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“I’m not going, Dick,” Ronan says, right to the point. “I don’t care how great you say the craftsmanship is.”
He’s leaned against the side of a wooden stall, listening to the man shout about warm, roasted nuts in your mouth in a horrible attempt at some sort of accent. In front of them is an empty jousting list, where Ronan has a show to give in approximately half an hour, all decked out with colorful banners representing each of the knights.
One of the said knights next to him coughs. He stands tall with broad shoulders squared, wearing armor made up of thick fabric, chainmail, and metal plates. A sword hangs off his side, the sheath ornate and marked with the local blacksmith’s insignia. “That’s your Majesty,” Gansey replies, willfully ignoring the rest of what was said.
Ronan rolls his eyes. He brings his wrist up, digging teeth into the leather straps there. “I’m not calling you that. Ever. Not even if the real queen popped you out herself.”
Perched on Ronan’s shoulder, a very large raven calls out, “Krek!” It’s so loud, a few kids nearby startle, scurrying away from where they stand while laughing about it. Ronan reaches into a pouch tied at his side, pulling out a cracker and offering it to the bird. “Aye, Chainsaw,” he coos, “The blacksmith does suck.”
Gansey eyes the raven, then gives Ronan the same, unconvinced look. “I don’t believe that’s what she said at all,” he says. “Also, you could have at least attempted to give her a period-appropriate nickname.”
With the hand not holding up a cracker for Chainsaw to peck at, Ronan flips Gansey off. “Could’ve. Nay, didn’t, though.”
“You’re the strangest falconer I’ve ever met.” Gansey shakes his head, trying to sound displeased but failing entirely. A small smile starts at the corners of his mouth, growing until it’s all there is.
Ronan returns the smile with one of his own. It’s a prideful, wicked sort of smirk, the type that’s all teeth and cuts a sharp line through his features.
He loves weekends like these. They always feel like adventure, like excitement, like change.
…
“I’m just saying,” Blue starts, “You should take a break and come to the joust. That way, we can cheer Gansey on together.”
She’s sitting on the counter, a knife display that had been occupying the space before shoved to the side. Her short legs kick out aimlessly, the slight movement causing Blue to lose an inordinate amount of fairy dust on the wooden surface. The knowledge of how hard sparkles are to get rid of has Adam’s brows furrowing, irritated about two things instead of just one now.
“Can you not?” he asks, hoping he won’t have to elaborate further.
Blue tilts her head back, smiling at Adam where he’s standing with a short sword in hand. “Not what? Do this?” She kicks her legs harder, causing even more shimmery, blue-green dust to trail off her cellophane wings and layers of unnecessary fabric. “Or do you mean ask you to stop being such a workaholic and come with me to support your friend?”
“Both would be nice,” Adam mutters, his fake Elizabethan accent slipping into his drawl just a little. He fixes it and continues, “I’m a bit busy here, Milady.”
She raises an eyebrow, taking in the mostly empty booth. Close proximity to the arena means the shop has slowed significantly, as all the guests collect around the fenced-off area to watch the show and maybe, just maybe get a good glimpse of the faire’s new queen. “Busy,” Blue repeats, “Well, my good sir, if you shan’t change your mind, I shall take the hint and be on my merry way.”
Adam sighs, loud. He puts the sword back onto its display, grabbing another one to glare at. “Fair thee well, lady Blue,” he says dryly, not bothering to look up from the polished steel. “‘Til we meet again.”
From his periphery, Adam sees Blue huff and pout. She pushes off the counter, not bothering to put the knives back in their place before storming away. Adam watches her disappear into the crowd, reshelving the sword, fixing the knives, and calling out, “Ma’am – I mean, Mistress Calla, pray, might I take my leave for a, um, a rest?”
A short way off, a woman with dark skin, dark hair, dark-painted lips peers up at Adam. Calla shrugs, motioning with her hand for him to leave. “Off with you, then. Take all the time you wish, but bring me an ale upon return.”
Adam bites his tongue, holding back what he wants to say. Should you be drinking on the job? But Calla is the one who got him this weekend-only, summer job, and he doesn’t want to be rude. So, instead, Adam gives her a quick bow and leaves through a back door, out to a small, secluded area where no guests will see him. He grabs a cold water from the cooler, slumping down on a pull-out chair to put the chilly bottle to his sweaty, glistening forehead and sighing with relief.
He closes his eyes, listening as his ear picks up the sound of children screaming with joy, vendors selling their wares, other actors putting on their very best, most ridiculous, over-the-top Shakespearean imitations. A small, albeit quite loud, part of Adam has wanted to point out this is in no way an accurate portrayal of how anyone sounded during the Renaissance period; he holds it back if only because of –
“Krek!”
Something large, something noisy lands on the back of Adam’s chair so suddenly, it causes the cheap frame and fabric to rock forward. A warm, metal item drops right onto his lap, curiosity making him open his eyes to see what it could be. Resting next to his head, a raven ruffles her feathers with a familiar sort of pride, and when Adam looks down he sees why.
On his green trousers rests a golden ring, the design obviously from the booth right down the path. Adam picks it up, examining it with a pinched, exasperated expression. “I swear,” he mumbles, “You’re just like him. Always trying to get me in trouble.”
“Atom!” Chainsaw spits, the volume of it making Adam jolt with surprise.
Reluctantly, Adam stands, holding his forearm out for the raven. She hops onto him with no question, wincing as her sharp talons dig through the thin material of his tunic. “Shall we go return this?” he says, starting towards the door. “Ask forgiveness for your bad manners? For him not teaching you how to behave properly?”
The raven works her way up his arm, until she finds herself happily sat on Adam’s shoulder. She picks at his messy, brown locks with her beak, clearly satisfied with her misdeeds. On their way out, Calla gives the odd pair a quick glance, shaking her head.
Halfway to the jeweler, Adam hears a shout of, “Brat!” He comes to a quick stop, head whipping around to find the source before it finds him. Coming towards them from the direction of the soon-to-be starting joust is the man in question, the very man Adam wants to avoid.
Ronan Lynch is – well, he’s something. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with strong arms that are more appealing, in his grey tunic and black doublet with intricate gold stitching, than they have any right to be. His pale, freckled face is redder than usual, and Adam has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from commenting on it as Ronan approaches them.
“There you are, ya wee brat,” Ronan says, light eyes on Adam despite not addressing him. “We have a show to put on.”
Adam snorts at the terrible, very exaggerated brogue. “You need to keep a better eye on her,” he talks quietly, so the guests around them are less likely to hear, and he doesn’t have to bother with his own accent. “Next time she steals from a shop, I’ll tell them it was you.”
Ronan’s gaze narrows, scowl deepening. He holds out an arm, the fabric covered in telling, little holes. Chainsaw buries further into Adam’s neck, nibbling at his skin like she hasn’t even noticed Ronan is there. His already flushed face darkens, the blush crawling all the way up to sunburnt ears. “Fie,” he growls under his breath. Then, much louder, he goes, “Methinks this one might have a stick shoved up his arse.”
The insult, said for all to hear, turns Adam’s features red for an entirely different reason. He grips the stolen ring tight in his fist, using the sting of sharp metal against his palm to keep him steady. Grounded. Whatever clever reply Adam wants to say is lost, all he can do is spew out the first thing that comes to mind. “You sound like a leprechaun.”
His mouth opens and closes with an audible click. Dark eyebrows draw inward, glaring at Adam for an unnecessarily long time. Finally, Ronan says, “Aye, well, you sound like a fucking tool.”
“Wow,” Adam snaps. He crosses arms against his chest, lips pursed tight. “I beg your pardon? This? An insult coming from an immature falconer who cannot even take care of his livelihood? I’ve been slain by your wit, fellow Lynch.”
A crowd of faire-goers has formed around them, a number of them young children. Acutely aware of this, Adam tries to keep his role, but it’s hard to do when dealing with someone so infuriating. Ronan seems to have noticed this as well, because he’s shut up and is leveling Adam with a cold, frustrated look. He makes a noise at Chainsaw, who hesitantly peels herself from Adam’s neck.
“Come, Chainsaw,” Ronan barks out. The raven hops off of Adam, gliding the short distance over to settle in Ronan’s neck the same way she had his. “You’re a right nasty bastard, Parrish,” he says, turning on his heel to walk off through the crowd, and down the small hill, back towards the dusty arena.
Without Ronan to piss him off any further, Adam uncurls his fist to look at the gold ring in hand. He takes a moment to work intensely through his thoughts, then he closes his fingers around it again and continues on his way to the jeweler.
...
The falconer show happens between the ring event and actual joust, as a palate cleanser and to work the crowd up for the main spectacle. Adam had said he wouldn’t go, but after the whole ring ordeal, he finds himself hanging out on a straw bale with Blue anyway. Next to him, Blue picks at the layers of her handmade skirt, her nerves beginning to work on Adam’s own. All he wants to do is watch Ronan show off with Chainsaw, but it’s hard when Blue won’t stop groaning and fidgeting.
“What is going on with you?” he asks, under his breath so only Blue will hear.
Blue grimaces, pausing what she’s doing to peer at Adam. “I’m nervous,” she mumbles, “About Gansey. What if he –”
“Stop right there.” Adam puts his hand up, shaking his head. “You know this isn’t real, right? Like, he’s not actually jousting. This is all fake. It's acting.”
She balks at him. “I know! That doesn’t mean accidents can’t happen and, besides, this is his first time as,” Blue hesitates, glancing down at her skirt. “In the prince role. I just – I just want him to do well, okay? Sheesh, what’s got you all pissy? I thought you were having fun doing this with us!”
Fun.
Fun.
Because fun is having Ronan’s raven try framing Adam for theft. Fun is having Ronan call him a bastard in front of a huge group of guests. Fun is Ronan in the arena before him, a wild, carefree grin spread across his gorgeous lips as he shows off all the hard work he’s put into Chainsaw since adopting her from a rescue just over a year ago.
Adam lets out a deep breath, all the fight spilling out of him with it. “I am. It’s just a lot, alright? This whole...thing.” He stops, making a broad gesture with his hand.
Blue stares at him, eyebrows raised. “It was your idea. You said it would be...what was the word you used?” She taps at her bottom lip, finishing, “It was hot, wasn’t it? You said it would be hot to –”
“Sheesh, Blue! Can you just drop it? Please?”
She gives Adam a momentary, dubious look, but lets it go because that’s right when the whole crowd erupts in a shout of huzzah as Gansey, the prince, trots onto the field riding on his valiant, bay stallion.
…
Large, adventurous hands travel underneath Adam’s tunic, up his sides. The mouth pressed to his is desperate, sweet like honey mead, and so very, very easy to lose himself in. Adam could kiss Ronan like this for hours, until the sun falls over the horizon and the moon takes its place, until his mouth and chin stings from stubble, making it too painful to kiss but continuing anyway.
Adam wraps his arms around Ronan’s shoulders, he puts his palm to the back of Ronan’s head and holds him in place just like that so Adam can take everything Ronan has to offer and more. He moans shamelessly into the kiss, tongue delving out to lick every inch he can manage of Ronan’s mouth, indulging in the taste of saccharine liquor, the scent of sweat, and dust, and sandalwood, in all things Ronan, Ronan, Ronan. Pushing up closer, Adam traps Ronan between the side of the BMW and himself, knowing it’s a precarious position for a parking lot, but not caring after a day of acting like this isn’t everything he's always wanted.
He kisses Ronan until he can't anymore, stopping only when someone whistles at them. Realizing just what they’re doing, in a place where too many eyes can see, Adam pulls away without going far. His hands wander until they find Ronan’s ears, feeling the warmth radiating off of them where the tips have been burnt from the sun. Adam tilts his head, softly smiling. “You need to get better at applying sunscreen,” he says, pausing only to kiss Ronan again, lingering there. “You’ll do that for me, right?”
Ronan sucks in a breath through his teeth, lets it out from his nose. “Why don’t you do it for me?” he goads.
“Sunscreen should be applied every eighty minutes, Lynch. If I did it for you, what would the guests think?” Adam says matter-of-factly, “Thought we were playing enemies on the job. Not very antagonistic for me to caress your ears, is it? Oh! Shit, actually, that reminds me!”
“The fuck? Reminds you of what?” Ronan’s eyes narrow, not bothering to hide his suspicion.
Adam moves back more now, tapping at his costume until he feels something hard in one of his pockets. He hastily reaches in, tugging out a thick, gold band with an intricate Celtic knot design etched across it, presenting the ring to Ronan while grinning from ear-to-ear. “I was going to give this back, but I think it’ll fit you.”
“Shit,” Ronan murmurs, not even trying to hide the awe in his voice. “You stole a fucking ring?”
“Technically, no. Chainsaw did. I just kept it.”
“Christ. Wow, wow. You’re so…”
Ronan trails off, so Adam decides to finish for him by going, “Incredible? Intelligent? Unbelievably sexy?”
“Yeah, those too,” he breathes out in reply. “I was gonna say shameless, but those are better.”
Adam looks at the ring, then Ronan. He shrugs, feigning nonchalance but still smirking proudly. “You want it or not, Lynch? Either way, I’m not returning the damn thing now. Too suspicious.”
With his light gaze on Adam’s darker one, Ronan curls his fingers around the hand holding the ring without taking it. “You’re not gonna use it to frame me for Chainsaw’s crimes tomorrow? Swear on it?”
Hearing her name, Chainsaw shouts, “Kerah, Kerah, Kerah,” from where she circles above them.
“Maybe,” Adam replies. He cocks his chin up and continues, “Call me a bastard in that leprechaun impersonation of yours again and find out.”