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“The stars look different out here.”
Ronan casts his gaze up to the sky, ink-black and smattered with stars, white-gold flecks of paint on an impossible canvas. The sky here is familiar, engrained in memories from a young age, and the roof of the barn below them is equally familiar like an old friend, cool and grooved below his palms, his legs. They’re the same stars as the ones he'd grown up with, the same ones he’s seen on the roof of Monmouth, the same ones he looks at up at the lookout a half hour’s drive from Henrietta, and, ostensibly, the same ones Adam’s seen from the steps of the shithole doublewide he’d been in for so long.
Instead of saying something snarky, as he's prone to doing, Ronan simply asks, “How so?”
Almost a year of dating Adam has taught Ronan that these moments are a hook and he is but a willing fish, biting down on the metal with no regard in case of reward. Instead of worms Ronan gets tidbits of Adam, of his thoughts, his emotions, his honest, raw truths that only ever come out in the late hours of the night or in the small hours of the morning. They hide in casual statements like what Adam’s just said, a testing of waters that have been tested hundreds of times, and Ronan, every time, reassures Adam that the waters are clear, that there’s no rocks to crash against. Sometimes Adam sails ahead, sometimes he doesn’t—Ronan’s still not been able to figure out what his mental parameters are, and he’s not sure he ever will.
“They’re brighter out here.” Adam explains, and Ronan watches him tip his head up to the sky, balanced back on his hands. “Which makes sense, because of the lack of light pollution, but they feel different, too. Happier.”
Ronan knows Adam’s talking about the stars.
Ronan also knows this isn’t about the stars.
“Helps that they’ve got themselves eight thousand barns of dream things to amuse themselves with.” Ronan comments casually—the most casual he’s ever been, really—and lets his own gaze track back up. “And I’m sure they love me chasing down Opal at eleven pm because she tried to eat my work boots in retaliation for something Chainsaw did.”
Adam laughs, a short, quick burst of sound that never fails to get Ronan’s heart going, and Ronan grins in response, pleased. He’s been hearing Adam laugh more and more often as of late, and while Ronan’s not sure of the mechanics of why, he doesn’t really care, not when the end result leads to Adam laughing so hard he’s bent at the waist or has tears in his eyes—the good kind, for once.
“I’m with the stars,” Adam ribs, smiling as he scoots closer to Ronan, elbowing him in the side. “I love watching you chase Opal around from the porch. She always zigs when you zag, so you should probably work on fixing that.”
Ronan returns the nudge, (maturely) sticking his tongue out in response. This is the tricky part—if he replies too casually, or pushes for the truth of the conversation, Adam will retreat with hook in hand, and Ronan will likely never hear whatever he was going to say. Silence is tough, too, because it runs the risk of Adam thinking he’s uninterested. They’ve gotten better at communicating, but Ronan knows Adam struggles just as much as he does, so they’re left to strike a balance until they can find something better. That balance, and many conversations of this sort, leave Ronan with the inclination to keep quiet. Adam’s ruminating on something—Ronan’s seen his pensive, thoughtful expression before, though the moonlight casts a different shadow on it—and it’s better to leave things be for now.
Ronan finds Adam’s hand in the relative dark and takes it in his own, playing with his fingers and thumbing across his knuckles, mapping out skin he’s spent the last few months devoted to memorizing, and receives a quiet sigh in response. Ronan doesn’t say anything, instead readjusting his hold so he can rub over Adam’s hand—it’s cold, and while Adam hasn’t complained (or possibly even noticed), Ronan has, and after a moment of warming up Adam’s hand, he retracts, receiving a questioning look in response.
“Here.” Ronan says quietly, shrugging off his flannel before wrapping it around Adam’s shoulders, making sure the sides cover his arms, fingers ghosting across cool skin as he does. “Take my jacket. Or my shirt-turned-jacket. Whatever you want to call it.”
It takes a moment for Ronan to figure out Adam’s expression, but his heart aches as he picks out appreciation first and surprise second. In the past few months, Adam’s been more or less living at the Barns, spending days on end instead of only overnight, and Ronan’s taken the chance to treat Adam as he’s always wanted to. He’s made cups of coffee, steaming and ready for when Adam trudges downstairs; tucked him in with an old, warm quilt when he falls asleep on the couch after a long day; thrown his clothes in with the wash and folded them far more neatly than Ronan had ever thought he’d been capable of doing. Small acts like these don’t warrant much surprise to Ronan—they’re natural to him to do, easy as breathing—but occasionally, he’ll do something and receive that mostly-hidden expression of surprise, a slight lift of a fair eyebrow and the smallest uptick of the corners of Adam’s mouth, like he can’t believe there’s no catch associated.
Ronan hopes, one day, Adam will realize that his love isn’t based on holding a shoe above his head, waiting to let it drop.
“Thanks.” Adam murmurs back, tugging Ronan’s flannel around him before he scoots closer to his side, legs tucked up, and Ronan takes the invitation for what it is, arm looping around his body to hold him against his side. Ronan turns to press a kiss to Adam’s shoulder, then his temple, then his head, lips lingering in each spot because he can, because maybe if he holds the kiss there for long enough it’ll remind Adam he deserves all the kindness in the world and then some.
Minutes pass and Ronan recognizes he won’t get an answer tonight—Adam’s not ready to share what’s on his mind, and Ronan doesn’t plan on pushing. Instead, he fans his fingers out on Adam’s side and traces the curve of his waist, letting their heads rest together, Ronan’s in a reverent bow, Adam’s tipped in a worshipful appreciation. Ronan ought to be cold, but Adam’s body is warm beside him and there’s a fire burning steadily in his chest, and there’s nowhere Ronan would rather be than right here, right now.
Except, maybe, the couch, buried under blankets. Adam’s shivering next to him, and Ronan’s not too warm either, considering he’d rescinded his flannel to be used for far better things. Pressing a soft kiss to Adam’s temple, Ronan squeezes his hip and draws back as Adam stretches his legs out with a sigh. Ronan spends a moment watching Adam as he rolls out his wrists and points his toes and casts one more glance up to the sky, painted with millions of lights that are nothing compared to the radiance that is Adam, the Adam that only Ronan gets to see.
“C’mon.” Ronan pushes himself up and offers a hand to Adam, who hoists himself up, making a show of dusting himself off. “Opal’s probably munching on our tea bags because we left her alone for so long, and I wanna salvage a couple so we can have them tonight.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Adam stretches his arms up and follows Ronan to the ladder, though Ronan stops as Adam’s fingers catch his wrist, tugging him back gently into a soft, sweet kiss. It’s everything he loves about kissing Adam—it’s effortlessly tender and it warms Ronan from head to toe, brief though it is, and when he opens his eyes to find Adam smiling at him like he’s hung each and every star in the sky, Ronan can’t help but smile back.
“Thank you.” Adam murmurs, resting their foreheads together, and Ronan doesn’t know how to tell him that thanks isn’t necessary, that Adam deserves space for whatever he needs, that Ronan loves him with every fiber of his being, but instead of waxing poetic, Ronan bumps their noses together with a soft, “Any time.”
They headed down the ladder—Ronan first, then Adam, so Ronan could ensure it wouldn’t wobble—and wrapped up in each other at the bottom, cheek to cheek, heart to heart, rib to rib, staying there for a few moments, a few minutes, a few eternities of Ronan inhaling familiar soap and cold autumn air, wondering how he’d ever lived without this, without the eighth and only wonder of Ronan’s world. Even if Adam doesn’t tell him what’s on his mind, it doesn’t really matter—Ronan understands perfectly in this moment, in the way Adam grips the back of his shirt and ghosts his lips across Ronan’s cheek.
Ronan’s happy, too.
Unraveling is a slow process, hand slipping into hand to keep contact as they walk—it’s a slow process, too, but they make it into the kitchen where they find tea bags intact, and as the water boils, Ronan takes Adam into his arms and they dance, a slow sway around the dimly-lit kitchen, love on display for a glittering audience of stars.