Ronan Lynch (dreamcometrue) wrote in evaluation, @ 2020-01-05 17:05:00 |
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Entry tags: | !rooms: 4: day 2, the raven cycle: declan lynch, the raven cycle: ronan lynch |
WHAT the brothers go to church and have a heart to heart
WHEN room 4; day 2; morning
WHERE church
RATING low (angsty orphans but still)
STATUS complete
It did not help that the most formal clothing he had for church was a cream-colored linen monstrosity, punctuated by orange creamsicle button-down. The belt was woven, tacky, too casual. He did not want to mention the shoes. He refused to look down at them, his expression twisting in abject horror.
He was exhausted all at once, and it took a considerable amount of effort to leave his room and situate himself at the multi-faith chapel. It was no St. Agnes, or even St. Eithne in DC. But Declan couldn't complain. A tradition had been established between the Lynch brothers, and the only explanation for these days—maybe even this situation—was because they had missed a series of communion and confession. Catholic guilt was hard to shake once it took root inside of him.
Declan signed the cross and sat in one of the seats. His eyes slid closed, his hands rested clasped together in his lap, and his posture was unflinchingly rigid. He wanted to pray for guidance, for compassion, or serenity. God, he’d even pray for forgiveness. Instead he sat quiet, lost, and only opened his eyes again when he heard Ronan enter the chapel. Declan spent so much time watching Ronan, observing him, that he could recognize those footfalls anywhere, without mistake.
"You're late."
Ronan almost hadn’t come at all. But after the shots at him not caring enough about Matthew to stay quiet about dreaming, he couldn’t stand up to the guilt. That didn’t mean he’d go easy, of course. He found a tie (bright pink) and paired it with a hawaiian shirt (giant neon pineapples against a black background). The only pair of pants he could even track down were white hippie looking things that definitely didn’t go with the shirt, but he wasn’t mad at Declan enough to wear board shorts to church.
Dreaded company aside, stepping into the church did settle something inside of him that he hadn’t realized was askew. He tried to picture Matthew’s blond curls bowed next to Declan’s familiar head as he approached the pew. It just made him feel worse so he slumped down a healthy distance along the pew.
“Time is an illusion,” he shot back. “We don’t even know what f--what day it is.” It was easy enough to picture Matthew looking pleased that he’d censored himself in church. He looked sideways at his brother and seemed to get caught between frowning and laughing. Declan looked hilarious, but there was a blatant weariness in his features that - annoyingly - bothered Ronan. “Why do you look like microwaved crap?”
Patience. That was what Declan was going to pray for. He had never realized until he was sequestered in this tiny chapel with only Ronan that Matthew was their beacon of restraint. He had always said the right thing, the ill-timed joke or appropriately added comment about being hungry, when tension rose between Declan and Ronan. His absence now felt sharper than the blunted edges of before.
Declan missed his youngest brother. And in a strange tangle of emotions, he missed Ronan too. Contrary to popular belief, Declan did not enjoy fighting with Ronan. And every time he thought they understood one another, they ended up further apart. The distance was slowly killing him.
"You'll be surprised to know that you don't hold the monopoly on insomnia," Declan said, dragging a hand down his face. If they didn't talk, then they wouldn't fight. Declan tried to remain resolute in this choice, but the Virgin Mary's portrait seemed to look down upon them disapprovingly.
It was still a long time before Declan spoke again. "If Matthew were here, he wouldn't let us sit this far apart." With a sigh, he turned to Ronan and refrained from commenting on his clothing choice. "Don't worry, I'm not going to lecture you again. I don't have the energy today."
Ronan didn’t want to admit that he’d worried for a flash of a second that Declan was getting sick again. He scowled instead and then rolled his eyes as he scooted over so the distance was half of what it was before.
“You can’t keep invoking Matthew’s name to get what you want,” he grunted. Declan could; Declan probably would. Ronan wondered if this place was started to erode some of his stubbornness or just make it take a different form. Being always angry at his brother felt like it belonged to some old version of him that didn’t have anything but fury and grief in his heart. Besides, he had a date later and it helped bring a little smirk to his face as he side-eyed Declan.
“Bet you hated picking those clothes out,” he snorted.
"If you thought I was getting what I want, then you don't know me at all, Ronan," Declan said. Although he was slightly pleased that Ronan scooted closer without too much hassle. A small victory.
Declan only shook his head, a wordless disapproval and focused his attention back to the front of the chapel. "It was all that was available that seemed appropriate for this." What Declan hated was having to defend his choice for a cream-colored Tommy Bahama suit for church. He didn't press it further, just simply stood up and bent down onto the kneeler, cutting the distance between them again. Just enough to leave a Matthew-sized hole.
"I don't want you to think that I hate you, Ronan," Declan said on a soft exhale. It felt heavy to dig past all of their problems and find that pinpoint of light. But if they couldn't work out their issues, one by one, how would they ever get through what was happening back home? "I'm hard on you because I don't know how else to be."
Defensiveness made Ronan want to move back to his original distance at Declan’s retort about it, but he just clenched his teeth and stared ahead. As a multi-denominational church, this place seemed to have a little of everything, but they’d had no idea when the next mass would be. It left Ronan feeling weirdly exposed. Like he should do his own sermon in his head to make himself feel terrible about something or another.
Odd that Declan should say something so counter to that.
“You used to know,” he whispered, crossing himself and bowing his head like he meant to pray even though he was too distracted to do any such thing. “When we were younger. I thought--” He didn’t want to say ‘we were close’. That sounded fucking desperate. He tried for a little humor instead. “I thought you’d always have my back...not always be on my case.”
"We're not kids anymore, Ronan," Declan said as his hands curled tightly together. It was by far the most aggressive prayer stance that Declan had ever taken. Again, he could feel God's disapproval at his anger—but it wasn't for Ronan, not really. Just for the situation they were in, and seemed to be always in. He would curse their father, but it was sacrilegious to do such a thing in a church.
But it hurt more to hear that Ronan didn't think he had his back. Declan had failed somewhere, was always failing somehow, for his brothers. When Declan glanced to Ronan he looked like he had been slapped, which was a very different expression than when he was sucker punched by Ronan. He knew what that felt like, distinctly.
"It's the same thing," Declan tried to explain. His tone wasn't furious, just worried. Always worried. "We're not the same person—" Obviously, it felt stupid to even say but it was worth repeating.
"What you consider on your case is me having your back. I'm always going to have your back. Just because I don't drop everything to go along with whatever you want to do does not make me your enemy, Ronan. Someone has to think of your safety when you don't."
Ronan didn’t know what to do with that look Declan gave him. It twisted up something in his gut and left him frowning. He wish he hadn’t even glanced over in time to see it.
“I know we’re not fucking kids anymore, Declan.” A woman in a nearby pew turned her head sharply at his hissed curse. He scowled at her in a mind your business, lady way, but tempered his tone and words anyway. “We’re not kids and yet you still treat me like one. Worse, like I’m one breath away from bringing ruin down on the family just because I won’t fade into the wallpaper. I—“ Ronan closed his eyes and actually did pray. Just a quick sorry about the sibling drama, God and then he exhaled a long smoker’s breath when Declan’s hurt face flashed behind his eyelids. “I get that you think this is the only way to keep us safe. But…”
There were a dozen ways his brain wanted to go with this. The anger and anxiety he’d carried around for four years hadn’t gone anywhere, it was just slightly better managed. He picked one of the thoughts that had quietly haunted him a lot lately. “…Have you ever thought about the fact that maybe Dad died because he had more enemies than he had friends? I mean his own son couldn’t stand him.”
Declan did not agree with Ronan. He didn't disagree either. Declan would have prefered Ronan to disappear and to stop waving around his dreaming like a stick of dynamite he used as a toy.
But Declan wasn't a dreamer, so what did he know?
The mention of Niall though only caused a Pavolvian response in Declan: his fingers curled, his jaw clenched, and he could feel a quiet stream of swear words building up in his throat. Honor thy father and mother had always been the hardest commandment for Declan to carry out.
"He had enemies because he thought he was above everyone else. He believed he was invincible. He was a megalomaniac who lied to the wrong people because he thought no one could touch him." There was no jealousy, no spite, just fact. The things and people Declan had come to know after Niall died was staggering.
"He gave you —" Declan caught himself, and inched closer to Ronan. "He had all the answers and didn't bother to give you, or anybody, a single one before he died." Declan pressed his clasped hands to his forehead in supplication, then turned his face to Ronan again. "I'm guessing at the rules, Ronan. I'm doing what I think is best to keep us together."
Ronan gripped the pew in front of them with white knuckles. Two years ago, he’d have walked right out – and thrown a punch at Declan as soon as his brother left the protection of the church. Things were different. He was different. And he knew his father had not been perfect. But Ronan’s loyalty was incredibly hard to completely shake off, even with the barbs of truth in Declan’s rant.
“He’s dead, Dee.” Ronan hadn’t used that name since they were kids and it felt like trying to fit his feet into child-sized shoes. Worse, forcing the words through his suddenly tight throat made them come out in a gritty whisper. “What good does hating him do? It sure as shit hasn’t made you any happier. Mom knew stuff too.” He looked over, shadows in his eyes in place of anger. “Should we hate her too?”
Even saying the words made Ronan shake his head violently, mouth pursed tight as he turned back forward. “Maybe if you’d been the one to find them, you’d spend more time being my brother instead of my lawyer.”
"I could never hate mom," Declan said, almost too quiet; it was too painful. Aurora was an open wound for so many reasons; Declan would never stop mourning their mother. "But every time I think I'm done hating dad, I'm reminded again of how he abandoned us, even before he died." Declan looked at Ronan now, and he was angry all over again. Their father had done this to them, no matter if Ronan believed it or not.
His hand shot out, gripping Ronan's forearm, hard. "And every day, I wish it was me," Declan said, hand going even tighter if it were possible. "I wish I had been the one to find dad. I wish I had found mom. So that you never ever had to carry that with you."
Declan released a punched-out breath and let go. They couldn't keep comparing the trauma of their family; there was no winner. He looked defeated, done, worn too thin by fighting. "Just tell me then, since you have very clear ideas of what I should do as your brother. What does that look like? What does being your brother look like to you?"
Ronan’s instincts did not react well to being grabbed with any kind of force. But years of keeping cool in church stopped him from jerking violently away, and Declan’s words destroyed the rest of his resistance anyway.
“That isn’t--” He watched Declan let him go and felt some kind of loss. There’d been a lot of affectionate roughhousing when they were kids. Hugs and headlocks and wheezing laughter. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d touched without some kind of anger involved. Ronan scowled.
“That wouldn’t make it better, dumbass. You can’t save me from everything at the expense of yourself. It just makes you bitter and it makes me feel like a burden.” He didn’t have a good answer for what being a brother looked like. He didn’t expect Declan to be like Matthew. That would be fucking weird. But he didn’t know what he hoped for either. Conversations that didn’t involve telling him he was doing something wrong? A fucking hug every once in a while? He felt annoyingly sad all of sudden and he blinked rapidly as he turned away.
“Whatever, it doesn’t even matter,” he mumbled, sounding like it did matter, very much.
Declan was not blind to his brother's turmoil. He noticed when Ronan deflated, pushed off a hard conversation, decided it wasn't worth his time, or hit a nerve. Declan knew this because he was the same exact way. He handled it differently than Ronan, but there was no mistaking their coping mechanisms as generally the same, Lynch branded.
"I never said it would make it better," Declan said. Only that Ronan didn't deserve it. Declan had taken it upon himself to watch over his family as the eldest Lynch. Sacrifices had been programmed into his blood, and Declan had been ready, since he could remember, to make them no matter the cost. He was only trying to do what Niall never did: care.
His hands went over his eyes, covering his face, searching for that patience all over again. Instead, he repeated the same prayer he did every Sunday, without fail: God, please protect my brothers.. He let out a long, slow breath and kept his gaze down, his face hooded.
"I want to make something clear," Declan began, in that same matter-of-fact tone that usually followed with a lecture. Except, he said, "You've never been a burden, Ronan."
All of Ronan’s more embarrassing emotions felt too close to the surface. This was where he’d usually break something, kick something, set something on fire. He’d been doing less and less of that lately. But the need to offset vulnerability with something violent was a trapped bird inside his chest, beating frantic wings.
“Bullshit.” He risked a glance at his brother’s profile, his expression a little too open. A little too needy. “Are you telling me your life would be exactly the same if you didn’t have to worry about not drawing attention to me? If you never had to think what the fuck has Ronan done now?”
"Stop swearing," Declan hissed, snapping his attention toward Ronan and seeing only something more vulnerable that Declan would have liked. He pressed his lips into a hard, thin line, considering the next words out of his mouth.
"Of course my life wouldn't be the same, but neither would yours." For as much as Declan wished Ronan would think about his impulsive decisions before making them, it was difficult to grapple with a version of Ronan who made no trouble at all. "All I ever wanted was balance. I'm always going to worry about your safety, but I want to know you're not risking it to spite me or because it's fun."
He couldn't say he was scared for his brothers. Admitting that felt like exposing himself to the world in his own reckless, dangerous way. He was weary, and he slouched more against the kneeler. "But if I have to choose between you being alive and me not having to think about what you've done now, there's no choice. The latter doesn't matter to me."
The reprimand was fair, for once, but that didn’t make Ronan’s face any less sour over it. The look fell away like a snake shedding skin at the rest of Declan’s words though, revealing an expression frozen between relief and doubt. He didn’t believe Declan would trade him in for peace - he might be a fucking liar but he was no traitor. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t a little surprised Declan admitted he’d rather Ronan was alive and annoying than dead. Of course, that could be a lie too...but probably not in church.
“I don’t actually do dangerous stuff just to spite you.” He paused, then grimaced. “Not anymore.” He wouldn’t promise he wouldn’t do it for fun, because that would definitely be a lie. But even that was less frequent these days. Crap, was he getting boring? Ronan rolled his eyes and heaved out a breath.
“I’m just trying to figure out who I can be proud to be,” he admitted quietly.
"You have time," Declan said, his own expression soft and maybe a little confused. He always assumed Ronan had moved past his darker, depressive moods and his confidence and—quite frankly—unabashed behavior was the person Declan needed to work with. That was not the case, not by Ronan's own honest admission.
Declan wanted to say the same thing—could he be someone to be proud of?—but his tongue felt heavy in his mouth and moved on.
"Matthew's proud of you," Declan offered. It was a small lifeline to remind Ronan that he wasn't a total ruin to the family, or whatever he believed Declan thought he was. He thought of Ronan controlling his dreaming, his desire to go to Cambridge, to tackle his feelings in healthier ways. The fact that his brother planned for futures that were both inherently safe and emotionally risky were surprising. Declan couldn't protect him from everything, and maybe that was the point.
"You'll figure out how," Declan said, before adding, "You're stubborn enough to not give up."
Ronan tried to grimace, but he was touched in some weird fucking way. Saying Matthew was proud of him was a cheap shot anyway. Matthew may have been proud of everyone he loved, but that didn’t make it any less valuable.
“You sound like an after school special,” he sighed. It was a gentle tease at least. Softened by the smirk at the corner of his mouth. “I’m gonna remind you said all that the next time you’re harassing me about my choices.”
His knees were starting to hurt, but it was a familiar Sunday pain. He ignored it and shuffled a hand up over his shorn hair. “You’re allowed to want more for yourself too, you know.”
The same gentle smirk was mirrored on Declan's face. He didn't have to say anything regarding Ronan's choices; it was easy to fall into old habits. Declan was positive that it wouldn't be long before they were going at each other's throats and he would be reminded of this conversation. At least now, they could have this small peace.
Declan was though shocked at Ronan's suggestion of wanting more for himself. Briefly, traitorously, Jordan came to mind. He shook it off.
"I know," Declan said, though he sounded less convincing than he liked. Again, he cleared his throat, hoping to unstick the words that were getting more difficult to get out. "But I get by with what I have. I don't need anything else right now." A half-truth. He didn't need anything, but he wanted enough.
He reached across and laid a heavy but comforting hand on the scruff of Ronan's neck. "Another time, Ronan," was all Declan said, which meant we're not going further that that. "Bow your head, we should be praying, like this visit intended."
The whole thing was starting to feel really fucking surreal - the benign weight of his brother’s hand, the practially considerate conversation. Ronan was grateful for an excuse to focus on his prayers. If he thought too hard about any of this, he’d tear it apart at the seams. That’s just what he did.
“Alright, alright,” he mumbled, clasping his hands back together and dropping his head. “Ask God for some patience while you’re at it.”