[No, he doesn't want to talk-- not talk, but offer that up. Not Lynch. But actively avoiding consideration of Lynch is like inviting him in with a complimentary potato at the door. Because Irish. A shaved head. A mouth that Kavinsky had spent a lot of time looking at behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. Shoulders that has this angry roll to them, and there was always those tendrils of black ink peeking up from whatever dirty shirt he'd been abusing that day. Lynch's hands on the steering wheel of BMW, Lynch's hands on the wheel of something precious and stolen.
It was never gonna be you and me.
He scoots the thought away, he buries it in the yard. No big deal, he tells himself. Nothing he couldn't work with. A surprise at the time, but it doesn't hurt, it doesn't matter, it's no longer a shock. Lynch loved Gansey's cock just so much. He didn't care that Kavinsky could--]
No one here.
[He masters himself. Sort of. He hefts the pipe up high over his head and arcs it down until it hits the pod with the sort of force that rockets through the rest of his body. Again. Sound and violence and he is so sober he wants to vomit. That can be fixed.
He rubs his nose against his arm which is trembling from the exertion he just put it through. If it quacks like a cokehead...]
no subject
It was never gonna be you and me.
He scoots the thought away, he buries it in the yard. No big deal, he tells himself. Nothing he couldn't work with. A surprise at the time, but it doesn't hurt, it doesn't matter, it's no longer a shock. Lynch loved Gansey's cock just so much. He didn't care that Kavinsky could--]
No one here.
[He masters himself. Sort of. He hefts the pipe up high over his head and arcs it down until it hits the pod with the sort of force that rockets through the rest of his body. Again. Sound and violence and he is so sober he wants to vomit. That can be fixed.
He rubs his nose against his arm which is trembling from the exertion he just put it through. If it quacks like a cokehead...]
Get out. I'll find you later.