Richard Campbell Gansey III (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thatsallthereis) wrote2016-08-16 01:52 pm
thatsallthereis) wrote2016-08-16 01:52 pm
Entry tags:
[For Ronan, Dated 8/20]
The stars were different. Very different. How could the stars be so different? Laying in bed felt the same: he still had to crane his neck to the side to look out his window and he still found some strange comfort in losing sleep. It was a time for questions.
Were they on Earth? Darrow might have been Earth in the way that Cabeswater was in Gansey, which is to say by magic and devoid of logic. However, if Darrow was on Earth or even in the same galaxy, there would be a familiar shape in the sky. Orion, at least, one of Gansey's constant companions on his travels. Gansey was even more thankful that he had his friends with him, since Orion had abandoned him in his inter-dimensional journey. Since they couldn't leave, he could find a new Orion. Gansey wanted to know the stars in Darrow like he knew the ones at home.
That would have been easier with a telescope, but telescopes cost money and Gansey wasn't sure he had any left. He tried to only spend on bare essentials, but he was quickly learning that his idea of "bare essentials" was vastly different than many in Darrow. How much had he spent? He hadn't been keeping track. He hadn't kept his apartment so that meant he wouldn't have to pay for it, right? Who was he supposed to inform about that, and what did it mean if this mysterious benefactor just knew? Worse still: what if Gansey had long since exhausted his stipend and was living in the red? He was starting to wonder if it was better at all not to ask. The decision to ignore it seemed to be giving him some sort of heart palpitation.
It was 4:46 and Gansey hurled himself out of bed. The change in altitude pushed his panic down a bit, or he strong-armed it down himself and was placidly pretending it had been automatic. This was a Gansey family tradition that only got more finely tuned with each passing generation -- yet another reason Gansey thought he might not want to reproduce. Children tended to destroy before they rebuilt and Gansey felt he'd had enough of that in his life.
From panicking about money to lamenting about children in four seconds flat, Gansey chastised himself. He flicked the light on and its dull glow shot out across the floor, up the walls, and out of the little spaces between Gansey's four walls and the ceiling, the small rectangle of the doorway. Gansey never closed his door. Why, when every person he lived with was welcome anytime?
A few more aimless shuffling steps and Gansey plopped himself down in front of his little paper town and his marked-up Darrow map. In Henrietta, Gansey had laid a new wall for every sleepless night of his (not-quite-to-scale) miniature town. This one had hundreds of walls already, 449 to be exact. That was the exact number of days since Gansey's first arrival, including the months between when this Gansey appeared up to the current date. There were 449 strips of pizza boxes, receipts, yogurt lids, notebook paper, and junk mail arranged into 449 different small pieces of the city of Darrow. He'd begun with Hywel, the center of his universe, but there was no real method to his mapping. Gansey was content to work on whatever part of his little town moved him that night. Tonight, it was the roof of the stables out of a piece of tin foil.
Were they on Earth? Darrow might have been Earth in the way that Cabeswater was in Gansey, which is to say by magic and devoid of logic. However, if Darrow was on Earth or even in the same galaxy, there would be a familiar shape in the sky. Orion, at least, one of Gansey's constant companions on his travels. Gansey was even more thankful that he had his friends with him, since Orion had abandoned him in his inter-dimensional journey. Since they couldn't leave, he could find a new Orion. Gansey wanted to know the stars in Darrow like he knew the ones at home.
That would have been easier with a telescope, but telescopes cost money and Gansey wasn't sure he had any left. He tried to only spend on bare essentials, but he was quickly learning that his idea of "bare essentials" was vastly different than many in Darrow. How much had he spent? He hadn't been keeping track. He hadn't kept his apartment so that meant he wouldn't have to pay for it, right? Who was he supposed to inform about that, and what did it mean if this mysterious benefactor just knew? Worse still: what if Gansey had long since exhausted his stipend and was living in the red? He was starting to wonder if it was better at all not to ask. The decision to ignore it seemed to be giving him some sort of heart palpitation.
It was 4:46 and Gansey hurled himself out of bed. The change in altitude pushed his panic down a bit, or he strong-armed it down himself and was placidly pretending it had been automatic. This was a Gansey family tradition that only got more finely tuned with each passing generation -- yet another reason Gansey thought he might not want to reproduce. Children tended to destroy before they rebuilt and Gansey felt he'd had enough of that in his life.
From panicking about money to lamenting about children in four seconds flat, Gansey chastised himself. He flicked the light on and its dull glow shot out across the floor, up the walls, and out of the little spaces between Gansey's four walls and the ceiling, the small rectangle of the doorway. Gansey never closed his door. Why, when every person he lived with was welcome anytime?
A few more aimless shuffling steps and Gansey plopped himself down in front of his little paper town and his marked-up Darrow map. In Henrietta, Gansey had laid a new wall for every sleepless night of his (not-quite-to-scale) miniature town. This one had hundreds of walls already, 449 to be exact. That was the exact number of days since Gansey's first arrival, including the months between when this Gansey appeared up to the current date. There were 449 strips of pizza boxes, receipts, yogurt lids, notebook paper, and junk mail arranged into 449 different small pieces of the city of Darrow. He'd begun with Hywel, the center of his universe, but there was no real method to his mapping. Gansey was content to work on whatever part of his little town moved him that night. Tonight, it was the roof of the stables out of a piece of tin foil.
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The nightmares aren't like they used to be, the talons of his Terrors replaced by shining scalpels, the feathers by sheets of metal, the howling screeches by the dark whirl of machinery. They don't last as long, their clutch not as strong and Ronan's able to yank himself awake, heart pounding.
Sometimes he still pulls out something unwanted: a poisoned scrap of metal, a gun that doesn't use bullets, a steel bar that can twist on command. He has a pile stacked in his closet, hidden away from the others.
Tonight, he escapes with his hands empty, but the screams ring loud in his ears though, vibrations running all down his spine. He slips out of bed before he can risk waking Adam, his feet soundless on the floor and the door not even squeaking as he steps out into the main room.
There's a glow of light coming from Gansey's room. The new Gansey.
He stops for a moment, contemplating, before rubbing a hand across his jaw. He doesn't knock, doesn't herald his arrival with anything other than a, "Hey," before he drops himself onto the edge of Gansey's bed, brow furrowed as he surveys the continuation of Gansey's cardboard town. "Not sure that's structurally sound," he says as Gansey carefully places a silver roof atop what looks like stables.
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Sprawled on his side, nearly eye-level with his little replica-in-the-making, Gansey spared only one look up at Ronan, a small smile, and he went back to carefully lowering the little foil roof onto the little pizza box stables.
"Not sure the stable is structurally sound," Gansey replied, thinking briefly of Puck and Dove along the beach, their walk to the stables, and how utterly unimpressed Gansey had been by the accommodations. If he were in Henrietta, his benevolent father would have already made a generous donation. From his son's credit card. No one ever checked when it came to donations over a certain amount.
He wanted to ask why Ronan wasn't sleeping, but if this Ronan was anything like the Ronan Gansey had left behind -- oh Jesus, what if that Ronan thinks I left him behind -- there wasn't much point. Silence was Ronan's native language, and if they sat there long enough and Ronan was feeling amicable enough, something might happen.
Gansey squinted at his finished stables and his mouth turned down. It didn't look right. Gansey needed more building supplies and he was tired of using yogurt labels.
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Still, the tin foil piece seems to be holding for now, even as Gansey rests back, lips turned down in disapproval.
"Could throw some money at it," he says, eyebrow arched in silent amusement. His shoulders stay hunched, hands on his thighs and body relaxed. This is Gansey, he reminds himself. If not entirely the one Ronan remembers, he's still Gansey. That's enough. "Remodel maybe, and put in a tin can silo while you're at it."
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"Would if I could," Gansey said quietly, as if maybe Adam and Blue might over hear and run over to tell him what a shitty thing this was to lament. Often times Gansey feared he was nothing without his trust. What if his destiny was kindness and he was now no longer in a position to provide it? What was Richard Gansey III without his pedestal?
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Ronan only arches an eyebrow for a moment, watching him. Reading him. Not the same Gansey, but the elements are there, the pieces Ronan remembers even after months of him being gone. He's a dead Gansey. A Gansey reborn. A Gansey who died to save him.
He gets up then without a word. Gets up and walks straight out into the other room where he finds his wallet on the table where he'd left it. When he steps back into Gansey's room, he drops a single plastic card at Gansey's feet then drops back onto the mattress, hands resting between his legs. "Haven't added your name to the account yet, but I can," he says before adding with a slight grin. "Just let me get in a nap first."
Not that it would matter, of course. It's a drink card hooked to a dream account. It's not like the card could ever be denied.
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"Is this wrong?" Gansey asked, because Ronan had a sense of right and wrong that Gansey could get behind. That wasn't to say his judgement was sound -- when it came to bad, Ronan did things to torture himself, but he still knew they were bad -- but Ronan's moral compass pointed to a True North that Gansey recognized. Ronan felt a connection skyward that Gansey had never forged, but their reasons didn't have to be the same. How boring it would be if they were.
Still his question persisted. It was a question that was so many questions: was it wrong to take it? If he was provided with a chance to go his own way, should he honor that? At what point was destiny altered, or was he altering it right now?
Once upon a time -- twice, even -- Richard Gansey III was a phoenix. In Darrow, he had no ashes from which to rise. If a boy destined for greatness was severed from his destiny, what was there? What was he?
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"Not like it can hurt anyone," he says, looking from Gansey to the card and back again. "It's dream money. Dream numbers, actually," he corrects himself as he sits up a little straighter. "None of it is stolen from anyone -- it shows up here same as the fucking coconuts or pineapple and shit. No one knows how, no one cares. Card works, that's all that matters."
It's not the usability of it that has Gansey worried though, he knows. There might be some moral grey here; Adam would definitely say so. But Adam doesn't have the same relationship with money as he and Gansey do. He sees it in far more complicated terms.
"Wanna test it?" he asks with a faint grin. "Could order a pizza or something."
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Then that little smile and Ronan's mischevious solution. A smile attacked Gansey about the face.
"It would be the responsible thing to do," Gansey agreed, face suddenly terribly serious. "We could apply the scientific method and see if..." He looked down at the card to consult it for the company's name. He groaned. "SquashOne, really?" He picked up a little square of cut-up pizza box and tossed it at Ronan. The card was a shiny and black like an oil slick and looked like any card Gansey had ever seen pass from Niall Lynch's hand. Ronan was a craftsman who fashioned every tool -- even himself -- after the man that had built him everything.
"Thank you." He could leave it at that, but it had to be said. Gratitude was nearly choking him, so he breathed. To Ronan, there had been little to no work or thought in it whatsoever. That was exactly what made his generosity so incredible.
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"I want sausage," he declares before resting back on one hand, legs still dangling off the edge of the bed as picks the bit of cardboard off his lap, inspecting it idly. "And bread sticks."
And a beer, though he just needed to walk the fifty or so feet into the kitchen to grab one.
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"Where do you usually order from?" Their dynamic had circled back around and things were the way they'd started. When Gansey had settled in Henrietta, Ronan had been the one he'd asked these kinds of questions to, the only one whose answers he put any stock into. It was how he'd discovered Nino's and found the place with the guy that would sell them beer. Things were as they had been, and that made Gansey feel like he was in the right place.
Undeniably, something was missing.
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Fuck, what Ronan wouldn't give for Nino's right now.
"Think they might do garlic knots," he added then, flicking the cardboard between his fingers to send it fluttering back toward Gansey. "Should get some of those for Noah. He loves that shit."
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"I don't suppose you're going to place the order." There were too many things that Gansey didn't understand for him to spend too much time there. It was to be cataloged and dealt with when more information was presented. Ronan was a puzzle that sometimes solved itself for Gansey. All of Ronan's whys had wherefores.
The order was placed quickly -- including garlic knots, which they indeed did and Ronan knew it -- and the card numbers given. There was no point in doubting it would work because of course it would. All of the faith that Gansey had in Ronan was magnified by the forest that rebuilt him. Dying for someone changed things and being rebuilt by their magical forest altered them further. Ronan was changing. He was trying. That was enough to throw token praise skyward. Gansey needed Ronan more on the other side of all of this change.
Rather than say what was on his mind, he said, "There's enough for Adam to eat. When he gets home." And Blue, if she came home, but that topic was an emotional floodgate that he wasn't sure he was ready to open.
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But Glendower's already been found and class... well, even if he did have class, they both knew Ronan wouldn't be going anyway.
He waits until after Gansey's hung up, when that voice changes from President Gansey to Regular Gansey and he lets out a quiet grunt as he rests his hand on his stomach, still staring up, up, up at the ceiling of Hywel. "What else can you tell me?" he asks, surprising himself with the words, his voice low and strangely calm. "About home, I mean. If you died and came back... Did you see anything? Like, God or anything like that?"
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No, Gansey had better answers. Leave it to a boy who could create and destroy to ask an ageless forest a question about God. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have been Ronan.
"I don't remember anything between death and being remade, no," Gansey said, patiently, suddenly like he expected the question. He thought about what he could tell Ronan that he didn't know, that wasn't about all of the people they'd lost.
"You graduated," Gansey offered, even though Ronan didn't care, Gansey certainly did, and even though it was by the skin of Ronan's teeth and after far too many "Charitable Contributions," Gansey was proud of him. "Adam and you spend a lot of time at the Barns." He smiled. "Calla still calls you a snake."
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"Who'd you have to blow to make that happen?" he asks, ignoring the remark about Calla and quietly tucking the bit about Adam somewhere warm and safe. Because that one touches too close to something Ronan's wondered for months, something he's asked Adam himself at least once. If what they have is something that could only happen here or if maybe... maybe they could've been back home, too.
And Gansey, he thinks, has all but confirmed it.
It makes everything else feel a little less impossible.
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"I kept you in school to keep you at Monmouth," Gansey said, and that was mostly true. His reasons for having Ronan there varied, but always at the top was his safety. Ronan hadn't been allowed back at the Barns and living with Declan was a direct violation of everything Ronan believed in. So spake the $900 black lines that adorned his back and shoulder. Ronan Lynch belonged somewhere and it wasn't with Declan. "You graduated yourself." Mostly. After years, millions of dollars, and assistance from Ronan tantamount to Gansey repeatedly bashing himself over the head with a bulky anthology, he was sure he had quite a bit to do with Ronan's graduation. But that was another time and place.
Gansey stood suddenly, springing to his feet and stretching his arms like he might release enough tension to sleep. He wasn't optimistic. There was a lot on his mind.
"When was the last time Blue came home?" Gansey asked, but it wasn't a sudden question. In fact, it was quite like he'd been thinking about asking it or something like it for some time.