Instead of allowing him to shift away, long, scarred fingers clamp on Gansey's shoulder, and a familiar face leans around him into view. Ronan's brows are arched, surprised in spite of himself-- which makes sense, given that the last he'd spoken to Gansey, he was like a million fucking miles away, and--to Ronan's best knowledge--Gansey's never been able to step into a dream space that wasn't expressly made manifest by Ronan's abilities.

"What the fuck," he greets him, and his other hand lifts, cupping the side of Gansey's neck as if one hand on him isn't enough to be certain he's not part of this dream. If it even is a dream; Ronan can't tell, which isn't as surprising as it probably should be. Sometimes Ronan struggles with finding the line between dream and waking world.

But Gansey is warm and solid beneath his hands, and he isn't changing, isn't warping. He feels like him and smells like him and everything is fucking perfect, and even in Ronan's best dreams of the people he loves, they're never quite perfect. "Jesus Mary, how are you here?"