Work Text:
When Ronan opens the door, he finds Monmouth’s innards glowing with an eerie, blue-green light. He stands on the top stair, peering into the barely illuminated darkness with squinted eyes and a deepening frown. He can make out the shapes of Noah and Blue by the pool-table, silhouettes against the almost sickly brightness.
“Don’t turn the light on,” Comes Gansey’s voice as Ronan steps into the room. He proceeds to kick the door closed behind him and finds Gansey’s form against the dim evening light coming in the towering window at the other side of the room. “They’ll scold you.”
It’s tempting, but Ronan doesn’t bother with the light. He stalks over to the pool table instead, letting his bag drop to the floor when he comes to a halt next to Blue. She doesn’t acknowledge him, just continues to move a long, hand-held black-light back and forth over a pair of carnations sitting in a glass of shallow water. The tips of the round petals are freckled with illuminated turquoise splotches.
“What the hell?” Ronan asks.
“It’s an experiment,” Blue informs him, the hand holding the light stilling as she waves the other one at the collection of items by Noah’s elbow; a pair of scissors, a mangled hightlighter, and it's yellow ink pad lie on a piece of paper towel. Noah, hunched over and resting his folded arms on the edge of the table, stares hard at the flowers, expression—like Blue’s tone—lacking excitement.
“It’s not exactly what we were hoping for,” Blue says more to Noah than Ronan. Noah nods and straightens, stretching out an index finger to poke at one of the carnations.
“I thought they’d be… brighter,” he shrugs. “Like stars.”
“That picture was definitely photoshopped,” Blue says with a huff that indicates she’s regretting putting her faith in humanity, and turns the light off with a definitive click. They listen to Gansey’s footfalls and a moment later the lamp turns on, replacing the soupy darkness with a warm, yellow light.
“Maybe we need more highlighters,” Blue says as she starts to collect up their mess. Noah hooks his fingers over the edge of the table and leans back, letting out a long, low sigh.
“Sorry,” Blue says as she touches Noah's shoulder apologetically, and Ronan gets a stupid idea.
-
Ronan dreams up flowers for Noah; dark blue petals, their insides glittering with silver sunspots and glowing with white light, stems thin but sturdy. He plucks them from a small clearing in Cabeswater and urges himself to wake up.
Lying in his bed, he can't see any flowers. Instead, he opens his white-knuckled fist, and finds his palm full of black seeds, round like pebbles with skin like almonds. He holds one between his thumb and forefinger, and scoffs. Apparently, he has to work for this.
-
He drives out to Noah's grave—his real one, where his bones are—the next morning. Gansey doesn't ask any questions when Ronan shoulders on his jacket and tosses a wave, and it's better that way. Ronan doesn't want people asking him questions anyway, but this situation is... well, it's stupid. Stupid because Ronan doesn't have a damn clue why he's doing it.
The grave is unmarked, but Ronan finds it, the grass darker around the edges. He pulls the handful of seeds out of his pocket, and shuffles them around his palm, eyes moving slowly and thoughtfully between them and the grass.
He doesn't know why this should matter so much to him. Except, maybe he does, but he's not gonna stand around and think about it. He'd rather not give any more of a shit than he already does.
“Fuck it,” he says under his breath. He saunters back to the car, and yanks a shovel out of the back.
-
Noah is in poor spirits when Ronan gets back to Monmouth. He's sprawled out on top of the pool table, staring up at the ceiling. He looks strange, again, the light in the room ignoring him, slipping through the fingers he has hanging over the edge of the table. He's too dark, thin in a way that makes Ronan uncomfortable. He shoves his apprehension under a load of sarcasm and says, “You're in a good mood.”
Noah turns his eyes to Ronan and offers a tired half-smile.
“You, too,” Noah says, and they're caught in a staring contest that Ronan can't figure out the rules to, so he throws up his middle finger and trudges over to his room. Noah is quick to follow, and Ronan can feel him at his shoulder when he opens his bedroom door. He doesn't like having people in his room, but Noah's different somehow. Maybe because he's teetering on the edge of being a person and something else.
"You still down about those ugly flowers?” Ronan asks with expertly veiled curiosity. He chucks his bag on the floor and drops onto his bed, letting his hands settle on his knees. He notices a smudge of dirt on his thumb, and wipes it on his jeans. Noah shrugs, and walks the length of the window, shoulders drawn up to his ears.
“I don't feel very good,” he says offhandedly.
“How much do you feel usually?” Ronan asks. Noah shrugs again, and Ronan thinks this conversation is a bad one for both of them. He claps his hands together and stands.
“Let's wrestle,” he says, rolling a shoulder, and Noah—predictably and thankfully—brightens.
It's not always easy to wrestle with a ghost. Noah has a tendency to fade in and out of being completely corporeal, and that makes him a slippery target, harder to hold. Fortunately for Ronan, Noah has yet to realize that he could have the upper-hand in their sparing, and his weak footwork and lack of focus usually works to Ronan's advantage. Today, though, Noah is throwing himself quite determinedly into the brawl, and Ronan's fists aren't feeling especially bloodthirsty. They grapple at each other mostly, trying to stagger one another. It's more of a fight than usual, but Ronan's mind is other places—Noah's grave, for one, Noah's eyes, for another—and when Noah hooks a foot around his ankle, they both go down. Ronan fumbles with a string of curses, and Noah laughs from above him. He's managed to pin one of Ronan's arms, but Ronan isn't about to surrender. He grabs hold of Noah's upper arm and swings him to the side, using the momentum to roll onto his knees, reversing their roles. Noah blinks up at him, still grinning.
“Have you been practicing?” he asks, as if Ronan isn't always the winner. A second later, Noah's legs are wrapped around Ronan's waist, and Noah is shoving him over onto his back, again. Back on his knees and straddling Ronan, Noah raises an eyebrow, obviously pleased with himself.
“Have you?” Ronan growls, and Noah starts laughing again, one hand splayed across the right of Ronan's ribs.
Noah is still giggling when Ronan presses his forearm against his chest and pushes him off. He rolls to the side, and sprawls out on the floor.
“I win,” Ronan says, elbowing Noah in the side.
“That's winning for you?” Noah asks, turning his head to peer at Ronan sidelong. “What's losing like?”
“Shut up,” Ronan grits out, but he's wearing a sharp smile, aimed at the ceiling. He can see Noah looking at him in his peripheral vision, but he doesn't turn his head. He lets himself think the tiles are intensely interesting.
“Knock knock,” Noah says, and Ronan flinches when Noah's knuckle taps twice against his temple. Ronan swats his hand away, and still doesn't turn, not even when Noah flips onto his side.
“What?”
“That's not how it works.”
Ronan groans, his eyes flicking towards Noah for a second. He sees him biting his lip, maybe stifling a laugh. “Who's there?”
“You.”
“You who?”
“You're lonely,” Noah says, serious. Ronan looks at him and scoffs, ignoring the line of concern between Noah's eyebrows.
“That's not very funny,” Ronan says.
“I guess I don't know any good ones,” Noah admits.
-
The seeds don't grow. Ronan digs up one of them but it's untouched, unbroken. Ronan buries it again and decides to confront his dreams.
It seems pointless and idiotic, but he asks Cabeswater for help. He walks between trees, searching, eyes scoring the green grass and shaking leaves. He steps into a small pool of water, and the sound of it trickling down piles of rocks is loud in his ears. He bends down, holds out his hand in the clear liquid. His other hand clutches plastic, and he raises the watering can to the running water.
He wakes up and finds Noah, perched on the end of the bed. The watering can, pink with a sunflower painted on its side—Cabeswater has a sense of humour, apparently—is cupped in his long, pale, fingers. He looks at it inquisitively, his head tilted to the side. Ronan lurches out of half-sleep and grabs the can, and Noah lets it go, blinking at Ronan in confusion. Noah's going to spoil everything, and the thought is making something airy and sharp flutter in his chest.
“Get the hell out!” Ronan says, water sloshing in the can. His voice is louder than he expects—louder than Noah expects, too, judging by his wide eyes. He leaps off the bed and Ronan shoves the can out of sight, hidden by a heap of other dream items.
“What?” Noah asks, because being in Ronan's room is usually not a problem. Usually, after the dark sets in, Noah's body stretches out across the end of the bed or his knees press into Ronan's back or his thigh rests next to Ronan's nose. They don't talk about any of those things, though.
“I said, get the fuck out,” Ronan snaps. Noah's brow furrows, and his Adam's apple bops in his throat.
“I thought you said get the hell—”
“Noah,” Ronan grits out.
“I won't touch it again. You can go back to sleep and I'll be quiet,” Noah says.
“What's going on?” Come's Gansey's tired voice from the other side of the wall.
“Noah's a voyeur!” Ronan throws over his shoulder.
“What?” Gansey sounds less tired all of a sudden.
“Am not!” Noah shouts at the wall, and then he's gone. His voice—flustered and too angry for Ronan's comfort—hangs in the air, then there's silence, and Ronan feels like shit.
“Ronan?” Gansey's standing outside the door now. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” Ronan says, picturing Gansey on the other side of the door, picturing the dozens of places Noah could be now.
There's hesitation for a second, then Gansey says “okay,” and walks quietly away.
Ronan turns and looks at the watering can, the water silvery from the moon. He scratches irritably at the tense muscles in his shoulder and stumbles back to the mattress. His mind trips over thoughts of Noah, and he falls into sleep.
-
“What happened last night?” Gansey asks when Ronan finally emerges from his bedroom the next morning. Ronan's frown deepens; Gansey's not supposed to ask him questions.
“Nothing. Noah around?”
“He said you were angry,” Gansey says. He's sitting at his desk, a cup of something heavily spiced—thanks to 300 Fox Way's influence, most likely—in his hand. Wisps of steam rise and curl around his face, and he's staring at Ronan like he knows something he doesn't, but is incredibly apologetic about it.
“'m not,” Ronan says, avoiding the pointed look Gansey's throws him. Chainsaw squawks in the other room, like even she knows he's lying. “I'm not anymore, alright?” He corrects himself.
“Did he do something?” Gansey presses, setting the cup down. Ronan tucks his hands in his pockets and looks at Gansey's mattress on the floor, wondering why Noah makes himself at home on Ronan's bed instead of out here. The sheets are painted a soft, inviting pink from the morning light, a sharp contrast to the pile of shadows Ronan sleeps in. He swallows, thinking of Noah's face in the dark.
“It was a misunderstanding,” he says. He rolls his shoulders, like he hopes he can shake off the conversation. “I'm not angry.”
“You're always angry,” comes Noah's voice and both boys turn to look at him, a shadowy figure in the corner of the room. He has his arms crossed over his chest, the smudge under his eye a deep, dark hole.
“I'm not,” Ronan says again, heading for the door. “Come on, Czerny. I'll buy you a fuckin' jello, alright?”
Noah hesitates, Gansey gives an encouraging nod, and Ronan curls his hand in the barely-there fabric of Noah's sleeve as he passes.
-
“You still didn't say you were sorry,” Noah says from his seat in the grocery cart. He has his long legs pulled up to his chest, and his back is hunched under the small upper basket. He's holding a packet of lime jello in his hands. Ronan knows he doesn't eat, he just knows that Noah likes to make it.
“For what?” Ronan asks as he tosses a box of macaroni between Noah's legs.
“You shouted at me. Really shouted at me,” Noah says as he inspects the jello instructions.
“I told you to get out. You did. No hard feelings.” Ronan doesn't look at Noah, just grabs the cart by its front and pulls it after him as he scans the shelf. The cart wobbles a little, the wheels rusted and uncooperative, and Noah wobbles with it.
“Do you know how to apologize?” he asks. He sounds genuinely curious.
“Sorry,” Ronan says to a can of tomato soup before tossing it into the cart.
-
Once the flowers get a taste of the water from Ronan's dream, they grow quickly. By the end of the week, they stand tall, stretching towards the grey sky in search of sun. Their heads, though, droop with unopened blossoms still half cocooned in green. Ronan drops by a day later, and finds they haven't changed.
He crouches down next to one of them and takes the blossom into his hand. With his thumb and pointer finger, he tries to open up the fragile petals, trying to see the light that had emanated from them in his head. He pries them farther apart, pushing his other thumb in the base of the dark bulb, and with a soft tearing sound, the petals pull free and his thumb punctures through the green skin and he hears a wet pop and—
Goddamnfuckingshitshitshit—
-
“Apology accepted,” Noah says when he plops down next to Ronan on the couch. He has a bowl of jiggling green jello in one hand, and a spoon in the other. Ronan wonders what the bathroom/kitchen must look like, but he decides to let Gansey find out when he gets back with Adam.
“You're easy,” Ronan says mildly, scratching at Chainsaw's feathery chest. She leans into the touch, jutting out her beak. Ronan's been in a foul mood since the flower incident, but the company of ravens and ghosts can apparently do wonders.
“Maybe,” Noah says, unbothered, snuggling deeper into the cushions. Inexplicably, Ronan's foot ends up wrapped around Noah's ankle. “I thought you'd miss me too much if I stopped hanging out with you.”
Ronan wipes a smirk on his shoulder and Chainsaw chatters happily. A spoonful of jello presses against the corner of his mouth.
“It's good,” Noah says as he slides the spoon against Ronan's bottom lip. Ronan lets his eyes skim over Noah's face before he opens his mouth and eats the cube of gelatin. Noah watches expectantly.
“Did you add sugar?” Ronan asks with a grimace after he swallows, and Noah's forehead lands on Ronan's shoulder when he starts to laugh.
-
Ronan heads out to the BMW that evening, trying to decide whether he'll check on the flowers or run them over. The car feels cold when he gets in, and it isn't until he's pulled away from Monmouth and started down the road that he realizes Noah is sitting in the passenger seat.
“You forgot your buckle,” he says, tapping the plastic lock beside Ronan's hip. Ronan takes the belt and snaps it into the lock.
Noah hits play on the CD player, and the speakers fill with the familiar sound of the Murder Squash Song. Noah smiles lopsidedly, turning his head to look at Ronan's profile.
Ronan doesn't say anything, trying his best to ignore the feeling of Noah's eyes, and turns up the volume.
By the next corner, they have the windows rolled down, somewhere between singing, screaming, and laughing the lyrics into the evening.
-
Noah recognizes the church immediately. Ronan pulls over, shoves the gear shift into park, and shuts off the music.
“What are we doing here?” Noah asks, unable to mask the apprehension in his words. Ronan doesn't answer; just pockets the keys and climbs out of the BMW. He shuts the door behind him and heads for the flowers, not looking back. In a moment, Noah follows.
Ronan stops in front of cluster of flowers, still tall and still unopened. Whatever's wrong with them doesn't seem to be wearing off. It's like they just decided to stop growing. Ronan puts his fists in his pocket and scowls down at them. Noah's chin rests on Ronan's shoulder.
“This is my...” Noah's voice trails off as he steps around Ronan. He looks more real here, and Ronan figures it's got something to do with the fact that his bones are three steps and six feet beneath them. He might also like to think that he helps ground Noah in the real world. Noah wanders hesitantly into the middle of his grave, and all at once, the flowers turn and stretch towards him. Noah's eyebrows shoot up, and he pauses, staring down as each petal unfurls, and light paints him with silvery white
Ronan stares at the dark flowers, their petals almost metallic, reflecting an array of colors. Each is freckled with white that glows and sparkles; each flower containing a tiny universe, the stars brighter than any beginning to peek through the darkening sky above them. Ronan realizes with a flood of prickling frustration—and a tinge of relief—that Cabeswater had taken him literally when he'd asked for flowers for Noah. They were for him and only him.
“What—,” Noah says, turning in a slow circle to look at each shimmering face. “Did you—?”
Ronan shakes the surprise from his face and shrugs.
“They're... so pretty,” Noah says in this soft, breathless voice that makes Ronan's stomach tighten.
“Why'd you put them here?” Noah asks, crouching down to touch one of them. Somehow, it gets brighter when his fingers brush against it.
“They're for you, idiot,” Ronan says. Noah's awed expression changes, his mouth curling into a smile and his eyes—still on the flower—are small and crinkled at the corners. The smudge under his eye seems lighter. He straightens again, letting his gaze sweep over the tiny garden. Ronan watches, his heart an unfamiliar thing in his chest. Noah grins a little wider and steps out of the circle of flowers, their heads turning slowly to face him, the light fading only a little. Noah stands by Ronan's side, their shoulders touching.
“Thanks.” Noah turns his head to look at Ronan's profile. Ronan doesn't want to meet his eyes.
“You're welcome.” He forces his voice to be steady.
Noah keeps looking at him, and Ronan keeps looking at the grave, and Noah slips his fingers between Ronan's.
Ronan doesn't know what to think. Noah's skin is cold, clammy, rough and soft at the same time, and Ronan isn't shaking him off. His stomach is doing that thing again, and he doesn't know why he doesn't care that Noah is holding his hand. He just knows he doesn't. He clears his throat, and squeezes Noah's hand, his fingers pressing against the lines of his palm like their feet press against the ley lines of Henrietta.
“Fuck,” Ronan exhales, tugging Noah against his side. Noah grins, and everything is strange in the most comforting way possible.