Work Text:
Harrowing. That's one way to describe it.
What had it been, a night terror? A nightmare? A dream as any and nothing more? Ronan's were a bit more real than the dreams of others, so it stumped him when they were supposed to fit into some man-made category. What he dreamt could be a category of its own. Some fucked creations only he could categorize, if he'd understand them any more than anyone else did.
Glitches, curses, imagined things come to life.
Better be he didn't bring something with him.
It was silent. Nothing stirred in the shadows of his room―at least as far as he was concerned. The ceiling looked the same, so did the walls, and no one was trying to scrape his innards across the Monmouth Manufacturing floor. No talons in sight, nothing grim and white, nothing bleeding and dark, nothing uncategorizable by patronizing peoples' standards.
Although now Noah was leaning over him, watching his still body clasped in the reek of sleep. A rather expressionless look, a wisp of light hair, that damned Aglionby Academy uniform stuck to his engmatic form. The fuck you looking at, Ronan wanted to spit out, but as he was still only feeling out his fingers, all that managed through his teeth was a snarl at best. A weak, kittish snarl.
"I can feel your pulse," Noah said. He waited. Time seemed to reverse. That smudge by his brow became more prominent for a moment, hollowed out, dark. Vivid, like Ronan had been there himself. He could see the side of the skateboard meeting with Noah's head in a disgusting, wet squelch. Cringing, he pushed the image away. He had not been there—it had happened seven years ago—and he had not seen it happen.
Yet the more he looked at it, the more aware even the wound seemed to be that it existed there, sinking right below Noah's eye. Almost like soon the wound would swallow the rest of his face as well.
Was it something he'd dreamt then? Was this Noah his?
"Huh?" Ronan got said, though it was still half a noise at best.
"For a second there," Noah said much quieter, "I thought it was mine."
Ronan scoffed, gruffly, practically ripping his arm out of Noah's grasp. The touch remained, eerily cold. "You don't have a pulse," he gruffed, speaking with more volume than needed. "You're dead."
Usually, that was it. He could shout abuse, and it wouldn't really matter who was on the receiving end. If anything it riled him up more, especially if it was Declan being spat at, or for Lord's good grace, damned be Kavinsky. It'd be a practical hoot to have spouted foul words, and the harsher the better, the uglier the more fun it was.
But no, not this time.
Not when it was Noah.
Noah's features were scrunched up pitifully, painfully, disgustingly upset. God, it was annoying. Suddenly, all Ronan's foul words tasted foul as well, and not only because he'd been the one to spout them so thoughtlessly, but because the one who'd received them was Noah.
"I know," Noah muttered. He turned his gaze away, watched the walls instead of Ronan. The hand that had held onto Ronan's wrist so determinedly mere seconds ago dropped to the mattress beneath them as if suddenly lifeless. "I'm nothing."
"Not what I said."
"Dead is what you said," Noah said, "and dead is nothing."
Ronan gritted his teeth. The sleep-induced paralysis had eased, and in one swift movement, he pulled himself up sitting so he was face to face with Noah again. He breathed out the sleep, and quickly scanning his room, with its odd knickknacks every which way, he could tell nothing had followed him from the dream. He could focus all his attention on spitting argumentative accusations against Noah without having to worry that a taloned monsterfuck would attack at any given second.
"What?" Noah grunted, leaning back so they wouldn't be close enough to share the same air intake.
"Shut up." Ronan grabbed Noah's face, trying not to be so urgent about it. The sudden touch of cold skin sent goose bumps down his arms, eliciting a strange reaction in his fingertips. His body could try all it wanted to recoil from the chill yet nothing would make him break the contact. "See?" he snarled, shaking Noah's head just a bit. "I can still touch you. You're still here."
Noah only frowned. "So?" He sounded indifferent. "That's not new."
Ronan tightened his grip, not so it would hurt, but so that Noah was forced to look him straight in the eye. He winced as if it hurt, not to the touch but by the forced eye contact. He grimaced, tried to free himself from Ronan's grasp but failed. He wasn't trying hard enough, Ronan thought, as if he wasn't actually trying, rather just pretending to do so. Neither pride nor shame was something Noah showcased―at least not in the way Ronan did. This was something else, something Ronan wasn't certain about. Perhaps it was the one thing Ronan did not have as close to the heart as Noah did.
Dying.
In the grove of the oak trees, chest caved in.
But then why was it so soft beneath Ronan's touch? Why fold away when he could've burst open and be held?
Dead is what you said, and dead is nothing.
If anything, Ronan knew what death meant. He had been there to find his father's head bashed in. He had been there when they'd realised their mother was nothing but a mere dream. Sure that wasn't death exactly, but it was close enough to hurt the same. There was a certain dark void that came with someone's death, in dying as its whole, that created that nothingness Noah spoke so familiarly about. He'd witnessed it first hand after all, quite literally.
But this was not it.
This was not nothing.
Ronan grabbed Noah's arm and flipped them around so he was the one hovering above Noah this time. Only he wasn't hovering so much as panting above him, suddenly aware of how close the two were. Cold or not, he could feel Noah's leg jerking slightly by his own, the skin, albeit covered in cloth, so damn close to touch.
"I can still feel you," Ronan shot, "that matters to me."
Some colour rose to Noah's face. Ronan wasn't sure if it was so much the closeness of them or the fact that he'd tossed Noah down like a ragdoll. Sure, he was dead already, but he felt much the same as a live person did. Maybe he was a bit chilly on the surface, like a frozen burrito, but even those things could be thawed. Perhaps a microwave wasn't the proper choice in this situation, but maybe Ronan was.
"Whatever," Noah said, pushing his forearm against Ronan's chest. Prickling cold skin. Enticing.
Ronan moved his head closer to Noah's, tipping Noah's chin up with his knuckles. He was clearly going for a kiss, tilting his mouth so it hovered right by Noah's, tasting the chilly air the boy underneath shakily exhaled. A shy glance at Ronan's intense stare, a parting of the lips, but only once Noah leaned into the touch did Ronan kiss him for real. Hungrily, almost, like he was trying to gasp for air. Noah's hand clung onto Ronan's chest, fingers tight around the fabric of the black tank he was wearing. The feeling that had kicked them into motion seemed to only intensity, rush back in twice as desperately until they were both out of air, literally and figuratively, and parted in hot breath.
"I didn't come here to do that," Noah said, trying to regain control of his breathing. Beneath Ronan, a bit tossed and definitely blushing now, Noah looked so endearing Ronan was afraid he'd burst.
"Right, you were just creeping above me, nothing else," Ronan smirked, tracing Noah's lower lip with his thumb just to be a tease. He couldn't feel the cold anymore. The touch was warm, almost hot. There was nothing that could convince him the boy beneath him wasn't there. Ghost or not, he was alive enough for Ronan.
"I was feeling your pulse."
"Feel all you want," Ronan said. He threw himself over Noah, laughing at the grunt that dropping his weight atop Noah elicited from him. Ronan put his arms around Noah, and almost instinctively, Noah's arms sprung around him. For one, fucked minute, Ronan wanted to cry.
Dead is what you said, and dead is nothing.
But this wasn't nothing.
This was everything.
"Don't disappear on me now," Ronan whispered, squeezing Noah's middle, holding onto him like someone might hold onto life itself.
"I'm not," Noah replied. He pushed his hand down Ronan's buzz cut, down to his neck where the talons and feathers were inked. Tracing shapes, circles, contours until the fabric of his tank came in the way. His touch ceased, then fell onto Ronan's back, weighted like it belonged there. Surely it must've.
Damned be the vital signs. Ronan could feel Noah's slightly chilly breath right by his ear, feel his hand resting on Ronan's back, his fingertips pressed into Ronan's flesh, gentle yet faintly desperate. If death was nothing, and this was everything but, then this wasn't death either. Whatever category someone might've though it fitting to place Noah within, Ronan didn't much care. Noah was alive enough for Ronan.
He was alive enough.