Work Text:
”I could kill you,“ Adam says and Ronan has no reason to doubt him. In fact, the only thing standing between his face and Adam’s fist in it is probably the fact that Ronan’s curled up in the hospital bed, hooked up to IVs and beeping machinery and all that shit, and Adam is too much of a chevalier to beat someone up who’s already broken.
Ronan goes for the crooked grin. “Others have tried and failed.”
The eyeroll is audible in Adam’s voice when he says, “Shit, Ronan, that’s not funny.”
“Not even a little bit?”
“Fuck you.”
He opens one bleary eye then. It takes a moment until the blurred shape seated beside the bed morphs into Adam’s slender form. He looks even more tired than usual, circles almost black beneath his eyes, skin so pale it’s a miracle the nurses didn’t strap him to a bed and forced him to rest. His lips are stretched thin, barely more than a straight line across his face.
Sighing, he tilts his head forward and presses his hands, curled into fists, to his eyes. Like he can no longer bear to look at Ronan. The thought dries Ronan’s throat out, squeezes something in his chest that suddenly makes it hard to breathe.
“Why?,” Adam asks.
That is a very good question. One that Ronan has spent many a night considering. Right now, his theory is because he can’t think of night terrors and monsters coming for him when he’s racing down a street at 120mph.
When Ronan remains silent (pushing the rest of his strength into opening the other eye, only to realize it’s swollen shut), Adam looks up again. This time, the expression in his eyes is fierce, on the brink of fury. “Why, Ronan? Just tell me. Do you have a death wish? Do you like us worried sick over you? Just tell me.”
Ronan wants to laugh, or possibly smash something to pieces. Tell him? He wouldn’t understand. Too, once they get talking about feelings and that shit, some other truth might slip out, one that Ronan has been carefully hiding from everyone.
“You know we care, right?” Adam presses. He sounds angry, annoyed. A little like his old man. The idea sends a shiver down Ronan’s spine. “You know that every time you go out, I’m scared shitless you’ll die, right?”
He opens his mouth to speak, but the words won’t come. There is so much he needs to confess, so much he needs to say. But what makes it out is, “You’d get over it.”
Worst part is, he means it.
Adam’s eyes widen. He looks like he’s just been struck across the face. His mouth opens, then his brows furrow.
“How can you even say that, you shithead?”
“I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to excite the patient.”
“Ronan,” he demands in a tone he must have adapted from his piece of shit-dad, it’s the tone that allows no lies, no excuses, no funny stuff.
Ronan takes a breath. Suddenly his chest feels very tight again. He closes his eyes, wants to sleep, dream the day away. Whatever is dripping into his body through the IV must be the good stuff, for he barely feels anything.
Something touches his arm, fingers curl around it. Adam’s still waiting for an answer and he won’t leave until he gets one. He’s stubborn like that.
“It’s true,” Ronan mutters. “Who on earth would miss a shithead like me?”
“Gansey,” Adam promptly responds. “Noah. Blue. Matthew. Possibly even Declan. Me.”
Ronan curves his lips to a small but nonetheless sardonic smile. “Yeah, you’d weep over me for a week or two, and then you’d all move on. You’ll wake Glendower, go to college, find the cure to cancer, marry and adopt some puppies. No one would actually miss me.”
“Asshole,” Adam hisses. His grip around Ronan’s arm tightens but not in an unpleasant sort of way. In fact, if he could, he would stay like this forever. Silence falls between them but even now it’s not uncomfortable, not really.
Slowly, Adam begins to rub his thumb over Ronan’s skin in small circles. The motion feels so soothing and intimate that Ronan is very close to begging Adam to not stop, never stop, or at least not until he has fallen asleep. He never has night terrors when Adam’s with him, but saying that out loud will only complicate things.
This right here is the safest he has felt in a while. Nothing aches, his mind is pleasantly dulled by the drugs, he’s warm and comfortable and there is Adam, soothing him like you would a small child, and Ronan doesn’t care one bit about the small child bit. It reminds him of home, before everything went to Hell. Adam is home, a voice pops up in his head but Ronan pushes it away quickly.
“You have to stop,” Adam says quietly. His voice sounds very small now, like it is about to get caught in his throat and break. “Please, Ronan. Stop trying to kill yourself. Please.”
He should say something. He doesn’t. But he opens his good eye again and notices the shimmer in Adam’s glance.
He’s about to cry. He’s about to cry over Ronan.
“I’m not…” His words trail off.
Shaking his head, Adam says, “Don’t lie to me. You are.”
Well, you can’t argue with that.
“It’s just all gets too much sometimes,” Ronan finally answers and that’s as close to emotional sharing as he’ll get. Dangerous territory, and for once in his life he won’t be trespassing.
“I can’t lose you,” Adam says and there is something so very earnest about him that Ronan doesn’t dare to crack a joke. His eyes lock with Ronan’s, jaw set tight, so much determination written all over his face like Adam wants to let him know that he won’t let him do anything stupid by sheer force of will, if he has to.
“You hear me, Ronan? Are we clear? I can’t lose you. Ever. Tell me we’re clear.”
Ronan glances up at him, studies Adam’s delicate features. For a moment he wonders if Adam knows about the power he holds over him.
Then he nods, smiles, closes his eyes.
“We’re clear,” he says, before he dozes off to sleep. Adam is rubbing his thumb over Ronan’s arm again.
End