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1.
Adam’s access to a shower is fine. Despite whatever stupid stereotypes about “trailer trash” his Aglionby classmates might believe, the double-wide does have one, and it is functional. For the most part, that is – at least when Robert Parrish remembers to pay the water and electrical bills.
Even so, he might as well not. The grease from the garage and the dust and grime from the factory and the claustrophobic clutter of the trailer itself all sink into his skin in a way that scrubbing can’t seem to get out. It wouldn’t matter if he used 50 different soaps or could afford whatever the stuck-up bastards at school do for their skincare routines - the very atmosphere of the trailer (of his father, of the world that he’s so desperately trying to escape) sticks to him in a way that reminds him always of how much lesser he is no matter what. Dirty, dusty Adam Parrish, even down to his hair – “Be careful not to touch, boys,” his inner imaginary Headmaster Child (no, it’s Professor Whelk; no, it’s Tad Carruthers; no, it’s Gansey) states to a room of gawking raven boys, “maybe the poverty catches.”
2.
The shower at St. Agnes is small and cramped, which is understandable for an old church, with finicky temperatures but surprisingly stable water pressure. The grime on Adam’s skin feels less entrenched, these days - the grease of the garage and the dust of the factory remain constants, but the lack of the filthy weight of Robert Parrish’s presence has removed part of the stain that Adam attempts to scrub out every shower.
He can pretend some of the dirt that lingers in his soul belongs to Cabeswater, that it’s there to help him grow just like any other of the forest’s plants. That theory comforts and distresses him in equal measure - he may not be the same dirty, dusty Adam Parrish, but he still doesn’t want to grow roots here. He reminds himself of Persephone’s lessons, reminds himself that Cabeswater doesn’t own more than he promised it. It doesn’t own him, it doesn’t own his future. He can still get out - and maybe, just maybe, the grime will disappear once he leaves Henrietta, and he’ll be able to feel truly clean for the first time.
3.
The grime that clings comes back five-fold in the days following Gansey’s death and subsequent not-death. As he goes to take a shower the day after, he catches his reflection in the small mirror hanging above the sink in St. Agnes. He looks at his hands and sees them choking a Ronan who wouldn’t fight back; he looks at his face and sees the eyes the demon tried to claw out like it tried to claw out Blue's; he looks at himself and sees a boy (no: a monster) covered in enough invisible dirt to suffocate.
4.
Showers at the Barns rarely make him think of the grime. Adam wonders why, given that the bathroom is the fanciest he’s even been in, the water and tile both smooth and luxurious. He ought to feel dwarfed by it, unworthy of it, be worried his presence would taint it. And yet.
It's hard to feel unworthy when the boy in front of him looks at him through the water like he’s wanted for the first time in his life, like no one else could ever compare - like a prayer for which no words exist (but by God is that beautiful boy going to bring those words into existence anyway - Ronan has never been one to accept the bounds of God or nature without a fight, and his dreams are limitless).
The grime can’t touch him here - together, neither of them will let it.
+1.
His classmates complain about the showers at Harvard the way they complain about everything else in comparison to home: not good enough, too dirty, too cluttered. Adam knows that home is a complicated thing for him, a collection of people rather than a place, which makes exaggerated comparisons of amenities in attempts at commiseration difficult. Even so, showers in the dorms aren’t too bad - he’d even go as far as to say that they’re some of the best he’s ever had.
They can’t compare to the ones at the Barns with Ronan, their mornings of splashing each other with teasing smiles and unconscious laughter or their evenings of tender touches and heated glances, but otherwise… The dorm showers may be hurried, but not hurried like the ones where he rushed to finish before his father could take issue with his existence. They may be cramped, but not cramped like the ones at St. Agnes in the days after he first moved there, where he shared the space with his bitterness at the loss of his freedom to choose and his debt to the others.
The dorm showers, cramped and hurried as they may be, are something tangible, real, and his. Something he worked himself to the bone for the chance to use, something he earned fair and square, something he doesn’t doubt that he deserves. He has autonomy here.
And now, when he showers, he doesn’t even consider the grime.