you are the dreamer

[pylades_drunk]

Grantaire keeps thinking, somehow, that if given sufficient time, he'll forget about the island entirely. As though he can keep a tally of how many months he's been there, compared to how many months he'd been there; who he'd known, at what time.

(He's tried that: it's unhelpful.)

There are long periods where he doesn't think about Tabula Rasa, about the people lost and found there. Weeks at a time with only the slightest reference. A cat to take care of, a job that needs him, friends that soothe and hush the acidic twist of melancholy that always lurks beneath the surface: bright creative moments that restore his patience and give him joy.

But after a long day serving customers that are entirely unappreciative of the fact that they're sitting in an establishment where they're being served alcohol by people who know about it, he is neither bright or creative. For the last week he's been feeling like he's watching himself, as though he can't touch anything, and home, alone, it's overwhelming. He falls asleep at the table and even his dreams are filled with ghosts: love, safety that twists into wrongness and horror; he wakes again and again within the dreams with relief only to find the same thing.

Grantaire wakes, sharply and really, at the table alone in the dark: wanting and angry at himself for still caring.

When he goes out, it's with no intention but to get lost, but he finds himself carving his way through the industrial part of town anyway, and there's a little part of him that's hopeful. He hates that too; he doesn't want to care. But if nothing else, he thinks he won't be judged here if he needs someone to feel real under his hands.

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[thedreamthief]

Ronan's been selfish since Gansey's arrived. Careless. At first, he thought it was safe; he hadn't had a single nightmare since his own arrival, not even anything minor or annoying. And, while their tent is in no way even remotely a substitute for Monmouth, it's about ten times more comfortable with Gansey there to take up some of the space. It's a small space, definitely cramped compared to their separate rooms in the warehouse, but after weeks and weeks of crushing loneliness, Ronan had clung to the companionship.

But that's all changed.

He'd promised Gansey once that it would never happen again. He hasn't repeated that promise this time, but he knows he has to be more careful. His mind is a fucked up place, not to be trusted. That hasn't changed just because the location has.

Sleep is something to be avoided. Luckily, Ronan's had plenty of practice at that.

He thinks about visiting Adam, just slipping into his apartment and crashing on his creepy, uncomfortable couch in his creepy sterile apartment for a few hours to watch creepy, unfamiliar shows on his creepy, crappy television. But Adam has a shift at West's tomorrow morning and Ronan doesn't want to risk waking him. So he heads out into the city instead, parks the Pig next to a building he actually recognizes now on a street he knows by sight and by name. And he walks.

At night, Ronan can almost pretend that Darrow isn't much different from Henrietta. It's possible any number of the people he sees out and about this late are secretly vampires or wizards or fucking Hollywood actors or some shit, but if he keeps his head down and his eyes lowered he can imagine they all have lazy Virginian accents and at least two jobs to make the rent.

When he sees Grantaire up ahead walking toward him, curved shoulders and mop of unmistakeable dark hair, Ronan somehow isn't at all surprised. His lips curl in a half-grin and his pulse jumps.

"Well, fancy seeing you here," he says, slowing his pace as he nears. His grin falters a little when he gets a closer look at the man's face, the lamppost casting gaunt shadows across his cheeks. "You look like shit."

[pylades_drunk]

He's been just letting the city soak in. It's nothing like Paris, in a lot of ways, but the places where art and industry, danger and freedom collide aren't that different, just updated with more metal and neon, less piss and smoke. He's not cityborn, but maybe he's always been city bound in some ways, and it's not a thing like the island and that's perfect.

Grantaire's stopped expecting to see anyone after the first few moments, so when he hears Ronan, he looks up sharply to take him in, the younger man's slow curl of a grin familiar and tugging at already over-sensitive nerves.

He feels like shit, too, and he thinks he must really look it, because it's not said with a confidently mocking grin, it's uneasy.

There's a real part of him that doesn't want to say anything, wants to lean in and kiss him and not explain anything. For being here, or for being honest where other people would lie, or just to clear his head.

But that's a little crazy.

Instead he lets himself into Ronan's space, just a step further than polite. "Nightmares."

[thedreamthief]

Grantaire looks up with a sharp snap of his neck, eyes catching on Ronan's, blood-shot and haunted. It's a look Ronan recognizes a little too well, if only from looking in a fucking mirror.

The response has him arching an eyebrow, as does the sudden nearness of Grantaire himself, the step he takes into Ronan's bubble of personal space. Ronan makes no move to push him away though, his pulse tripping in that now-familiar way it does whenever he's around this curly-haired Frenchman.

"Know a little about that," Ronan says, still watching carefully. Because Grantaire knows now, at least in part. He knows what Ronan's own nightmares are capable of producing. He wants to know if Grantaire tries to evade them the same way Ronan does, though he has a feeling he already knows.

Interestingly, Grantaire's breath doesn't smell of whiskey.

So he pushes in closer, just a half a step, narrowing the space between them. Asks, "You got any coping mechanisms?"

[pylades_drunk]

Ronan doesn't laugh at the remark, and he doesn't protect his space. He pushes back at Grantaire's edges, with his body and his words.

Grantaire finds himself wanting to be pushed.

"I thought you might," he says, meeting Ronan's eyes with an understanding, careful of the ground he treads on, but not too careful right now, and never far from irony. His nightmares don't try to kill him, but they rip open old wounds nonetheless.

"Coping mechanism?" R smiles wryly at the psychological, modern sound of the phrase. He's long since forgotten where he ends and where the self-medication begins. Who he'd even be without it. "I am a machine engineered totally from ways to cope. But I only remember how not to dream when I'm awake." He tips his head up toward him with a hint of a challenge, the air between them tangible, electric. "Short of not sleeping again, things that quiet the brain."

[thedreamthief]

Not for the first time, Ronan wonders what sort of nightmares haunt Grantaire. He has an idea, he thinks, remembering the allusions Grantaire has made to lost friends, the implication that they were taken from him by force. By whom, Ronan isn't sure he'll ever know.

He's sure, at least, that knowing doesn't really matter.

Because it's the rest that he understands. After all, dream thieves aren't the only ones running from nightmares.

Grantaire has his head tipped up, eyes dark when they meet Ronan's, challenging in that way that makes Ronan's blood sing. "Whiskey," he says, lips curling in a snake-like grin. "Fists." His gaze drops, lingers half a second on the curl of Grantaire's lips and his voice drops lower. "Sex."

[pylades_drunk]

Grantaire's nightmares are usually of death, of himself failing, of all the things he couldn't stop. Enjolras shot in front of him without being able to move to say something, or undead, chest ripped open, berating him. Sometimes he makes it to the barricades and in other dreams he berates them but no matter which they always fall; Jehan, or Bahorel, or Joly, Courfeyrac. Gavroche, so many times, begging him to help. Sometimes it's the island or now, Darrow, they're defending against a faceless army of soldiers, a whole new cast of friends and their children to betray or to lose.

Tonight, it had been more about what he could have and didn't. Sweet dreams. Tunny waking him with kisses, hands all over him only to turn into a nightmarish, faceless dream ghost. Nothing he has stays. He knows this.

But there are certain permanences, and Ronan's list of them is so accurate to his own he's not sure if he should laugh or cry. He can feel the warmth of his body, near but not touching, and he doesn't want to care about people who aren't here anymore, to care about people who could stop being here; he doesn't want to have to have a second chance, he doesn't want someone to tell him it's better to have loved and lost.

Right now he wants something that's tangible.

"Yes," he says, and leans up impulsively to spread a hand against the side of his neck and kiss him, fierce and hurting and bold with it.

[thedreamthief]

He moves faster than Ronan is expecting, a hand warm and solid against Ronan's neck to pull him down into a kiss. Ronan opens to it easily, not a surrender but a clash of teeth and tongues. His hands drop to Grantaire's sides, grabbing fistfuls of fabric as he shoves, guiding Grantaire back against the wall behind him. He isn't gentle about it, but he at least manages to stop Grantaire's skull from banging into the bricks even as Ronan presses his full weight up against him.

There's a familiarity in this now, Ronan thinks. He knows the way Grantaire's lips feel against his own, knows the weight of Grantaire's tongue in his mouth, the taste of him, the sounds he makes, short from the back of his throat. His palms know the soft of Grantaire's skin over muscle and bone, knows the shape of Grantaire's dick and pulse when he comes.

Ronan doesn't know everything, though. Thankfully, they still have more than enough secrets between them.

His teeth scrape at Grantaire's bottom lip as he shoves a hand beneath Grantaire's shirt to feel bare, warm skin. His touch is rough and purposeful: blunt nails dragging to the dip of Grantaire's spine and up again, gripping at his sides as he rocks his hips forward. "Still owe you that blowjob," he growls, his breath hot against Grantaire's swollen lips. "Want to cash in?"

[pylades_drunk]

The wall hits R's shoulders first with a satisfying scrape of brick, Ronan's hands on his sides pressing him back, his body flush against Grantaire's own. It's more than the solidity he was aching for. Under his hands Ronan is real and alive, familiar and blessedly uncharted, and his kiss is a challenge that leaves R groaning into it.

He drops his hands to push up under his shirt along bare skin, tug him forward, arching against the rock of Ronan's hips and pressing up purposefully, two layers of denim between them. Yes, he wants to cash in; yes, licking at the taste of iron left by the absence of Ronan's teeth on his lip and gaze dropping to his mouth. He can imagine that mouth put to better use and it sends a shiver down his spine.

"I think," he says, leaning up against him to lick along his neck, suck at a pulse point. "I said I wanted one because you couldn't stop thinking about it." He presses himself up against Ronan, the warmth of his body, hard already just from this. He comes back to suck at Ronan's lower lip, runs a finger over it and meets his gaze, his hips still a slow, intent rock against Ronan's own. "Want to be on your knees yet?"

[thedreamthief]

Ronan hasn't had enough experience to know exactly what he likes, what places on his body respond better to touch than others. Some he knows, of course. Some don't take that much investigation. But Grantaire's mouth on his neck is a newer sensation, one that makes him groan embarrassingly, pressing himself forward harder, hands fumbling more carelessly.

A second later and Grantaire's mouth has moved again, this time to suck at Ronan's bottom lip, their eyes catching as Grantaire rolls his hips forward in promise.

"Fuck you, like you haven't stopped thinking about it," he growls, shoving Grantaire's thumb aside with his cheek to bite at his mouth again, Ronan's tongue pushing in, violent and demanding. He manages to slide on hand inward, fingers tugging at the top button of Grantaire's jeans before shoving inside, feeling him hard and hot already, skin on skin. He pulls just an inch or so, lips wet and bruised, his voice just on the edge of threatening as he gives Grantaire's cock a squeeze. "I've seen how you look at my mouth. Don't tell me you're not aching for it."

[pylades_drunk]

Ronan's groan is satisfying, like a little victory: that little bit of unraveling, of wanting openly -- and Grantaire hums approvingly at it, making up his mind to see what else sneaks past Ronan's walls. The challenge of undoing is almost as good as the promise of being undone.

Their dynamic, this push and pull and grapple at control: it's not like what he's had before. It's something else, something he's figuring out as it happens, and right now that's exactly what he wants.

Ronan's kiss is a force, ungentle, and Grantaire tilts his head to it with a groan that's nearly a whimper in the back of his throat. He sucks at his tongue, bites at his lips before giving in, letting himself be pressed against the brick, letting his chest hurt for air before he pulls himself away. Ronan's fingers on his jeans are torturous and he's tempted to just get the damn thing himself.

"Fuck you," he swears back, partly because, goddammit, he is looking at his lips, bite-swollen and spit-slicked, and partly at the peremptory hand on his cock; he arches into Ronan's fingers. "Christ, yes," he admits in a needy exhale, then tugs Ronan forward by the front of his shirt to kiss, hard, bites at his collarbone. "You better get on your knees before I expect a goddamn parade and fireworks to come with it."

[thedreamthief]

It's intensely satisfying to feel Grantaire arch into his grip, to feel that hot exhale against his mouth, want evident in the tight hold he has on Ronan's shirt, the teeth at his neck.

"What the fuck would you want with a fucking parade?" Ronan growls, turning his head to bite at Grantaire's ear. The hunger under his skin mixes with a flash of anger, an even more potent and satisfying cocktail as he curls his fingers around the waistband of Grantaire's jeans and shoves. Losing patience immediately, Ronan drops to his knees, and tugs Grantaire free of his underwear, the fabric bunched up beneath hard skin.

He's running on pure adrenaline, on hunger and want and a small amount of fear. Despite his bravado, Ronan's only ever done this once before. He's no expert.

Glancing up briefly, Ronan wastes no time in getting his mouth on Grantaire's cock, knowing enough to curl his lips over his teeth as he skins down, free hand gripping Grantaire's hip and the cold cement already seeping through the knees of his jeans.

[pylades_drunk]

Grantaire sucks in a breath at the bite at his ear, warm mouth and sharp teeth sending a thrill along already- sensitive nerves. "Oh, you know," he says, swallowing, with a front of nonchalance over his own breathlessness. "There's something to be said for spectacle."

He doesn't give a damn about spectacle. Ronan dropping to his knees, impatient hands on his pants, is as much spectacle as he wants right now. He has just a flash of sense memory, leaning against a different wall, back on the island, the first time -- but he refuses to give in to it. He solidifies himself against the brick of Darrow buildings and catches Ronan's eyes, unmistakable blue and hungry and challenging. Some day they're going to get arrested for this and he finds himself not caring at the moment.

He swears in French at Ronan's mouth on him, reaches to rest his hand at the back of his neck. He registers, vaguely, that his intentness isn't built of practice, but there's something extra there that goes straight into him, that Ronan was the one to suggest this regardless. He resists arching straight up against his mouth, with that playing at the back of his head, but it's a near thing.

[thedreamthief]

While Ronan doesn't exactly expect Grantaire to push him away, there's a part of him nonetheless marveling at the fact that it's happening. Maybe he shouldn't, maybe it's not really any sort of surprise given what they've done already and the simple fact that nearly every interaction they've ever had has either ended in fists or orgasms. But being on his knees like this, feeling the warmth and weight of Grantaire's cock on his tongue and hand on the back of his neck is deliciously dangerous in a way he can't describe. It's completely unlike being drunk, a high like nothing else.

He wonders if Gansey would approve of this activity more than the drinking.

He wonders if Adam--

That line of thought it shut down immediately with a sharp inhale, his senses suddenly full of Grantaire's scent: sweat and drink and dirt, all of it only making the hunger even more intense. Tightening his grip on Grantaire's hip, Ronan keeps sucking, pausing here and there to catch his breath, exhaling raggedly before taking him in again, eyes glinting when his bottom teeth accidentally catch. He's burning up from the inside, threatening to explode just from this, and he wonders if this could kill him just as surely as the terrors of his own mind.

[pylades_drunk]

Grantaire tilts his head back against the cold wall and blinks unfocusedly into the dark. Somewhere he's aware the brick's scraping his shoulders, in a sort of distant way, but it's not important. He tilts his head down again to watch Ronan slide his lips over him, a little awestruck and a little powerful feeling. Watching him sends an entirely new shiver through Grantaire, already hot and coiled and impatient. He's hungry and ungentle and pushing himself a little and it's a dizzying mix of sensation, of want and being wanted.

He drags his nails blunted up along the back of Ronan's neck, pushes fingers against short soft hair the wrong way and back down, stretches his free hand.

Sharp teeth on sensitive skin makes him startle and he's suddenly reminded that Ronan could do almost anything to him in what might seem, to the foolish, like a submissive position. The thought is frightening, exhilarating, and he arches forward a little, half a challenge to the idea and half just wanting more.

[thedreamthief]

Grantaire jerks beneath him and then arches, shoving himself deeper into Ronan's throat. It's too much too fast and Ronan has to slip back, fighting a gag though he doesn't pull off completely. He's not giving up so easily.

The itch under his skin is growing sharper by the second and he drags his hands down to the meat of Grantaire's ass, squeezing as he grins with his eyes. There's a certain power in this, he thinks. For however much it is Ronan on his knees, giving pleasure, Grantaire is still completely at his mercy, vulnerable in a completely unambiguous way. And he fucking loves it.

He pulls off for a moment, his breathing heavy as he jerks Grantaire with his free hand, bottom lip dragging along the tip of Grantaire's dick before he takes a quick taste with a flick of his tongue. Two, three more jerks, just enough to catch his breath, and Ronan's replacing his hand with his mouth again, sinking down as low as he can manage and sucking.

[pylades_drunk]

Grantaire feels a little bad or -- discourteous, or something, as though their interactions are ever marked by courtesy -- when he pulls back. Only a little, and in a way that's much too focused on attended-to nerves and is far too interested in Ronan's determination not to pull away.

He bites his lip, pressing into the touch with a stifled groan. There's really not much he can reach for in return; this is all hands and lips and tongue on him and he's dizzy with it, breath rough from his mouth. He feels pulled away, aware just of his body and explicitly so, of the hot impulse of every heightened sensation. Ronan's hands grasping at his ass, eyes sharp and delighted on him, the heat and wet of his mouth on Grantaire's cock, the way his skin feels under calloused fingertips.

He swears in French when Ronan drags his lips across the head of his cock,of the combined feel and look of him licking at him with his hand working, and tips his head back, gasping. "Fuck," he repeats in English when Ronan takes him in deeper, stomach muscles flattening against the explosion of nerves. "Ronan --" It's in a groan of encouragement, and of warning, too, his body tensing.

[thedreamthief]

The sound of his name on Grantaire's lips sends a shudder down Ronan's spine, makes the heat in his stomach boil hotter and his grip tighten. It occurs to him, it's the first time they've done this actually knowing each other's names. Knowing much more than that, in fact.

Ronan isn't sure what to do with that.

He pulls off at Grantaire's warning, breathing hard against the spit-slick length of him, eyes flashing dark when he looks upward again. "Do it," he growls, more demand than plea as he again wraps his hand around Grantaire's cock, stroking hard and fast. He keeps his lips close, mouthing at the tip, the ridge where foreskin reveals tender, sensitive skin. He's never had someone else's come in his mouth before and doesn't feel like changing that at the moment, but he does want to make Grantaire shatter. He works his hand faster, feels muscle tense tighter beneath his other palm, listens to Grantaire's hitched breath and strangled moans and wonders if he could ever make his dreams feel this good.

[pylades_drunk]

There's a command to Ronan's tone as he looks up at him, and it sends a hot shiver through him; even if it hadn't, Grantaire thinks he wouldn't have a choice about the matter. Ronan's mouth still finding sensitive spots juxtaposes his wrist working against him, almost a little too hard. Grantaire doesn't care: he didn't come looking for gentle. He doesn't think he ever has, really. Even his most intimate moments have been about breaking himself down.

Maybe it's something specific Ronan does in that moment, or just the absolute inevitable, but when he comes it's hard: biting down on his lip to keep himself quiet and failing in a tumble of moaned French vulgarity; hands scrabbling for purchase on Ronan's shoulder and against the brick; dizzy with it as he spills out over Ronan's fingers.

[thedreamthief]

However sure his tone had been, Ronan's surprised it actually works, Grantaire's cock pulsing in his fist, leaking over his fingers. Some of it lands on his shoulder, the low collar of his shirt and Ronan grimaces a little, but doesn't wipe it away. Not yet.

Instead, he focuses on the feel of Grantaire submitting beneath him, the sounds he makes as he comes, the way his muscles tighten beneath Ronan's palm before loosening all at once as the wave passes. He grins, slowly, lifts his gaze to take in Grantaire's face, sweaty and sated where he leans back against the brick, forehead and curls damp.

One day they're going to get arrested for this; he knows. And Ronan can so easily picture the disappointed look on Gansey's face already and he's almost tempted to push his luck a little further.

For now, though, he gives Grantaire's cock a few more slow squeezes, swipes the last drips of come from the tip with his thumb as he pushes to his feet.

"Better?" he asks, voice low and rough, sticky fingers pulling Grantaire's underwear back up as he ducks in to bite at the soft, exposed skin of Grantaire's neck.