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Adam shuffles on his shitty, uncomfortable mattress once again. He’s exasperated but not surprised when it does nothing to soothe his restlessness.
The wailing of the wind rises and the muffled sound glides through his good ear like a bat.
Facing the thin wall, he focuses his attention on a spidery crack in the plaster until his vision blurs from concentration. It’s a game he used to play to himself before he moved out, when tears threatened to slip out of his traitorous eyes and he needed to shift his thoughts away from his father’s fists and his mother’s cool indifference. He remembers miserable nights sitting in that wretched trailer and fixing his eyes on anything that could hold his attention long enough for his stifled sobs to return to steady breaths.
Now that he knows how it feels to truly get lost through focus though, this is nowhere near enough and scrying can’t help him with this. Besides, he isn’t trying to distract himself from his emotions this time, and he hates that those pitiful memories still follow him around like a second skin. He’s trying to quell his mind into the sweet submission of sleep.
So he wills his eyes shut like normal people do when they're struggling to sleep and does his best to unravel the stubborn coil of tension in his body. It’s mostly futile. Ignoring the riot of sleet and wind outside is an impossible feat even for the likes of Adam Parrish who can catch pockets of sleep whenever the opportunity arises without giving it much thought: half an hour in the Pig with his head resting contentedly in Ronan’s lap; a short nap in one of the Barns’ bedroom before his shift starts; barely ten minutes slumped over the table at Ninos’ while his friends are engaged in meaningless chatter.
But now he feels more awake than ever. It’s true that he hasn’t had a particularly laborious day - his shift at Boyd’s was cut off two hours earlier than it should have been due to the thunderstorm, giving him plenty of time to finish all his homework and still go to bed at a reasonable time for once - but he's gotten so used to falling asleep as soon as his head hits his thin, mangy pillow that he didn't really expect tonight to be any different.
Perhaps, it's the fierce cold that’s keeping him up, managing to creep into every crevice of his shitty apartment and settle under his skin like the whisper of an ache from a long day at work, which he thinks is truly unfair - that he still manages to feel the ghost of that familiar weariness even on the rare occasion when he doesn’t exhaust himself half to death.
Or perhaps, he thinks to himself, it's just the familiar itch of missing Ronan.
Ronan had stayed over for a few hours after Adam had got back from his shift. Time passed like it always did; Ronan making himself home on Adam’s sorry excuse of a bed while the other boy quietly studied. It’s a familiar routine by now but it still never ceases to make his lips curl up in some strange, dizzying mix of gratitude and affection whenever he hears the three distinct thumps of Ronan’s knuckles against his door.
It worries him sometimes, how quickly he’s become dependent on the distant sounds of Ronan’s breathing, his fidgeting, his snarky remarks while he’s hunched over his desk lost in a textbook.
It’s not that Adam can’t study without Ronan there. It’s more that his presence instantly clears Adam’s drowsy, overworked brain so all that’s left is a pleasant lightness, and the sound of his name on Ronan’s lips melts the weariness out of his body as if it were a tangible, molten thing left to pool around his feet (only for it to slip back on his skin like a coat as soon as he leaves).
It’s the feeling he gets in that shared silence when he cautiously allows himself to hope that maybe, just maybe, he will get to keep this, like warm heat dancing and expanding in his stomach. He imagines it as a glowing fire under his sepia skin that’s been steadily growing since the day Ronan kissed him in his childhood bed. No, for longer than that. He wonders how long it's been since he first began to associate Ronan with heat instead of icy cold.
The booming echo of thunder startles him out of his thoughts. He lets a sigh slip out from his teeth and feels his frustration wobble and take the unfamiliar shape of resignation. He sits up and makes his way to the small portable heater that Ronan dreamt up for him before Cabeswater was sacrificed on a night when, reluctantly, Adam’s fear of dying from hypothermia had triumphed over his unwillingness to accept charity.
The room is still stubbornly cold but Adam knows it would be a lot colder without the heater, so he tries not to mind. He presses his hands to it and closes his eyes.
Focusing on the heat on his palms, he tries to ignore the insistent part of him that wants to call Ronan just to hear the sound of his voice.
He knows that - despite Ronan’s well-known contempt for his phone - he would pick up if Adam gave in and called him. He knows that even if he really was sleeping right now he would probably still pick up. He knows that he would make sure to greet Adam by grumbling some words about waking him up at “ass o’ clock in the night” in put-on annoyance and then follow that with what would be a hurtful comment if Adam didn’t know him as well as he did. He knows that once Ronan got his perfunctory cruelty out of the way, he would talk for however long Adam wanted before hanging up. But he hates the idea of possibly waking Ronan up over something that he can handle perfectly well on his own, not just for the sake of his own pride but because sleep is still a luxury for the both of them.
He also thinks that it’s fucking ridiculous to miss someone only a few hours after spending time in their company. How the hell am I going to survive Harvard and live several hours away from him for several days and weeks and months, if I can’t even stand to be away from him for one night?
So, instead he throws on the warmest hoodie he has, flicks on the light, and picks up the book he borrowed from the Henrietta Public Library a few days ago. Despite what he knows most people think, he very rarely reads of his own volition, free from the demands of Aglionby or the schools that came before it.
Back when he lived in the trailer, borrowing a book from a library was out of the question. He was always too scared that his father would discover it and destroy it when the fact of Adam’s existence inevitably tipped his temper over the edge, leaving Adam to pay the hefty library fine.
Buying a book was also of course also out of the question because there was no reason to spend money on something that wouldn’t go towards getting out of Henrietta. That was just unreasonable.
The book is a shitty thriller that he reads mindlessly. He’s pretty sure he won’t be able to recall any of the plot by the time the sun comes up, but he’s grateful for the momentary distraction it provides.
He’s not sure how much time passes before he notices someone open the door but he’s read another sixty pages under the weak, yellow-ish light of his apartment. Normally, the sound of footsteps or the whine of the door hinge would have alerted him to a visitor but the piercing howls of the wind are too loud for that tonight.
Relieved, he realises the hand wrapped around the edge of the door is Ronan’s. He’s spent far too much time staring at their interlocked fingers to not recognise it within a few seconds.
The door inches open slowly like the crash of a wave played in slow motion and Adam realises he’s trying to sneak in. When he’s sure Ronan can see him, he makes sure to scowl in his direction. Ronan scowls back.
“The fuck are you doing up?” Now that he’s inside the room, Adam can see that he’s completely soaked; rainwater trickles down his nose and cheekbones in captivating streams and his tank top sticks to his skin distractingly.
“Reading. Couldn’t sleep.” He raises the hand still clasped around the book to make his point obvious.
Ronan huffs in surprise. “Shit, me neither.”
“You wanted to crash here tonight,” Adam guesses, though it’s a statement not a question.
“Yeah but there’s no point since you’re up. We’ll just go to the Barns instead. It’s fucking freezing here.”
Adam shrugs. “I’ve stayed here on colder nights than this.”
Ronan snorts. “Of course you have.” He tosses a pair of jeans and a shirt at Adam. “Get the fuck dressed.” While Adam does as he says and pulls his hoodie over his head, Ronan warms his hands by the heater just like Adam did before he arrived. “I should have dreamt up a better heater instead of this useless piece of garbage. I feel like I’m fucking turning to ice and I haven’t even been here for five minutes.”
Adam slots his arms through the sleeves of his shirt and then throws the hoodie back over his head. When he’s done he turns to frown at Ronan. He’s not an expert on Ronan Lynch by any means, but he’s confident he knows enough by now to pick up on the self-deprecating meaning behind his words that’s fortified by so much false indifference, you almost wouldn’t recognise it was there. “Pretty sure you had other things on your mind, like oh I don’t know, supposedly undead kings and creepy fucking demons.”
“Whatever, Parrish.”
“I’m serious. The heater’s great. Without it, I’d probably be too cold to get dressed right now.” Then, because he’s feeling too muzzy to be more cautious - due to a combination of the strange hour of night and the shock of Ronan’s unexpected appearance at his apartment right when he needed him - he takes a risk on his next words, “I never thanked you for it by the way. Thank you.”
The words hang awkwardly in the air, but that’s not surprising. Adam’s never been great at thanking people - at least not in a meaningful way anyway - because he’s never been in the habit of asking for things in the first place. Ronan insists on giving him things anyway though, without any expectations of gratitude and Adam doesn’t get that. But he thinks that even if Ronan doesn’t want his thanks, he deserves it anyway. At the very least, he deserves the acknowledgment of the gift, which is just one of many that he’s given to Adam without him even asking.
He feels more than a little guilty that he’s never bothered to even mention them before. Well, maybe bothered is the wrong word to use. Bothered suggests he doesn’t care, which he does, but at the end of the day that’s never been enough for him to let his defences fall for long enough to be honest with Ronan. Vulnerability is still a new language to Adam, and he doesn’t know if it’ll ever stop making him feel like his insides are being scraped out so all that's left is a hollow, boy-shaped fissure.
Selfish. The word rings in his head sharply, insistently. He squashes the thought down before Ronan notices anything’s wrong.
He expects Ronan to glare at him for the words and he can tell from the way his fingers are itching to fidget with the leather bands on his wrists that he considers it, but then he just stares at him with an intense look in his eyes before nodding and turning away.
-
The headlights of the BMW cut through the dark - twin rays that illuminate the endless fields sprawled across the whimsical landscape and the idyllic farmhouse that looks no less beautiful in the blanket of night than it does in daylight. As they get closer, he makes out Ronan’s fireflies hovering at the entrance and he thinks maybe the heat that unfurls in his stomach whenever Ronan kisses his knuckles or smiles at him isn’t caused by a fire but a thousand dream fireflies floating aimlessly in his stomach.
When the car stops on the driveway, they both turn to each other, silently bracing themselves. The doors open and they run as fast as they can. If he thought the wind was loud from inside the safe confines of his apartment, it's deafening now. The rain pelts down on them with a ferocity that even Blue at her worst couldn't match, like a shower of sharp stones. Adam clutches his hood in place and bows his head to keep the rain out of his eyes.
They're still soaked when they reach the front door. Adam silently curses Ronan for making him change before getting in the car. He'll have to borrow some of Ronan's clothes anyway if he doesn't want to catch a cold.
They dry their shoes on the mat behind the door. Adam hears the tell-tale clack-clack of hooves skittering on the floor, and his mood brightens instantly.
"Opal?"
She peeks her head out from behind the corner, but when she sees him she runs straight at him.
"Slow the fuck down or you'll ruin the floorboards," Ronan growls.
She sticks her tongue out at him. He makes an ugly face in response that Adam shouldn’t find endearing but does. She ignores him in favour of crushing Adam's leg with a fierce embrace. When she pulls back, she's smiling.
"Adam." The way she says it, like she marvels at his existence, always makes his heart twist painfully. The word sits in her mouth like a sugar cube that slowly melts into a syrupy smile on her face that’s even sweeter than the last one.
Adam smiles and crouches down so he's closer to her height.
"Hey, Opal."
She turns her head to frown at Ronan. "Kerah didn't tell me you were coming today."
"That's because I wasn't planning on coming until Ronan turned up at my apartment."
“Are you staying the whole night?” He can tell from the way she says it that she suspects he will but wants confirmation just to be sure.
He smiles. “I am.”
She instantly perks up. Timidly, she reaches up her skullcap to fish out a stick with two daughter branches, both of which are viciously marked by the lines of her sharp teeth. The wood is darker in damp patches that are clearly from her saliva. She holds it out to him as an offering.
He makes sure to mask his instinctive disgust before taking the stick out of her hand, and smiles again. He hopes it’s convincing enough to look like gratitude.
She looks at him expectantly. “It’s for eating.”
The ever-present scowl on Ronan’s face transforms into a shit-eating grin. ”Yeah Parrish. It’s for eating.”
Adam tries to think of the most discreet way to kick him in the leg and is irritated when he comes up with nothing.
“I’m not really hungry right now. Maybe later though,” he says, forcing sincerity into his voice.
She stares at him a little longer and then nods, as if she is deciding this is an acceptable truth. Or maybe she knows he’s lying, and decides not to say anything. He isn’t entirely sure what abilities a psychopomp escaped from the head of a dreamer possesses but in these moments he suspects there is something vaguely all-knowing about her. Or at least, that she knows a lot more than a small strange hooved girl with furry legs ought to.
When she runs out of the room, probably to bite some furniture and drive Ronan insane, Adam turns around and punches Ronan’s arm.
-
He pads downstairs in dry clothes - Ronan's clothes - and rounds the corner to the kitchen. Ronan's back is to him, but when he steps to the side Adam can see that he's stirring something in a mug with a small spoon. He also spots the giant packet of marshmallows sitting on the countertop.
“You made hot chocolate?”
Ronan doesn’t reply, just hands him a mug of what he is sure is way too many marshmallows balancing precariously on top of steaming chocolate. He takes a marshmallow out of the packet and shoves it into his mouth, and then he picks up his own mug off the countertop. Adam follows him to the living room where they both sit on the couch.
The couch is big but they still end up pressed against each other on one side, thigh against thigh, shoulders touching, and there’s a pleasant humming in Adam’s chest. They're sat so close that Adam can hear Ronan's breathing. An inhale. A pause, no sounds save Adam's own breathing and the faint drizzle of rain outside. An exhale. Contentment, he thinks to himself.
In moments like this, Adam can’t quite imagine how he ever survived eighteen years without this. Can't quite figure out what he did to deserve this either. Nights spent sitting next to Ronan, basking in each other’s company with no need for conversation. It’s everything he never knew he wanted and everything he so desperately does.
Ronan takes one of Adam’s hands - the one that isn’t holding the mug - and kisses his palm once, before intertwining their fingers together.
Adam sips the frothy layer of bubbles at the top of his hot chocolate. Heat sticks to his tongue and he's reminded of the fire sitting steadily at the base of his stomach again. He takes another sip.
The hot chocolate does its job; he feels a lot warmer now with the hot liquid flowing down his throat and warming him up from the inside. The pads of his fingers, where they're wrapped around the mug, tingle with warmth.
It's still raining but Adam scarcely notices it anymore. He's worlds away from the storm brewing outside, his attention pinpointed to the strange, indecipherable look in Ronan's eyes.
Adam breaks the silence, too unnerved by the expression on Ronan’s face to stay quiet.
“Hey.”
Ronan squeezes his fingers. “Hey.”
“I missed you,” he says. He didn’t know what he was going to say until the words were out of his mouth, raw and honest.
Ronan puts his mug down and untangles his hand from Adam’s. Then, his hands come up to cup Adam’s face and he kisses him. Adam feels his muscles tense with want, and he inches forward, eager to leave as little space between their bodies as possible.
At some point, Ronan’s hands move down to take the mug out of Adam’s hands and put it on the table, without pulling away from Adam. Then, his hands resume their original position on Adam’s face and Adam knows he's going red. The press of Ronan’s hands heats him up faster than the hot chocolate, faster than any heater Ronan could dream up for him.
The amber flames in his stomach lick the spaces where he’s hollow so all he feels is fire, and he lets himself melt into Ronan’s touch.