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The thing is, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise.
It isn’t as though Adam doesn’t know how Ronan feels. He’d known from the start, long before he knew if he felt the same (but really, how was he meant to know? How do you define something you’ve never experienced?).
When Ronan had kissed him the first time – soft brush of lips against his, once, twice, stopping time, making him feel full of blinding white light, short-circuiting the fine-tuned machine that was Adam Parrish – Adam had known.
When Adam had finally returned the kiss, his heart hammering in his throat as he pushed Ronan up against the porch railing, drinking him in so deep he thought he’d never need to breathe again, he’d known.
And of course he had, because there was no other option. Ronan Lynch was not, would never be, something to experiment with. Adam knew he could not try him on for size and claim ignorance later. The mere thought was anathema.
No, Adam had walked into love with Ronan with his eyes wide open, as deliberate as when he’d bargained himself to Cabeswater, but this time, fully aware of what he was signing up for. He knew it was not a game; he was not playing. He knew that there were no half-measures with Ronan Lynch, with the intricate paradox and miracle that he was. He knew that Ronan gave his heart away completely or not at all, and that when he did it, it was for good. Adam wasn’t always sure if he was worthy of it, but he was always sure he wanted to be. Ronan was a challenge Adam had never backed away from.
So, yeah. Adam knows. They just haven’t talked about it, because neither of them are very good at the talking thing, and because while Adam doesn’t doubt that he reciprocates the feeling – if he had, he would never have kissed Ronan back, despite what Gansey might think – it’s a different thing altogether to say it out loud. Of the two of them, Ronan is the poet, as profane as his verses tend to be. Adam doesn’t know how to put words to something as beautiful as what he feels – it is enough to feel it. He doesn’t want to make things ugly, so he keeps quiet, and Ronan keeps quiet, almost as if by unspoken agreement. Until now, that is.
“Happy birthday.”
Adam looks up from the photo album he’s been leafing through, pictures of Ronan and Matthew and Declan and sometimes even Gansey. They must have been taken by Aurora, lovingly and carefully framed and pasted onto creamy paper. Niall Lynch is conspicuously absent.
Ronan is holding up a single cupcake with a candle stuck on it. The icing is bright pink. The corner of Adam’s mouth twitches.
“Don’t you fucking start on me, Parrish. Opal picked the color.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Adam protests, without bothering to hide his grin. “An inspired choice. I’ll make sure to tell her so,” he comments, nodding his head to the upstairs floor, where Opal is currently asleep in Matthew’s bed.
Ronan grumbles something obscene and hands him the cupcake, and Adam dutifully blows the candle out.
“We’ve already had cake,” he points out. “Twice, in fact, remember? Because Gansey bought that lavender affair, and Blue baked that yogurt-banana bread?”
An eyeroll. “I remember, Parrish, I was fucking there.”
“And?” Adam raises an eyebrow.
“And what? Sargent’s the only one who’s allowed to bake you things? So what if I want to bake my boyfriend a fucking cupcake?”
“I thought it was Opal’s idea.”
“I said the icing was.”
Adam lets him off the hook before the friendly teasing can turn into actual bickering, because the truth is he’s elated. He’s gone 18 years without a proper birthday party, and now his friends are going out of their way to make it up to him, with cake and hugs and presents, and more importantly, just by being there, and Adam’s heart is filled to bursting.
“Thank you,” he says, earnestly. “I love it.”
Something weird flashes behind Ronan’s eyes, and Adam almost asks, then thinks better of it. He’s never tried to pry Ronan’s secrets out of him – it’s part of why they work so well.
He busies himself with eating the cupcake – which is surprisingly delicious – and hopes Opal didn’t insist on putting leaves or insects in the batter.
When he looks up next, Ronan is staring at him quietly, and there’s something almost pained in his expression, like he’s holding on to something and he’s not sure what will hurt worse – letting it out or biting it back. It’s the way he used to look at Adam before, when everything between them was still unspoken and uncertain: like the mere fact of Adam was a confusing, painful thing, and Ronan couldn’t get enough of it.
It makes Adam’s heart do strange somersaults inside his chest, and he’s more breathless than he’d like when he asks, “What?”
Ronan looks terribly afraid for a moment, and absolutely certain the next. When he speaks, his voice is as steady as the pulse of the ley line in Adam’s blood.
“I love you.”
Adam stops breathing. He’s not ready for this – how is he not ready for this? He knows, he knew, of course he knew, and it was gonna happen sometime, but he wasn’t ready for it to happen now, when he’s got pink icing all over his hand, his cheeks comically full like a hamster’s, and what he’s sure is an idiotic expression of surprise on his face – he wasn’t ready for it to happen here, on the couch where they first made out, with Ronan staring at him like he’d go to war for him if Adam asked, like he’d follow him to the ends of the world and back, and it’s just—too much, too much, and he chokes, his eyes stinging with the overload of it.
“Adam?” Ronan looks alarmed, and Adam’s not sure if it’s because he’s not replying, because of the tears slowly but surely forming in his eyes, or because he’s legitimately afraid Adam is about to suffocate on red velvet cupcake crumbs, and is preparing to give him a Heimlich.
“I’m—” he swallows down the pastry with some difficulty, then tries to do the same with the lump in his throat, but it just won’t leave. “Ronan, I’m—fuck—” he swears when he realizes he’s wiped his cheek with his sticky, sugary hand.
He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, but opens them again right away, because he doesn’t want to miss any of this, not even a second. He wants to burn the feeling in his mind forever, to keep and cherish and revisit on rainy days, when the world feels hard and cold and unforgiving, and everything about himself feels wrong.
“Thank you,” he chokes out, and realizes immediately, with horror, that it’s the wrong answer, but he can’t help the words slipping out because beyond anything, beyond the happiness and surprise and rush of overwhelming affection, he’s so grateful. He’s grateful because only last year he’d thought love was a privilege, a gift he would never know how to give or receive, something that was denied to him due to the dust clinging to him, marking him as a utilitarian, ragged, unknowable thing – but here he is, surrounded by friends who care about him and that he’d lay down his life for; here he is, with Ronan Lynch – unfathomable, beautiful, magical Ronan Lynch – telling him he loves him, he loves him, he loves him. Adam wants to hold onto the words and never let go. He had never known it was possible to be this happy, and he never wants it to stop.
“What I mean is – sorry, shit, Ronan – I love you too,” he says, and hates himself for fumbling it, for making a mess of this, of all things. He’s been mentally preparing himself for the words ever since Ronan and he got together, and in all his plans, he delivered the words smoothly and earnestly, no hesitation, a hand cupping Ronan’s cheek. Instead, he’s curled up on a couch, his hair standing on end from where Ronan’s been running his hands through it, his eyes probably puffy and red, and a smudge of pink sugar across his nose and cheek. Well, fuck.
“I love you,” he repeats, the words steel-sure in his unsteady voice, because he’s not backing down from it, no matter how embarrassing he looks right now.
Ronan’s face splits into a blinding smile, and it’s like the sun coming out of the clouds. “Yeah?”
Adam’s taken aback. “Well, yeah? The hell did you think was going on here?”
And then Ronan laughs, honest to God laughs, and everything’s right with the world again. His shoulders release tension Adam hadn’t noticed he was holding, and oh, of course. This hadn’t been easy for him either. Adam wonders how long he’d been holding on to the words, looking for an opening, fearing rejection.
Ronan leans in and kisses him once, gently, then again, lingering and heavy as Adam breathlessly kisses back, clinging to his shoulders ferociously. Then he licks Adam’s cheek where the sugar stripe has already turned sticky.
“You’re disgusting,” Adam giggles, his voice still thick with tears and joy and emotion.
“Shut up, Parrish. You love me,” Ronan beams. Adam does, fiercely and absolutely.
“I do,” he admits, his accent turning the vowels mellow and soft. For once, he doesn’t mind it so much.
“Good. Because I fucking love you. Like, a lot. Like, it’s kind of embarrassing just how much, and we’ll never speak of it again.”
Adam laughs, knowing a lie when he hears one.
“Happy birthday,” Ronan repeats, his smile turning softer. And it really, truly is.