Ronan Lynch (dreamcometrue) wrote in evaluation, @ 2019-12-13 13:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | !rooms: 3: day 3, the raven cycle: declan lynch, the raven cycle: ronan lynch |
WHAT Ronan delivers medicine; Declan is a feverish mess
WHEN Day 3; Night
WHERE Declan's room
RATING Soft sad
STATUS Complete
Of course that was not in this Cold War era, pseudo-Russia where getting food was difficult. How was he supposed to get medicine? How did this cold go from tolerable to wrecking all-out havoc on his body? The fever had knocked him off his feet. The sinus pressure had migrated from his face to everywhere. The cough rattled deep in his chest that spoke of something scarier. And the pounding His head was both a furnace and a jackhammer, alternating between slowly killing him and slowly frying all sense of reality.
Hours had disappeared, and pounding was starting up again. Except this time it was not the active sort, behind his eyes. This was further away. The door. Someone was banging on his door. Declan was not sure how he managed to drag himself up from the couch—the farthest he had gotten since being denied access across the border again—but he did.
He was not surprised to see his brother there, but where he normally would have shooed him away, Declan could only croak out, “Ronan.”
It was completely unreasonable to think of Declan as some kind of robot who couldn’t get sick and who had therefore broken an older brother code by doing exactly that, but no one ever accused Ronan Lynch of being reasonable. He was headstrong. He was reckless.
He was furiously protective.
It didn’t matter that his relationship with Declan had been strained for years. They were brothers and Ronan couldn’t just fucking wait to see how this sickness progressed. Not here, where they were being whittled down by the day and carted off to cut down trees for possibly no reason at all. He’d smuggled some medicine during his lunch break, based solely on gossip of a bug going around.
Now, looking at the disgusting face on the other side of Declan’s door, he was wondering if he should’ve gotten a lot more. “Jesus. Get out of the way, plague rat.” He elbowed past Declan, maybe slightly more gently than normal but not by much, and dropped a bag down on his couch. “Merry fucking Christmas.”
Declan blinked. Or thought he blinked. Maybe Ronan teleported. Declan closed his eyes for a split second and Ronan was in the doorway, and when he opened them Ronan was in his flat, dropping a bag on his couch. He just wanted to close his eyes again, it was too much effort to keep them open. Declan's unflappable work ethic couldn't even push him through at this point.
"What—" Declan started to say as he closed the door, and then just stopped. He couldn't quite remember what he was going to say, or he just didn't have the energy to ask. It was easier to just lean against a wall instead. An uncharacteristically long silence followed before Declan tried again, kick started on the few energy reserves he had left.
"What's in the bag, Ronan?" His attempt to sound put out by his brother's antics went poorly. Declan just wanted to lay down on the floor. Czerny might have been on to something. He added, delayed by his sluggish thoughts, "It's not Christmas."
“Tell that to the commies.” Ronan snarked. He’d stubbornly been looking anywhere other than Declan since he walked in, but he finally snuck a second look.
Yup. Still looks like microwaved dogshit, he thought.
“God, you’re a fucking mess.” Because he was impatient by nature - and not because his brother’s glassy eyes actually concerned him - Ronan stomped over to drag Declan towards the couch. “Sit down already. There’s medicine in the bag. Since you’re a stubborn asshole, I had to actually talk to people just to figure out what’s going around right now. If you’ve got something different, then I guess you’re shit out of luck.”
"You had to do something that required basic communication skills?" Declan asked, though he sounded more confused by Ronan's conversational requirements than smug. Even sick, Declan could still be an asshole, he was just less aware of what was coming out of his mouth.
But he was sitting on the couch now. Maybe he was also teleporting. Declan's head lolled to the side, staring down the bag before actually moving to take the medicine out. His fingers brushed over something warm to the touch in waxy paper. Clear-headed, Declan would have been unable to guess what else was part of his Christmas surprise from his brother.
Declan dug past for the medicine instead. He decided his time was better spent on that. Except he couldn't get the cap off, which was embarrassing for a slew of reasons he didn't want to admit. With a sigh, followed by a round of wet coughing, Declan offered it up to Ronan to open. "Do you remember," Declan asked, unprompted. "When you were sick?"
Ronan was almost disappointed Declan didn’t pull out the parchment-wrapped pigeon meat first. The confusion on his face would’ve been priceless. Instead, Ronan gave a little eyeroll and took the medicine bottle. He probably should’ve found some gloves. And a mask.
Goddamn it, he was going to get sick.
“Damn, you got it all slippery with your clammy hands,” Ronan complained. Eventually he succeeded in opening the bottle and shoved it back into Declan’s loose grip. “Do I remember when I got sick when exactly?”
Declan took the loosened bottle back, but he held it between his cupped hands, as if waiting for the medicine to do its job. He looked up to Ronan instead, his eyes heavy with exhaustion, his focus scattered.
"The first time," Declan attempted to clarify, but really what he meant was the first time I remembered you being sick. "You cried the whole time. I asked mom if you were dying—" The words came out too fast, too uncoordinated for Declan Lynch's standard, and the pain of mentioning dying and their mother in the same sentence would gut him later. "I didn't want you to. I told her, I told her I would protect you from being sick."
He inhaled sharply, almost a laugh—who thought they could protect anyone from anything?—but he just started coughing again. He nearly dropped the medicine in his fit, mumbling something about clammy hands.
Whatever Ronan had been expecting, it wasn’t this. His throat burned, the sharp sting of emotion making him blink hard and fast. He didn’t want to talk about this.
No, that was a lie. But the truth stung even more.
“You--You’re gonna fucking dump that out on the carpet, dumbass,” he grumbled. He reached out to steady Declan’s hand on the bottle. His jaw clenched. He couldn’t look his brother in the face. “You can’t protect someone from getting sick. Now will you just fucking drink some of this already?”
"I can try," Declan snapped, though it lacked the usual heat when arguing with Ronan. Declan was always trying to protect his brothers from something or someone. Sickness be damned, he would die trying if that's what it took.
Declan pulled his hand away from Ronan's because some coherency made its way into Declan and knew he could take the medicine without physical aid of his brother. He put the bottle to his lips and took a swig of whatever vile stuff was inside. He took a long time to swallow it, and a longer time to speak again.
"I promised," Declan said, grabbing for Ronan's arm and shaking a little. He wanted his attention, he wanted to look Ronan in the eye when he said it. "I promised, both of you."
“Yeah, well.” Ronan made a tense gesture with his hands, not yet shaking Declan off, but barely able to meet his stupid feverish gaze for very long. “That was a dumb promise.”
He should’ve just dumped the bag and ran. Instead, he was stuck imagining his mother rocking him and his idiot brother being protective of him. Back when Declan could actually stand him. Before the family secret slowly pulled everything apart at the seams.
Ronan blinked rapidly again and finally did shake Declan’s grip loose. “And you were what, four? Jesus. Let it go.”
Declan didn't fight when Ronan shook him off, just slumped further back into the couch. His whole body felt heavy, this whole conversation pulling him down by the seams. He closed his eyes. Fatigue was catching up to him, and this was just nicer, not to stare at Ronan anymore.
"I can't," Declan said, then shook his head at himself for picking the wrong answer. He corrected, "I won't. You and Matthew are all I have left." Which was partly true, he knew. Somewhere other things with other people who claimed to be Lynches existed. Somewhere his other mother existed. But Ronan and Matthew? They were the only ones left that mattered, the only ones left that he loved.
He could have fallen asleep like this, sitting up, his mind unable to hang on to anything, his brother giving him a hard time over, over—Declan suddenly couldn't remember. So autopilot, robo-brother Declan kicked in. "Thank you. For the medicine." He'd disapprove of Ronan's methods to obtain it, later.
It made Ronan deeply uncomfortable whenever he thought about how much more he had than Declan now, so he preferred not to think about it at all. Having it smack him in the face after this conversation had already hammered at his defenses was just blatantly unfair.
“We wouldn’t be the only thing you have left if you didn’t insist on living such a soul-suckingly boring existence,” he blurted out in frustration. Declan’s thank you was still ringing in his ears. He snatched the medicine bottle and sat it on the table next to him with a hard thunk. If Matthew were here, he’d be kind. Gentle. He’d get Declan a blanket and softly change the fucking subject by cracking a goofy joke about himself.
Ronan was not Matthew.
But the thought did drop his shoulders down from their defensive position, and it did send him across the room to collect a coat draped across a chair. “Lay down, dipshit,” he ordered, gesturing across the length of the couch.
The dipshit laid down. It was easier to comply than fight when he felt like his insides were liquifying. He was barely horizontal when he felt the coat over him. Maybe later, he'd remember this moment fondly. The time when Ronan did something nice and Declan didn't question it, and they didn't argue too much. Matthew would be proud of their awkward attempts.
"We can't all be you, Ronan," Declan said, his voice soft and sad. What would it have been like to be a dreamer in a family of them? What would it have been like to live where safety was an afterthought? Declan couldn't imagine; it was not his life.
"Sometimes—" He coughed again, but this time it was easier to hide it in the ragged cushions of the couch. "Sometimes our existence is a sacrifice. A choice." Because of promises made that Declan couldn't let go of.
In his usual infuriating way of handling things, Ronan said, “Well that’s a load of bullshit,” and then promptly left the room.
He wasn’t gone long, and when he came back, it was a with a pillow, stolen from the bedroom. He lifted Declan up by his sweaty collar and jammed the pillow underneath his head. Now that he was crouched down by his brother’s face, he was even more sure he was going to get sick, but oh fucking well.
“You think me and Matthew want your stupid life to be a sacrifice? You think--” The next word got caught in his throat until he forced it free. “--Mom would want that? You’re the only one that thinks that’s all you get to have. I don’t know...maybe that’s all you think you deserve.” Chances were, Declan wouldn’t remember any of this conversation. Or if he did, it would be the version that painted Ronan as obnoxiously as possible. Which really was just fine by him. He jerked the coat over Declan’s shoulder and stood up. “Take some more of that stuff when you wake up.”
For someone who could barely take care of himself, Declan certainly burned with indignation, primed for a fight with Ronan when he crouched down close. But when he opened his eyes again, they were watery with illness and ready to shut just as quickly. The topic of their mother was always a difficult one, made harder now with the truth Declan could never admit.
"It's not that easy," Declan said, but every word was a struggle, caused by his raw throat, his congestion, the drowsy side effects of the medicine. "It's never been about what anyone wants. Except for, except for..." He wasn't going to finish that thought. They both knew who, and he was dead. Niall got everything he ever wanted, even if he didn't deserve it, and everyone else had to suffer. They were still suffering.
Declan let out a shaky breath, and folded further into the couch, under the coat-made-blanket. Not that he expected Ronan to stay, but he wasn't comfortable with the fact of Ronan leaving. Not now, not here. "Where are you going?"
Except for…me? Ronan didn’t let the thought turn into words. He was pretty sure Declan was talking about their dad, but the uncertainty left a sour burn in his stomach. It hurt enough to think of Declan’s resentment for Niall Lynch. If Ronan let himself think about his brother’s resentment for him, he’d get defensive and distant.
Which wouldn’t even be all that bad if Matthew were here to pick up the slack. But since he wasn’t, Ronan had to grit his teeth and redirect.
“I’m gonna go check on Noah. I’ll come back later and make sure you’re not drowning in your own mucus.” He filled up a glass with water in the kitchen and sat it down next to the medicine bag. “Where’s your phone?”
Declan tried to drum up the answer for Ronan, but he was coming up blank. The only thing he could concentrate on was his brother's voice and the repeated thumping of his headache by his temples. How long was it supposed to take for the medicine to work? He didn't ask, and he didn't want Ronan to go asking around on his behalf—he had already done enough.
"I don't know," Declan admitted, which was a big step because Declan did not like not knowing things. Especially the whereabouts of his personal belongings. Declan let out another sigh, another sniffle, another coughing fit. "I don't need it now. I'll find it."
There were other things Declan wanted to say—the sorts of things that he never did, in lieu of keeping up his bland, uptight appearances—but his body was already shutting down, telling him to sleep. His brain was telling him he'd regret whatever he said when he remembered. If he remembered.
He simply made a small noise of discomfort, then murmured, "Don't knock so loud next time. I'll hear you."
"You'll be lucky if I don't come back with the Soviet equivalent of a Mariachi band now," Ronan snorted Declan being a great big whiner somehow buoyed his mood. He rolled his eyes very dramatically - mostly for himself since Declan was too busy being pathetic to look up at him - and then he located Declan's phone with a quick search. The fact that he tucked it under his brother's hand instead of dropping it on his dumb face should've won him some kind of peacekeeping award.
"Text me if you start to see the light."
Ronan slammed the door on his way out.