[CLOSED]

[photophobic]

WHO: Kylo Ren & Ronan Lynch
WHERE: The Meadows
WHEN: Following the appearance of the replacement moon
WHAT: Ronan says he's done saving this dumb planet. Kylo's not so sure.
WARNINGS: Nothing yet beyond the usual angstlord nonsense


He feels it before he sees it, holed up in his study with a half-written poem scattered over a dozen scrunched up balls of paper. Fear. His mother's, sharp as a knife. But it isn't just hers. There's a panic, a dread...

He gets to his feet, almost as if spellbound. It's out there. Up there.

And that's where Ronan will find him, standing out in the night, looking up at the moon that is not a moon with his lips pressed firmly together. He knows what this is and what it does. And he knows what has to be done.

Comments

[nightmarist]

When Ronan does at last appear, it's by pure coincidence (or habit, really) that he's already staggering drunk with a bottle of whiskey in hand. He doesn't notice the moon's replacement at first. It's Kylo that he notices, and the gravity of his expression, which he examines wordlessly from the leaning position he takes against Kylo's shoulder.

Then, finally, he follows the line of Kylo's gaze.

His teeth flash in a sharp smile. It's followed immediately by dark laughter, a giddiness that bubbles up from his stomach and shivers right back down his spine. He doesn't need Kylo to tell him what he's looking at. Ronan's seen enough in his memories to know by now.

"Acta est fabula!" Ronan declares, raising his bottle heavenward. "Plaudite!" With that, he takes another swig.

[photophobic]

"No," Kylo says, his gaze still turned heavenwards.

Show's over, folks? No. If Ronan recognises this horror from Kylo's memories, from the stories he was raised on, then he knows this is far from the final curtain. He knows this is the beginning of the play, not its ending.

He turns, eyes drifting over Ronan's face illuminated in the new, dimmer moonlight. No. No, he won't let this be what takes the freedom he's only just found away from him. Ronan has to already know it.

"Will you help me."

[nightmarist]

It will be Ronan's end, at least. How could it not be? The goddamn moon has been replaced with something that can blow up the planet, presumably because it's about to blow up the planet. If not now, then shortly.

"I can't." He meets Kylo's eyes, edging on delirious with the knowledge of how very thoroughly he's going to be destroyed. He thrusts a finger toward the false moon. "I can't fix that. How long do we even have? I'm not giving our final hours to these assholes."

[photophobic]

Kylo studies Ronan's face with steady, unflinching focus. He watches the near-manic certainty of destruction seize his heart, taking possession. Is it settling on him, sinking anchoring roots into his mind? It might be. Or it could be the old, familiar knowledge of the inevitable, simply summoned to the surface with the fresh tug of gravity.

It doesn't matter. It's a lie.

He takes Ronan by the shoulders, his hold firm and solid. For all his knowledge of the horrific weapon appeared in their sky, he doesn't look frightened. Because he isn't. Determined, yes. Resolved. But not afraid.

"You can do anything you want," Kylo reminds him. "We can do anything we want. I have the Greywaren. And you have Kylo Ren. My uncle destroyed a fully operational Death Star with one well-aimed shot before he had even begun to come into his true power in the Force. Do you really believe me incapable of at least the same?"

[nightmarist]

It's a good thing Kylo's grip is so secure, because Ronan is in a swoon of drunkenness and panic. He wants to simultaneously run wild into the night and fall down into an immediate sleep right here at Kylo's feet. His head is tingling. His heart is going to leap out of his chest. He's never felt more joyful. He wants to scream and never stop.

"I'm incapable," he hisses, leaning into Kylo's hands. "I'm incapable." Just two months ago, he fell apart so completely he scattered pieces of himself into minds across half the country.

His knees are going weaker. His fingers claw up Kylo's chest.

"Let's get wasted and watch a nature documentary. It'll be poetic."

[photophobic]

"Or, we could fulfill our purpose," Kylo murmurs. He isn't letting go. "Together. Do you trust me? I know what you are. I know what we are. Say you'll help me, and I'll prove it to you."

[nightmarist]

"Let the others do it," Ronan pleads. Kylo doesn't seem to understand. He messed up with Atropos and he'll mess up now, to much greater consequence. "They're always dying to play hero. Let them die to play hero." Then everyone will be satisfied. The heroes can die smug and self-assured and Ronan can die quietly in the arms of his beloved.

"I already gave this world a Porter. That's more than I ever owed them."

[photophobic]

"Let them do what?" he asks, reaching up to cradle Ronan's face in his broad hand. "Can any of them do what we can? It took them months to build a single spacecraft. We could build a squadron of them, right now. Ronan—"

He pauses, urging Ronan to look at him, to see the certainty in his eyes. Doesn't he recognise the strength of will to carry the both of them through this?

"You owe them nothing. Nothing. We owe them nothing. But we are owed this life. Together. This. What we have. It's ours, Ronan. It's ours to defend with everything we have. And we have anything we want."

[nightmarist]

Ronan is so sorry for every moment of hope he's ever given Kylo. This faith he's confronted with is nearly unbearable. He can't do this. If he's realized one thing this year, it's his own inadequacy. Yet here's Kylo, looking at him like truly he believes this can end in anything but catastrophic failure.

"I'm gonna fuck it up," he mumbles, holding Kylo's eyes while the rest of him goes increasingly droopy. "You'll see."

But what else can he say? If Kylo wants to use the Greywaren, Kylo will use the Greywaren. It's not as if Ronan will abandon him now.

[photophobic]

"Ronan— we made a living, breathing creature together. All I need is a ship. I know exactly how it works, every detail, every part. I spent hundreds of hours flying the prototype, testing it to its limits. We can do this. We can make enough to let the heroes play hero, if you want."

He caresses his cheek, touch far more tender than the intensity of belief written across his face. Ronan is his partner, his companion, the one who chose him and the one he chooses, for this, for everything. If Ronan will fight at his side it hardly matters if they succeed or fail in their efforts.

"I want to do this with you. Do you understand? That's what I want. To fight this, with you with me, the way that only we can. You can't fail me."

[nightmarist]

Oh god, but he can. He can be fatal. He can end the world with a stray thought.

"Fuck."

Ronan squeezes his eyes shut and inhales sharply through his nose. Okay, they're doing this. They're going to make a bunch of spaceships to pew pew the giant death machine out of the sky. It's a damn good thing Kylo knows what he's doing. Ronan has never been less qualified for anything in his life.

He blindly chucks his bottle of whiskey. It hits something hard and shatters into a million pieces. "Fucking fine," he spits, pushing forward to wrap his arms around Kylo. If dying in a giant ball of fire is how Kylo wants to go, then they'll do it together. "Let's go take a fucking nap in the mud, I guess."

They're going to need a lot of space.

[photophobic]

And how would that be a failing any worse than staying here and doing nothing with the power they have to prevent losing each other? Kylo would far rather be obliterated in the attempt to fight it than give their destruction to anyone else.

His lips tug towards an unseen smile as Ronan, having violently abandoned his whiskey, coils his arms around him instead. He echoes the embrace without hesitation— a strong arm wrapping tight around Ronan's waist as the other slides up his spine, pressing him close. His fingers curl protectively at the nape of his neck. There's nothing he could say that would adequately communicate the wild rush he barely knows how to name, so he doesn't try.

"I'm sure we can find a blanket," he murmurs against him, as if that's the real problem to be solved here.