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13 i thought myself as a city
That night, Ronan Lynch thumbs a green pill from his crumpled pile of jeans and remembers Kavinsky's simple recipe: pill, beer, dream. He remembers Mercy's dark expression when he woke her up from a deep sleep, curled into a ball on her air mattress. It was solemn, knowing. Ronan felt like she saw right through him. Shaking off the unsettling feeling, he stretches out an empty arm to Chainsaw, propping up her space for her. She pays him no mind, pecking curiously at a cheese cracker that she'd managed to get her claws on. Chainsaw is careful, stacking objects onto it to ensure that Ronan can't take it from her grasp. Purposefully, she adverts her beady gaze and continues stacking: a bottle cap, an envelope and a sock all hide her precious cracker.
"Chainsaw," he says. It isn't sharp like how he forms his words with the rest of the world. It's slow. It's with meaning.
Chainsaw soars to the bed, wings wide and a shadow against his bedroom wall. She lands with purpose, claws surprisingly light against his skin. Ronan traces her feathers, turning her head left and right as his finger runs across their lines. His phone buzzes, interrupting the quiet.
KAVINSKY: your mom calls me after we spend the day together.
Ronan flicks his phone, the screen falling away. It buzzes again, Chainsaw pecking at the screen. There's no urgency as his hand slowly slides across the covers to flip his phone over.
KAVINSKY: ask me what my first dream was
Ronan presses the green pill into his palm, rolling it across his callused skin. He feels warm, buried within the confines of his covers, sleepy, but safely so. It's never felt like this before, a blanket around his shoulders and a slow descent into a loll of unconsciousness.
