Work Text:
"What's that ?"
"An Audi."
Ronan doesn't get the joke, if there is any. It doesn't have anything special. No incredible speed, neither strange nor deadly additions. Yet Kavinsky seems pleased, even though he obviously doesn't plan on driving it.
Why ?
The question is on the verge of Ronan's lips. Kavinsky is making a mystery of it, probably something greater than it'll ever be. After all, it's just a good replica of an already existing car— that he could have bought, which would have saved Cabeswater's energy for a real challenge. He doesn't ask and Kavinsky doesn't care to explain.
"No shit," Ronan huffs, pointedly glaring.
Kavinsky strongly pats his shoulder then walks away, leaving the car unlocked. When he's far enough, Ronan decides to have a look inside.
The key to the riddle is inside the glovebox, where he finds a copy of Adam's driver license.
Ronan knows the answer but he can't put it into thought, so, he pockets the fake license with the intention of burning it, then exits the cabin and leaves the door open.
He end up bugging Kavinsky about the oddly normal car and the fake license. Kavinsky told him to dream one. Not a car. The biggest, the easiest. A driving license or a fake ID or even Jiang's passport. Ronan had never seen either and argued that he couldn't replicate without an original.
"What's the Greywaren shit for, then ?"
"Not that."
He still tried. He got the country on Jiang's passport wrong but the other two were good. The car was fated to burn.
Burn it did, mechanical structure and aborted troubles deflating under oblivious cheers and applause. Some had dug up gasoline and others were willing to waste alcohol to let the fire rise. Kavinsky was a stranger to these people's primal joy. He witnessed the product of careful workmanship vanish in heavy smoke, eaten by the fire a hundred hands had started.
Jump.
He startled, so surprised that he stumbled a few steps backwards and end up falling on his butt. Ronan laughed so hard that he had to hold his stomach. Kavinsky couldn't stand that his awake dream had been interrupted. Hated his own stupid reaction and finally, loathed how Ronan was openly mocking him.
"Fuck you."
He was on his feet in the blink of an eye. Ronan straightened his back but he was still very amused and the ghost of hilarity kept threatening Kavinsky.
Kavinsky lunged, fueled by anger. Ronan caught him. They wrestled, Kavinsky aiming to lacerate his face and Ronan to keep him still. One tired himself out faster.
"What has gotten into you," Kavinsky spat.
"I'd answer, but that wouldn't help your mood," Ronan challenged, a figure of boyish joy and heedlessness.
He was taunting him, not dodging the punches yet still not getting hit. Kavinsky wished he could set Ronan on fire and that he could kiss his lips until they bled.
"I'll cut your damn head off and mail it to Dick the third for his birthday."
They were walking in circles to recover. Ronan's breath was very controlled not to display a hint of tiredness. People were starting to form a greater circle around them, already regretting that they had missed the fight's heated beginning.
"He'll like it better once it had started decaying," Ronan pointed out. "Though I understand that you don't have the balls to wait until then."
"Got a big mouth tonight. Could stuff it with these balls and we'll see if there's still room for wits."
Ronan's laughter stung him like a millions bees, pierced his skin like a roughly equal amount of thorns. Discarding the threats was that easy. Kavinsky wanted him gone, closer; a mess of tears, laughing more. Their harsh words were never that public. Having a public emphasized foul mouths, made having the last word and winning the argument a necessity.
He went for Ronan again and Ronan dodged, letting inertia do the job. Kavinsky, who had not regained a steady balance since Ronan had playfully whispered in his ear during a deep trance, heavily fell. He felt the skin on his forearms being ripped.
The fire behind them had reached some sensitive parts of the car. Things have started popping and cracking after most of the melting was done. Burnt leather smelled like a corpse.
Kavinsky dug his nails in the dirt. Ronan had followed him down, a strong hand keeping his nose pressed in the grass while he spoke to or with a delighted audience. They were getting their dose of violence at his expense. Those who had spared some drugs were starting to do them while waiting for the big supply to be released. Others were projecting their dark fantasies over the fighters, taking either role.
Ronan had no deep interest in public humiliation or at this very moment, beating Kavinsky senseless. He released him and offered his hand to help him up. Kavinsky took it, only to make sure that no one else would.
"You're a mess," Ronan pointed out.
"You're messed up."
Kavinsky shuddered, not having come to terms with what had just happened. People went as fast they came but Kavinsky had lost interest in participating to whatever would happen next.