Chapter Text
"Each of them opens and closes, closes and opens
the heavy gate--violent, serene, consenting, suffering it all."
-Jane Hirshfield, "The Lives of the Heart"
When Adam wheeled his bike up to St. Agnes, it was pushing eleven o’clock and he was desperately tired. He’d just completed a shift at the trailer factory, finishing off yet another painfully long day. (He was beginning to wonder if there was any other kind.)
As he went to chain his bike in the stairwell, he heard a small noise from the nave of the church -- something like a groan. The noise sparked immediate recognition, followed closely by exasperation. Adam sighed.
It was possible that he was wrong. Possible that the noise was really just the creakings of the ancient building. Possible that the source was someone Adam didn’t know, that the cause was something other than it had been any other time this happened.
But it was much more likely that the source was Ronan Lynch, and the cause was another bout of drunkenness and regret. The combination had landed Ronan in the pews of St. Agnes before, and Adam was certain it wouldn’t be the last time.
He entered the darkened church, scanning for Ronan’s form among the wooden rows. He found it three rows in on the lefthand side of the aisle, lying flat on a pew. Ronan was motionless. One arm was draped over his face. Gritting his teeth, Adam administered a sharp poke to his ribs, and was greeted with another groan and a whiff of Ronan’s stale beer breath.
“You smell terrible,” Adam said. He didn't bother to keep the distaste from his voice. Until he met Ronan, Adam had associated the smell of alcohol with only two things: his father, and pain forthcoming. This was the main reason Adam never drank. The other reason was that Adam couldn't afford to waste any spare time or energy on depressants. Add those to the list of luxuries Ronan took for granted and Adam never had.
Ronan slurred something unintelligible. He’d clearly started drinking hours ago, and was as inebriated as Adam had ever seen him. Adam let out a long sigh, took a moment to visualize dismantling the irritation that prickled through him. Then he grasped Ronan by the arm and pulled.
“Come on. You’re obviously too wasted to drive.”
Getting Ronan up the stairs to his small room was not an easy task. More than once, they had to stop so that Ronan could lean against the wall and Adam could exorcise the impulse to push him over the railing and be done with it. When they finally reached Adam’s room, he guided Ronan to the floor, not bothering to soften the impact any more than necessary to keep him from breaking anything essential. Ronan responded with a muddled string of profanity, though the words lacked conviction.
“Whatever, Lynch. Don’t puke on my floor.” Another wave of exhaustion hit Adam. He resented the unanticipated extra effort of hauling Ronan up to the room. He resented the reek of alcohol. He resented everything that Ronan had and Adam didn’t.
His skin itched with dried sweat. He hated the feeling, but right now he hated being awake even more.
Adam gave up. He collapsed on his rigid mattress, not bothering to change out of his work clothes or turn off the small plastic lamp glowing in the corner.
“Why do you drink like that, anyway?” Adam spoke without really thinking about it. Even after the words left of his mouth he didn’t expect a response, not considering the state Ronan was in.
So it was a surprise to hear rustling as Ronan clumsily shifted to face the mattress. Adam looked down at him from his vantage point.
“It helps,” Ronan said slowly. Enunciating each word seemed to require significant effort. “With the dreams. Makes ‘em easier to…” he trailed off for a moment. “I don’t know.”
For a few seconds, Adam stared at Ronan’s unfocused eyes. He felt his resentment ebb slightly, though it didn’t go away entirely.
“Okay,” was all he said.
Then he rolled onto his back and almost immediately drifted off to sleep.
In the morning when he awoke, Adam worried for a brief second that he was seeing things again. The entire floor of the room, along with Ronan’s still-inert body, was littered with cherry blossoms. Adam sat up slowly, the realization dawning on him that these were dream flowers.
It helps with the dreams.
He supposed this was an improvement on blood and horrifying winged creatures.
When Ronan regained feeling in his limbs, he flicked a blossom at Adam.
"Don't say I never got you anything nice, Parrish."