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“I’ve figured it out.”
Adam looked up from the book spread in his lap, the spine cracked over his knee. Other volumes lay around him, a magic circle of his making.
Gansey was pacing, dragging his feet in patterns around the room as though he could wear a path into the woodwork if he went at it long enough. If only to prove he'd been here. His eyes were bright with ideas, hands folded behind his back in that presidential way of his. His exhaustion made Adam's flare up, psychosomatically.
They’d set up base in Gansey's room some hours ago, at Adam’s insistence; he was convinced they had missed something crucial, something that could explain yesterday’s strange occurrences in the forest, the illusions and the time freeze, something other than mass hysteria or hallucinatory chemicals or just wanting too much. He hoped it wasn’t the last one. They all seemed in the business of just wanting too much.
“You’ve figured what out?” Adam asked, pushing an escaped page back into place and shutting the book. It had gotten him nowhere. He placed it carefully on the pile with the others. Gansey’s filing system already left a lot to be desired, so he was sure he couldn’t make it worse, but he felt the need to treat the texts with care. So many were ancient and falling apart, and still probably worth more than his house. The floors of Monmouth were always covered in papers, books stacked like watchtowers, guarding a castle of ghost stories and desperation from all harm. It was a kingdom; Gansey, its king.
“Can you get Ronan in here, please?” Gansey asked absently, not answering Adam’s question. He was looking at a scuff on the wood, prodding it with his shoe as though it might hold the answer to their problem.
Adam stood and cracked his back with a groan. He left Gansey to his own devices and went to knock on Ronan’s door.
A rough, “Go away,” was all he got for his trouble.
“Why do you sound like you’ve been chain-smoking since you were six?” Adam called through the door, eyeing the faded Beyoncé sticker, out of place beside Metallica and the speeding tickets that covered the rest of the surface. The door swung open, and Adam jumped back.
“Parrish,” said Ronan, leaning one taut arm against the doorframe. He didn’t sound pissed off, but he didn’t sound pleased, either. “Maybe I have.”
“I'd know if you had a cigarette problem, Lynch,” said Adam, glancing him up and down as though he’d be able to see physical evidence of it.
“Who said it was a problem?” replied Ronan carelessly, and then paused, seeming to appraise Adam right back. “You’ve been spending an awful lot of time around here.”
Adam merely arched an eyebrow. “Suddenly taking an interest in me?”
Ronan flashed his teeth, but it wasn’t a smile. Then he grew bored with the conversation and moved to close the door. Adam’s hand flew out and caught the edge.
“What?” Ronan sighed.
“Gansey wants you,” said Adam, and that was really all it took.
*
“I’ve figured it out,” Gansey said again, when they’d all congregated in his room once more, for a given definition of all when it excluded Noah, who was sleeping, or possibly dead. It was difficult to tell in the dark.
“Aren’t you supposed to say, ‘I bet you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you here,’ and stroke your cat menacingly?” Ronan asked, elegantly sprawled across a chair, and Gansey’s shoulders slumped.
“I'm not a Bond villain,” Gansey said tiredly.
“No, my mistake,” Ronan replied, mouth curved and easy, almost fond. “You're the hero. Parrish can be the villain.”
Gansey's pristine white school shirt soaked through with blood, Gansey crying, soft, wrecked sobs, Gansey whispering, “I forgive you, I forgive you,” Gansey dying by his hand— Parrish can be the villain— I would never do that to him—
Adam sucked in a breath, and Ronan turned his head to look at him. Mouthed, O.K.? And maybe it was the fact that he couldn't bear to say it out loud but still found a way to ask it, a way that also made it private, that propagated their second secret of the day-- but for once, Adam truly believed he cared.
Ronan used to remind him of a bull-fighter. He led his troubles on, convincing them to trust him, then side-stepped away like he'd never seen them in his life; or he slammed into them with his whole being, let them take everything, let them bleed him dry. He was, Adam had thought, very easy to solve. But after what he had seen today, in the forest, an imaginary Gansey clinging to the both of them, one boy with each arm, the people who meant the most to him, the people he loved even with his blood staining their palms, Gansey gasping for breath and Ronan’s strong voice cracking, his strong heart pounding wild in his wrist, “It’s okay, you’ll be okay, we'll fix it, don’t leave me— us— Oh, God, Gansey, please— I can’t lose you too—”
After what Adam had seen today, he couldn’t look at Ronan the same.
He nodded, meeting Ronan's gaze all steady and meaningful, trying to see the softer version Adam knew was in there somewhere, and Ronan seemed to take this as a good answer, turning back to Gansey.
“If you would only listen," Gansey said, pinching the bridge of his nose like an Aglionby teacher with a headache, "instead of having Vulcan mind-meld conversations, I could tell you what I've discovered."
“O Wise and Terrible Leader, we are sheep at your command,” Ronan said flatly.
“We're listening,” Adam translated. It was sometimes difficult to understand Ronan, as every word was expertly cloaked in three levels of venomous sarcasm and at least one sushi wrap of advanced wizard irony before it even left his mouth.
“Fantastic,” Gansey said dryly. “Look, um, today, in my Cabeswater vision— I saw Glendower. He was everything I’d imagined, everything I’ve been searching for. It felt so real. And I was about to wake him.” His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white. “Adam, may I ask— What did you see today, when you stepped into that hollow?”
Adam winced, and Ronan shot him another look, halfway between concern and warning.
“I, uh,” Adam said, quiet and weak. That’s all he is. Weak. Get up, Adam— You’re nothing you’re nothing you’re nothing— I forgive you— “I don’t think you would like it.”
Gansey frowned. “Oh. Was it—”
“No. It wasn’t about him.” It was about you.
“Adam—”
“Don’t press, Gansey.” That was Ronan. “It’s not polite. Can you do your whole grand meaning-of-life speech without it? I have to feed Chainsaw in a minute.”
“I’ll help,” Adam said immediately.
Ronan eyed him curiously, but stood up anyway, long limbs falling back into place like a stretched cat refurling. “Lead the way.”
Grateful to make a hasty escape, Adam bolted from his chair and returned to Ronan’s bedroom, leaving Gansey puzzled as to how, exactly, that had all got away from him so fast. Ronan followed only a moment later, whistling something complicated and unpleasant as he threw himself into the room the way only Ronan could: a reckless, exaggerated, almost theatrical swagger, which said both that he couldn’t possibly care less and that he cared too much.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” Ronan said, pausing his tune, which sounded as though the composer had a criminal dependency on bagpipes and also alcohol.
“Shut up and feed your bird.” Adam could feel his voice beginning to tilt off-kilter, gearing up to give him away. I forgive you, I forgive you, I—
He would not cry. Parrish boys did not cry. Instead, they were angry.
“It was about him, wasn’t it?” Ronan asked. “Gansey.”
Adam didn’t answer. “What was that? That song you were whistling?”
“Come on, Parrish.” Ronan’s eyes glinted. “You don’t care. You’re not here for Chainsaw, either. You have a secret, and I'm a box you can scream into. Was it about Gansey?”
Adam watched Ronan carefully: his teeth perfect like headstones, his mouth dangerous like the gunfight that put them there. The tattoo curving sharp and wicked over his shoulder, like Death’s scythe poised to finish it all, waiting, waiting, like a fishhook, reeling him in. The hands, restless, wandering, wanting something they can’t name. The hands, shaking. The hands, betraying him.
Adam said, “Yes.”
Ronan said, “Tell him.”
Adam said, “I can’t.”
Ronan said, “You can. You just won’t. There’s always a difference. Tell him.” He paused, and the whole world held its breath. Impossibly, when he spoke again, his voice was gentle. “He deserves to know.”
In eight months, Adam had not often known Ronan to be gentle. He thought about those late summer nights, driving in the Camaro with all the windows down, only the hum of cicadas to keep them company and Ronan asleep in the backseat, for the first time in weeks, when Gansey would whisper, “He was different, before, you know. He was sweeter. He was so young.”
Ronan's coldness was carefully cultivated, practiced, a defense mechanism that rivaled Adam's own. Who was the softer creature Adam kept glimpsing? Which one was more real?
Adam said, “Okay.” When Ronan Lynch was gentle, you didn’t brush him off.
They walked down the hall to Gansey’s room, Adam dragging his feet like a funeral procession, trying to draw it out, and after a moment, Ronan laid a hand at the base of his spine, hot and insistent, not so much pushing him forward as making it impossible for him to turn back. The door was still open, and Ronan steered Adam toward the middle of the room, where Gansey still stood, flipping through a book.
“It was about you,” Ronan said, without preamble. “His vision. He hurt you or something. It’s fucking him up.”
Gansey blinked quickly, not quite surprised as taken aback. “Hmm,” he said, setting the book on his desk. “That makes sense. My theory— I think the forest knows you, somehow. Not you, you, but all of us. The energy there was incredibly powerful. I think it draws from your life force; solves you like a puzzle, shows you what you need to see.”
Adam looked at his shoes. “I didn’t need to see that."
Gansey seemed to soften, then, and here was the Gansey that Adam knew best, that he wished other people could know, that he was so frequently frustrated at his inability to reach; the Gansey who wore glasses and his heart on his sleeve, who didn’t brush his hair and hated being laughed at and couldn’t hold a single piece of dinnerware for five minutes without dropping it. “What did you see? You can tell me, I promise. You can tell me anything.”
“I—” Adam shook his head furiously, hunching his shoulders in until his collarbones could hold rainwater and Ronan stopped touching him. “I won’t, okay? Not this. I won’t— I wouldn’t, I would never— I try so hard not to hurt anyone, Gansey, you have to know I’d never—"
“I do,” Gansey said, reaching out a hesitant hand to touch Adam’s wrist, and— when Adam didn’t protest, even nudged closer in spite of himself, thirsty for a touch that didn't scorch him— linking their fingers. “Of course I do. You’re my friend, aren’t you?”
Ronan cleared his throat at this, and the tips of Adam’s ears blushed.
Gansey glanced between them. “Aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Adam said, and, again, helplessly, knowing that at any moment he would cry, weak, weak, you’re nothing— “I wouldn’t hurt you. And I don’t want you to hurt yourself, in pursuit of Glendower or anything else, it's not— necessary. There's another option, there must be.”
“Is that what it was? I tried to die for something?” Gansey ducked his head to meet Adam's eye. "I tried to die for you?"
“Because of me,” Adam whispered. Ronan made another noise, brushing his knuckles over Adam’s back again, almost encouraging. “I don’t know, it was vague, but… I felt this impossible sense of guilt. Even if I didn’t jam the knife in you, somehow, it was my fault.”
“No, you see,” Gansey said passionately, fervently, like he was trying to make them believe as feverishly as he did— always trying to make them believe. He squeezed Adam’s hand. “That's what it does. It doesn't really show you what you want to find, or what will happen. It shows you what you think you deserve. I saw Glendower because I needed to, because it’s why I was allowed to stand there at all. He’s why I’m alive. Finding him is what I believe I deserve, what I have to believe I deserve, because it’s my purpose. Because if I don’t—” He faltered, and this time it was Adam who squeezed his fingers. “If I don’t, what’s the point of living at all?”
“And you think... I think I deserve your death? That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Not my death, Adam,” Gansey said. “It’s not really about me. It never has been, has it?” He smiled, sort of. “You believe you’re not allowed to be happy, that everything you love will someday slip through your fingers. Even though we fight, you care about me. And that scares you.”
Adam opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. His chest felt tight. To his horror, he finally began to cry, hiccuping, shaking, full-body sobs. Gansey immediately brushed away a tear, thumb tender on Adam’s cheek, and Adam wanted to shove him away, wanted to be angry with him, but he felt utterly carved out, gutted and disposed of, and he knew Gansey didn’t mean any harm. He never meant any harm. You care about me, and that scares you. You care—
“Jesus,” Ronan said. He threw an arm around Adam’s shoulder, almost protective. “Look what you did, Gansey. Are we all done psychoanalyzing each other? Can we hug it out now? C’mon, don’t fucking cry.” This last command was directed at Adam, far kinder than the rest. There he went again, Ronan Lynch, being gentle.
(Oh, God, Gansey, please, I can’t lose you too—)
He thought of Ronan’s face in the vision, for once void of wildness, instead laid bare and despairing and in love with Gansey; to be without Gansey, was, for Ronan, to be without purpose. Adam, though he resented it, knew the feeling. One flash of that presidential smile and you were just another of his belongings. He thought of Ronan begging for Gansey to live, of Gansey brushing away his tears in real time, touching him without hesitation, though Adam had been cruel only hours before.
What do you want, Adam?
He wanted to kiss Blue. He wanted to kiss Ronan. He wanted to kiss Gansey.
He decided that, at the very least, one or two of these was possible at this precise moment, so he tilted forward slightly, heart trembling, cheeks still wet, felt Gansey suck in a breath, not surprised, but almost— disbelieving. Like he’d wished for this, but never expected it to happen. Adam knew that feeling, too, and had only a moment to take a sort of pride in it— The boy who believes in everything did not believe in this — before he and Gansey were kissing.
The first thing Adam noticed was the imperfection to Gansey, the imbalance. His lips were soft and not split, so different than Adam’s own that it gave him a thrill. I am kissing a boy, he thought, and then, I'm kissing Gansey.
But it was something else that shocked him: Gansey did not kiss as Richard Gansey III, charismatic and careful and appearing to hold all the cards. He kissed hard, and hungry, and desperate. He kissed like he was drowning. He kissed like he searched for Glendower: like he was allowed only one favor, and never another chance to ask for it. He kissed as Gansey, alight, Gansey-on-fire.
He had a very nice mouth. It was a shame it gave him away so often and so easily.
The kiss only lasted for a moment, but it felt like centuries. When they pulled back, flushed pink and warm, it was to find Ronan watching them with heavy-lidded eyes. His arm had never moved from Adam’s shoulder. The weight of it kept Adam on earth.
“It’s considered impolite to perve on people,” Gansey said, sounding breathless.
“You don’t mind,” Ronan said. It wasn’t a question.
“I want—” Adam began, and then swallowed hard. The words felt too small, too simple, to encompass the endless wealth of wanting he’d discovered in himself, buried deep and approximately the size of the known universe. He couldn’t finish the sentence. He let it hang, incomplete and waiting, and then he dragged Ronan down and kissed him, too. I want.
Ronan kissed back soft, self-conscious, his hand on Adam’s cheek big and comforting and just as sweet as Gansey’s had been. The hands, always, betraying him. When they, too, pulled back from each other, Ronan asked: “What about Blue?”
Adam touched two fingers to his lips, as though he might feel physical evidence of how much he’d changed in a day, in an hour, in a minute. There was nothing, but he felt it, anyway, inside. Gansey pressed another kiss, quick and hesitant, to the pulse beating just under his ear, and Ronan watched him with dark eyes.
In his sixteen years of life, Adam Parrish had grown used to making tough decisions. They were the kind of tough decisions you contemplated in the trenches of war, on the highway as the sun rose, or, in this case, in the witching hours of the night, counting your bruises and your blessings: Eat or be eaten. Kill or be killed. Do I stay or do I go?
Contrary to popular belief, you always had three options. You could die, you could finally feel alive, or you could do nothing and exist unhappily in between. He generally made these tough decisions by letting them make themselves, that is to say, choosing the third, non-option. That he should be forced to make them at all was unfair, but here he was, and here were all the things he wanted that for some reason or another he just could not have. You could love and lose, you could love and lose, or you could never love at all.
In his sixteen years of life, Adam Parrish had never before been presented with the elusive fourth option: that he might, wonderfully, impossibly, love many things at once and skip the losing altogether. That he might, wonderfully, entirely possibly, have those many things love him back.
What do you want, Adam?
“All of you,” he said fiercely, clutching at Ronan's shoulder with one hand, Gansey's shirt with the other, and thinking very hard of Blue and Noah to make up for their absence. “I want all of you, always.”