail towards his belt, like a promise.

"What do you think, Declan?" There's a tremble in his voice that's all heat as he asks the question. It's a little raw, and just a flicker of something that slips past that mask he wears, that sheen of charm and confidence.

All of a sudden, Gansey is forward and seductive, stepping close and even daring to touch. Declan stays very still, breathing shallow as Gansey speaks with a heady combination of confidence and timidity.

Declan does not allow himself to quiver. He has never been so blatantly approached, so openly desired. He is accustomed to girls who titter and hide among their friends, but who come without hesitation to the crook of his finger. He is accustomed to deciding what he wants--what is safe for him to want--and acquiring it easily.

This is not safe for him to want.

"Lose a bet, Richard?" Declan asks, face cold and blank. He carefully removes Gansey's hand from his chest before it can detect the tell-tale clamor of his heart.

But instead of turning to leave, like he should, he steps past Gansey through the door, inviting himself inside. "Do you have anything decent to drink?"

There's an exhale of breath in faint amusement when Declan asks if he lost a bet. He can understand the thought, of course, and there's a flutter in his throat in that moment, where his face is cold. Though Gansey only gives it away in the fact that he never quite answers that first question. He tugs the boy's hand from his chest, but he doesn't leave. There's a moment where he isn't sure precisely which way the scales are going to tip, but he walks past him and invites himself inside.

His pulse races a little, and he follows after him, letting the door close behind them. "Yes, I've got Scotch." It takes him a moment, but he slides it out of where he keeps the bottle. Imported in small volume, aged in oak casks, and so on. Not the sort of Scotch his father would drink, but it had an actual flavor profile and didn't taste like paint thinner which worked for Gansey. He grabs two glasses and then sets them on his desk, fills one after the other with an easy hand.

He's not entirely sure if Declan is specifically watching him, but he could be, and there's a strange sort of heat that coils in his frame. He wants him to be. Which is the first moment it occurs to him that this might not be exactly the easy narrative he'd imagined, but he ignores it like all reckless ideas.

He walks over, holding out the glass, a slight curl of a smile as he holds it out for him. "Here," he offers. His voice warm with a slight tilt of his head, watching him in a way he doesn't quite try to hide. There's still that flicker of interest, heat that brightens his hazel eyes. He doesn't touch him this time, but there's a proximity and that smile.

Declan notes the label on the bottle with a single flick of his eyes. Scotch, not Irish, and he's Irish enough to believe that Irish whiskey is inherently superior. Still, at least it's better than the disgusting stuff that Ronan tends to drink. He accepts the glass without any reaction, keeping his face blank as he knocks it back in one gulp and then holds the glass out again--whether to take or refill, he's not clear about what he wants, letting Gansey decide what he'll do.

"So what was that about, Dick?" Declan asks, still keeping him emotionally at arm's length with any nickname but the one that Gansey likes.

The look in Gansey's eyes makes him feel weak in the knees, makes him want to yield. Gansey has that inherent quality, that kingliness, and Declan doesn't think there's anyone who can hear his voice without wanting to kneel--sexual or not, the desire is inescapable.

Gansey refills the glass for him, a faint twitch of his mouth as his eyes slide over Declan as he pours again with steady hands. There's a tension on the air, a touch of nerves that he is practiced in pretending not to feel, but it's harder on nights like tonight. He sets the bottle on the desk near his mint plant, and his thumb glides against his bottom lip in that anxious habit he never quite notices and Adam never points out.

There's a twitch to his smile at the question, and he knows the nickname is intentional. So he ignores it for the moment, all easy magnanimity flavored with interest as he looks over at him with a lift of an eyebrow. He doesn't want to give Declan the pleasure of seeing him flinch-- somehow it feels like it would give away more than he wants, even if they both already know that Dick grates against his sensibilities. "Was I being coy?"

Of course, he could be vulgar about it, ask if he wants to fuck, but he isn't that person. Even if Gansey sort of still wants to curl his fingers in his tie and taste the scotch on his mouth, feel Declan's hands on his skin until everything fades out just for tonight. But he tries not to push harder than he intends, even when shadows frame his hazel eyes.

"You're attractive," he commented, taking a sip of his own glass of scotch, hip tilted into the side of the desk. Not that he thinks Declan needs to hear it, but it's an easy place to start. There were a multitude of pieces here, most of them things he didn't really want to share, insecurities that pressed against the veneer he wore.

How Gansey hadn't slept in days, how he shakes in the night and the cardboard pieces of his model of Henrietta that he uses to keep himself busy at 3am don't do enough to take the edge off. How panic and fear bleed into his veins until the world hums around him. The way the need for it all burns, seconds ticking like he doesn't have enough time. There's a litany of reasons he wants something more, secrets he's bad at keeping.

"And well, if it's you then I'm not ruining anything," he admits with a wry curl of his mouth. Overly pragmatic maybe, but he's polite about it. He doesn't want it to sound cruel.

The interplay of social circles and his family name and what he needed and the choices he was allowed to make were all a lovely sort of snare; given just enough freedom to understand a misstep could choke himself on it. Maybe it's naive, but for all that he maybe trusts Declan's intentions less than he used to, he doesn't believe that he'd leverage this against him. Not when Gansey puts so much into looking after Ronan, fights for him in ways he wouldn't allow his older brother to.

"It's an offer," he says, softening just a little at the edge.

Declan doesn't drink the second glass. He holds it, long fingers tapping against the edge, manicured nails clicking ever so slightly as they touch the glass. Ronan keeps his blunt and short. Declan keeps his sharp.

He listens while Gansey talks, still guarded but clearly intrigued. His eyes linger on Gansey, catching on his lip, the movements of his hands. His body is turned away, but his chest is curved toward Gansey, wanting to open up to him but still wary, skittish as a feral animal.

The praise isn't necessary, doesn't change much, but it is a good place to start. It's the base necessity of this continuing. If Gansey didn't find him attractive, this wouldn't have started. If Declan didn't reciprocate the opinion, he wouldn't have come inside.

But one line turns it all sour. If it's you, Gansey says, and Declan doesn't think of all the ways that he's safe. He's not used to thinking of himself as safe. He thinks of himself as a constant danger, a desperate engineer against a crumbling dam. Disaster is inevitable. One day someone will come for him with a tire iron. Declan takes that as a fact. Any life that touches his own is endangered by him. So when Gansey says that Declan is a safety against ruination, Declan doesn't think of all the ways that he's safe. He thinks of all the things that he's not.

He's not Ronan.

When Gansey softens, Declan sharpens. His lip curls up on one side, exposing one of those sharp Lynch canines, somewhere between a smirk, a snarl, and a threat. "I'm not going to fuck you just because I'm the less breakable brother."

There's a flinch there, but it's brief, and only in those hazel eyes. It catches him off-guard for a moment, just enough for it to show, to catch his breath in his throat at the words. He hasn't really seen the sharper side of Declan when it wasn't aimed at Ronan, wasn't some sort of self-defense. He tries not to think about the fact that dangerous isn't a bad look on him; something about the way vulgarity sounds on his voice, he thinks, but he tries to ignore that thought.

Gansey doesn't pull away. He doesn't smile like he's untouchable and let his eyes shift to just this side of imperious as he says something infuriatingly polite. Escalation makes it worse; you can't answer hurt with hurt. So he leaves his walls down, his hazel eyes still soft as he looks over at him.

"That was not what I meant, Declan," he says, his voice soft and slightly conciliatory. He doesn't address the implication in what Declan said- he leaves the subject of Ronan alone. Plans to keep it that way unless he drags it up again, because he knows a minefield when he sees one. Most of the time, at least. And he has the experience to know that the older Lynch brothers are a fraught subject for eachother.

He still thinks of Declan as safer than strangers and casual acquaintances. He's sharp and he understands risk, probably grasps why Gansey has to play by family rules, why quirky adventures after ley lines were character building but this could be dangerous. So Gansey shifts away from the desk and slowly steps in closer. Trying to read him, to not push too fast, step in too close before he was allowed. Honestly most of his friends were a little bit feral, and he just tried not to mind when they bit his hands.

"My family means I have to be somewhat careful. I trust you more than most people, that even if you said no you wouldn't ruin me. And I meant it when I said you were attractive," he admitted. He tilts his head to the side, watching him, his gaze intent but warm. He's hoping this comes off better- means they can at least keep talking. This wasn't about Ronan or who was less breakable, but Gansey didn't feel quite equipped to try and say it in a way that didn't hurt. Not when he was already on edge, needed more than a distraction.

Declan keeps his defenses up and his face blank, watching the way that Gansey backpedals and then tries again. He's surprised, honestly, that Gansey tries again, keeps coming on to him after being brushed off again and again.

This isn't about Ronan, then. Fine. Good. Declan pushes any thought of his brothers far from his mind.

He doesn't retreat as Gansey advances, but neither does he do anything to welcome him any closer. He keeps that sharp gaze on Gansey, all edges ready to cut if Gansey moves too fast. "I'm not safe, Richard. Just because I can keep secrets doesn't make me a good test run for you being bi-curious."

Gansey just happens to think that Declan is worth the attempt. Friends like Ronan and Adam have also trained him into seeing the difference between refusal and a misstep. Or maybe just understanding that he'll try until there's no room for it. Gansey can be a little pushy when faced with something he wants.

He doesn't come too close, lingers at the edge of what seems like it might be more than he's allowed. He meets his eyes, which are still sharp, but not in the same way as they'd been before. But it's still nice.

"Safe as life," he offers in counterpoint. Both because the words are almost reflex, and because they've always been true. For a moment his eyes seem older and the curve of his lips is bittersweet more than seductive. But then he blinks and it's that same easy warmth again, a slight tilt of his head as he watches Declan.

"You haven't told me that you don't want to, Declan," he points out gently. "Just that you're risky." Which is a very important distinction as far as he's concerned. Everything is risky. It's what the shape of it is, how bad the consequences are, and for whom, that make it a bad decision. Consent, desire, those are the pieces he cares about. "I don't mind a little risk. And, I'm not asking you for a test run." He doesn't want someone here hold his hand.

Gansey smiles then, bright and charming, and there's desire in his hazel eyes as he watches Declan, like he wants him to see it. He doesn't want to push too far, but he does want a real answer.

Gansey is warm and flirtatious, all bright and shiny charm and a wry smile to cover over the pain and nerves that are obvious just beneath the surface, the emotional risk that he's taken just to ask for this, and ask again.

Declan's hand lashes out, grabbing Gansey by the front of the shirt and hauling him in enough so that he can glare in his face. It's a mistake. Gansey's so close, those dazzling eyes shining with his natural charm and his damaged vulnerability, all that lonely yearning. He's so Gansey up close, a force of nature, and Declan's already far more fragile than he wanted to show. Up close, his defenses are brittle and wearing thin in so many spots.

His hand quivers, and there's no way to hide that up close. No way to hide the desperate and aroused little flick of his tongue across his lips. The impulsive way his eyes drop to Gansey's mouth.

He staggers back, defenses cracked wide open. He doesn't know how to cope with being wanted, and Gansey's so genuine about it.

Gansey gasps as fingers grabs the front of his shirt and pull him in, closing the distance between them. It feels like a good thing, even as Declan glares at him. The proximity makes his skin flush, lets him feel something for a moment, enough to make his pulse skip. He wants to reach out, trace fingertip up against the sharp lines of his face and curl them in his hair, hold on to someone just for a breath or two.

He doesn't, but he wants it dearly, and settles instead for just softly pressing fingers to his shirt.

He feels the hand that pulled him in shake, and Gansey swallows, lips parting slightly as his eyes watch that flick of Declan's tongue, the way it looks like desire. His breath is heated as he exhales on the air, hazel eyes catching the way that he's looking at him and it makes him shiver. That sense, just for a moment, of being wanted, and Gansey aches to touch him. To lean into him and pull him down and let the distance evaporate.

Instead Declan flinches back, but he's not as closed off as before, his expression not so cold. There's at least some comfort to that. Gansey doesn't follow this time more than a step, not wanting it to feel like a threat, to try and give him space, a moment to settle.

He can't say please, ask to be let in again, because this isn't easy for him either- reaching out and failing- but the edge of it shines in his eyes. Gansey chases after people so often and rarely feels like any of them would do the same. It makes the moment cut into something raw, makes him feel exposed in ways he hadn't planned for. But he takes a breath, despite how his smile slips a little, uneven on just-parted lips.

"Declan?" He doesn't know what else he can say. Warmth that comes out far needier than Gansey would have liked in the way his voice wraps around his name.

Declan flinches back another step when Gansey advances one, but he hasn't been looking where he's going. Gansey's bed hits his calves and he sits down hard on the edge. The liquor in the glass he's still holding sloshes with the sudden movement, wetting his fingers, and he knocks it back so that the scotch won't be risked and lost.

Then he lets it fall from his fingers, knowing that there's a risk the glass will shatter when it hits the floor. It's a heavy glass and the distance from his fingertips to floor is only two feet. He does it without thinking, and yet a part of him knows the roll of the dice that he's making. If the glass smashes, he'll get up and leave Gansey with the ruins. See what happens when you take risks?

It hits with a thud, rolling onto its side and dripping a faint trickle of liquor across the floor. Declan's eyes remain on Gansey, still that sharp-edged guard in his gaze, and yet he knows from the sound what his gambit has decided.

Lifting his wet fingers to his lips, he lets the edge in his gaze soften into a hooded challenge, almost a hint of seduction. Holding Gansey's eyes, he licks the stray droplets from each finger in turn.

Gansey watches him, the way that he sits hard on the edge of his bed, the liquor in his glass moving with the motion. The way he knocks it back and his eyes linger against his throat for an indulgent moment. The glass falls, hits the floor, and Gansey doesn't quite breathe until it rolls in a wobbly circle. Some sort of implicit understanding that it's a choice, a chance.

It doesn't break. But he's still looking at Declan, his pulse rabbit-fast, and watching as that sharp gaze shifts, softens into something softer. Heated with a touch of challenge, holding his eyes there and Gansey feels almost captive to it, watching as he licks the alcohol from his fingers. He gasps, flushed and his eyes a little glassy, pupils dilated as he slowly steps in closer. His skin prickles with heat, with the way desire thrums in his veins, and he wants.

He's not quite so careful, because this feels more like invitation and less like courting a tiger. So soft steps close the distance, and he's a mess of want and desire, insecurities under his skin that precious few people see under his smiles. But Declan isn't the only one here whose defenses are cracked. He brushes fingertips against the strands of his dark hair, and lets his touch trail down the line of his jaw like more than a caress, like awe.

He couldn't explain why this is so captivating, but there's something about the scotch on the other's fingers and Declan on the edge of Gansey's rumpled bed that hits a chord in him, makes it feel illicit in a hundred different ways and he aches as he watches his eyes. Incapable of looking away even if he'd wanted to, and he doesn't. Easier than he could have imagined to surrender, to fall into the moment.

He wants so much it overwhelms him, wants to kiss him, pull him down to the mattress with him, wants hands on his skin and to feel him peel away all the broken pieces. He wants him inside his skin, wants so much it burns, makes him all flushed and seem a little less perfect.

"Why don't you ever command your subjects?" Declan asks.

He's already lost. His defenses are gone. He's helpless, tumbled onto Gansey's bed and gazing up at him, with Gansey's hand on his jaw like a blessing.

"All your adoring followers caught up in your gravity," he goes on, careful not to include himself in the phrasing. "Enrapt by your kingliness, and yet you never take up that authority."

Declan's brows furl, the last walls in his defense, the last feigned skepticism to protect his heart. "Don't you understand that command is a gift? Anything you tell them"--me--"to do, it frees them of the responsibility for it."

"Because--" He swallows, and these are questions he's never really had to answer. Not outloud, not like this, where it's too specific and clear for it to be something he can brush aside. His voice is soft and hushed with the vulnerability of it. The answers aren't pretty things, not the Richard Gansey III he sells to the rest of the world.

He's not actually oblivious to the image, the veneer of a King and his Court. But it isn't that simple, never has been, not really. He lets his fingertips slide against Declan's skin, because it's easier than putting voice to those truths.

"It's not that easy. Most of the time I don't know what I'm doing and it's-- It eats me alive," he admits, whispers it like a bloody sort of secret. Because it is, it's the worst sort of truth. One of those things that only Adam really knows about him. Only in the dead of night when he crumbles under the weight of it. Sometimes he feels like nothing more than tin painted gold.

There are two images of him, one the very boy that Declan describes: golden and perfect, with command in his fingertips. And then this- uncertain and plagued with anxiety that leaves him shaking at night, who ached with the wanting, guileless and fragile.

He frames Declan's face in trembling hands, can't quite look him in the eyes with so much truth on the air. Even when there's still shadows he can't say.

"The only other kind of king is called a tyrant," Declan points out, with a little smirk because Gansey's such an idiot, so filled with self-doubt when everyone else believes in him so much, and it gives Declan an easy loophole, an easy way to be glib and careless, because it's easy to let his honesty slip through those trembling fingers.

"You still have to choose. You have to command. And you'll never know what you're doing." Declan shrugs with a little arch of his eyebrow, cold-edged challenge even while Gansey holds his head in his hands, has him vulnerable and aching. "You want me to rule you, Gansey? To be your reprieve from responsibility? I might slip from your fingers while you're making up your mind."

Declan isn't wrong about Gansey, but hardly anyone sees the doubt, sees how much it torments him, how deep under his skin it goes. It makes the moment feel almost confessional.

But then there's that challenge, the insistence that he still has to choose, to command. And that he'll never know what he's doing. He sighs, and his lips thin. Because he doesn't think that he's wrong, not in the context of the world outside the walls of Monmouth, at least. But there's a small piece of comfort in that his struggles, fraught as they may be, at least make him better than a tyrant.

"Yes," he answers, a flush to his face as he says it, meeting his eyes despite the urge to hide from it. No hesitation or caveats or excuses, even if it would be easier. He's never talked about this. Never admitted to these things- but anything else feels like it would be a lie. There's still that edge of control in how he touches him, though. The way his fingers curl in his hair and pulls a little, like he's unwilling to let go when Declan makes that threat about slipping through his fingers.

"I'm not indecisive, I know what I want. Stay." It should be a question, a request, but it isn't. He's never actually had to let go. He wants so badly to give it all up for a while, but he's never had the luxury.

Declan rumbles with approval at that tug in his hair and Gansey's command for him to stay. It's what he wanted, demanded, and it gives Declan a feeling of stability. Gansey's choosing him. Wants him.

Grabbing Gansey by the front of his shirt, Declan pulls him down, leaning up so that their mouths meet. It's not a gentle kiss. Declan's needy and desperate, tongue pushing through into Gansey's mouth to claim him. He needs so much to be desired, to matter to someone, and he doesn't want Gansey to be willing to let him slip away.

He gasps as Declan grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him down, pressing their mouths together. It's harder than he expects, but that just makes him melt into it; his eyelashes fluttering and a low murmur as he lets his tongue push into his mouth, as he leans into the contact. There's a heat to how he kisses him, aching and needy- that way that he craves for contact, how he feels so alone.

He wants him to take all Gansey can give, and his hands cling to his shoulders, reaching for the contact, the closeness, as much as he can. He craves the feeling so much, the heat and the desire, and he can't cling to him quite tight enough. He moans hot against his mouth, ends up crawling into his lap just to be closer.

He wants so much, and like this it's impossible to hide the depth of it.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject