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Insomnia was one of the few battles Richard Campbell Gansey III could not conquer. That eyeless monster lurked behind every door, at the sidelines of every corner, and stood over his shoulder in the mirrors. He would lie down, breathe in deeply, forcing his muscles to relax, and the moment he emptied his mind—it would be full to the brim again with any and every issue the world had yet to define or solve. Seconds turned to minutes turned to hours, and Gansey’s eyes would eventually snap open as an itch in his fingertips propelled him to his desk in order to organize it all in his worn leather notebook.
Most nights it was about Owain Glyn Dŵr, about his current location, his presence in this lovely town of Henrietta. The promise of knowledge, the myths, and legends that surrounded him, in poems, songs, old scripts he had just begun to decipher. It was about that voice on the fateful day of his first death—“ You will live because of Glendower. Someone else on the ley line is dying when they should not, and so you will live when you should not .” He had questions, and a Gansey without answers was the fuel for his own sleeplessness.
Other nights, it was about his own mortality. The understanding of how his allergy rendered him vulnerable, how his body’s natural reaction would kill him. The dryness of his throat, the swelling of his tongue, the burning underneath his skin. The utter compliance of his body to a rule he had never consented to.
Recently, however—and he felt his cheeks alight—his thoughts were pulled… elsewhere. In the form of a lovely young woman whose name was Blue Sargent. As tiny as she was, she held the biggest presence in a room. Her voice, loud, melodious, warm, thick with that honeyed Henrietta accent, would afford him no kindness when she perceived he had wronged her. Intention , she would say, means nothing when someone ends up hurt . Just talking to her at night seemed to calm his demons and lull him to sleep… Alas, this hadn’t been the case tonight.
So many pressing issues built up in his subconscious—thoughts about fragility, his own, and his friends’. He worried about Ronan and his unparalleled anger; he worried about Adam, his growing antipathy; he worried about Noah, sweet Noah, and how being a ghost weighed on him.
Sleep would not find him tonight.
Gansey let out an unbecoming sigh, the tension headache squeezing a band around his temples. Slowly, so as not to disturb the stillness of the night, he slid out of bed and paced the floors of an empty Monmouth Manufacturing. He hoped Noah was close by, or safe, and definitely both. And he prayed that Ronan was close by, or safe, and definitely both, as well.
He shook his head as exhaustion pulled a blanket over his weary shoulders, but lying in bed would do him no favors. Instead, he decided to abide by Ronan’s mode de vie , and take his car out for a midnight—well, past-two-in-the-morning—drive. He would be careful in order to avoid an accident, of course, but there was a restlessness making his nerves ping with excess energy.
Still in his orange, flannel pajama pants and with an emerald green hoodie, he fished the car keys out of his school bag and walked to the Pig.
He touched the chassis of the bright paint (which matched his outfit) and sat himself at the driver’s seat, his fingers longingly caressing the familiar steering wheel. With practiced motions, he put the key in the ignition, stepped on the clutch and the brake as he pushed down the handbrake, and slowly moved to the accelerator while gently switching pedals.
There was something magical when it came to driving manual. And Gansey was, by now, well acquainted with magic.
The wheels hit the street pavement with that soft growl of the gravel, and as he moved to second, then third gear, his hands guided his loving vehicle up a secondary street which would take him to the road that circled Henrietta before leading him away to their neighboring town.
He loved Henrietta—he did. The rustic ambiance, the cheerful greetings, the family businesses. Unlike DC or other big cities, there were no Starbucks, just independently owned cafes; there were no Burger Kings, just diners that served pancakes with batter made from scratch. The people there didn’t share the disinterest of hardened city folk; instead, they knew each other by name if they were neighbors and classmates and co-workers. Even Aglionby students in their dorm had their favorite venues and the people manning those had their favorite Agionby students.
It made him happy. And as someone who had traveled the world in search of his destiny, that made it home.
Of course, he quickly amended himself in a voice that sounded like Blue’s; that didn’t necessarily mean that everyone else had the privilege of being enamored with their hometowns. Blue, he knew, yearned for more , for the vastness of the planet that couldn’t be contained here. He knew she longed to leave, to explore, and a selfish part of him wanted to go with her… and maybe come back, with her, too.
Or, if Blue refused, but she would have him instead, he would gladly sacrifice Henrietta to spend a lifetime with her however she would have him.
Except… Now that he thought about Henrietta, Blue, and himself, it was hard not to think about Adam. Because Adam despised Henrietta with the opposite force of Gansey’s own adoration, every breath he took fueled his ire and painstakingly paved his path away. Henrietta was to Adam what Aglionby was to Ronan.
Also… Blue. Thinking about Blue and her soft hand as he held it made him think about Adam holding Blue’s hand, too. It wasn’t jealousy towards him, not really, because Blue had made her feelings clear, but it was a sort of bizarre complex. He could not pursue Blue without Adam’s blessing (he pointedly noted that it wasn’t because she belonged to anyone). If their baby steps were to, in any way, hurt Adam or make him feel uncomfortable, he would have to think of an alternative.
Gansey hit the breaks.
For a moment he was convinced that his sleep-deprived brain was playing tricks on him, feeding him hallucinations instead of healthy doses of slumber. He’d been thinking about Adam—so of course his neurons would depict him walking barefoot along the road, arms wrapped around himself, in the middle of the night.
His jaw dropped when Adam raised his arms to protect his eyes from the Pig’s headlights.
Two questions.
What were the odds ?
And, to quote Ronan, what the actual fuck ?
His fingers deftly turned on the emergency lights for other incoming traffic, unstrapped his seatbelt, and he jumped out of the car.
“Adam!” he called, rushing towards him, quickly shortening the distance between them.
With a hand still shadowing his eyes, Adam squinted. “Gansey?”
A bucket of ice-cold water dropped over Gansey’s head at the voice. He forced himself to stop just a few feet away from him, aborting his attempts to wrap his arms around his friend to convince himself that Adam was both real and okay. Because yes, as flabbergasting as the whole situation was, yes, Adam was real, but he was also very much not okay.
Gansey moved to the side so that the bright lights would stop blinding him, and when Adam turned to follow his movements—Gansey noticed the paleness of his usually sun-kissed skin, his eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, and he was covered in dust and some scrapes. His hair was wild in a way Gansey had never seen before, black where the night covered him in darkness, and white with the beams of the Camaro. And he wore—Jesus Christ. He was in a worn, gray T-shirt, and black old sweatpants. And barefoot. Gansey noticed that the soles of his feet were dirty and, to his dismay, a few drops of blood painted the pavement behind him.
“Adam, are you—what are—what are you doing here?” There were too many questions Gansey wanted to ask.
Adam blinked at him owlishly. Then, he moved his hands in front of him, palms up, as he stared at them, confusedly.
Transient Global Amnesia . Those were words forever imprinted in Gansey’s memory, and suddenly he was back in his father’s car, with Adam curled in the backseat. Thoughts flashed of Adam asleep on their sofa after the phone consultation with their doctor family friend. To the vacant stare he’d worn the days before—for days after. That Adam— this Adam—had been literally lost in the road. This time, by a stroke of luck, Gansey had caught him before he’d managed to collapse fifteen miles away from them.
He’d never been more thankful for his sleeplessness.
Adam frowned. “I don’t know.”
Gansey bit his lip. “Okay. Let’s go home.”
Anything else—more questions, fussing, or, in other words, doing everything Gansey’s instinct was telling him to do —would be a terrible idea. This wasn’t Noah, who drank love like a boy dying of thirst. It wasn’t Ronan, who bit and barked but would cave to Gansey’s affection. It wasn’t Blue, who was proud enough to always stand on her own two feet but sensible enough to let others help when she faltered. This was Adam —for whom words were binding contracts and actions had unaffordable consequences.
“I’ll drive you,” he offered, trying to keep his voice neutral. Too intense, and Adam’s pride would prickle. Too cheerful, and he’d be insulted.
It had taken him too many months to understand how Adam Parrish ticked. He was positive he still didn’t.
To his relief, he nodded and followed Gansey to the car.
He didn’t offer him a jacket, instead, he just turned on the heat. It was late October, not too icy to risk hypothermia, but cold enough to be concerning.
“It happened again,” Adam said. His voice was raspy. “I’m not sure how I got there.”
“So you—you…”
Adam sighed, frustration simmering beneath the surface. “Last thing I know, I went to bed. Then, suddenly I was… You saw me.”
Gansey took a deep breath, his eyes on the road, his foot on the accelerator, hands on the wheel. Everything was pulsing around Adam like a magnetic field, his presence heavy and distressed behind that layer of calm. He recalled the psychics calling him ‘loud’ and it made sense. Despite sitting, safe and sound (as could be) next to him, Gansey kept seeing him in the road ahead, head down, feet bleeding. He swallowed thickly.
Was this the second time it happened after DC? Or had it happened more often and Adam had just refused to tell him? Was this going to be chronic? What implications did that have for someone as young as Adam, as bright as he was, because what if when college came to be there was no Gansey to look after him?
(Blue, in his head, admonished him for thinking about Adam as a helpless child, but—but—)
He wanted to take him to the hospital, to tell doctors and nurses about this newest TGA episode. To call his parents, because they’d been there, for comfort and reassurance. If anything, to drive Adam to Monmouth and make sure his injuries were cared for, that he could hydrate, eat, keep warm. He was already being overbearing in his mind, he knew he was, and it took every inch of focus not to break his calm and collected character.
What did this mean ? What could possibly be triggering these attacks? What could Gansey do to help in a way Adam would accept it?
“I was walking home,” Adam said, suddenly, like an afterthought. His Henrietta accent colored his words. “I woke up this time.”
“Were you…” Gansey paused. “Were you sleepwalking?”
Adam was silent for a moment. “I was awake.”
What would everyone else do? Blue, what would she do? He could easily picture her walking up to Adam, her hand caressing his cheek, a silent communication running through their minds. Adam had never had a problem letting Blue help him, because, from her, it was never charity. It was just Blue . And Noah? Noah would scoot closer to Adam, lean his head on his shoulder, his presence a silent show of comfort and support, freely given, and Adam would accept it because it was Noah. And Ronan? Gansey’s stomach tightened. A few months ago, he would believe that Ronan would bark insults at Adam, bully him into accepting his help in a way that Adam might even welcome. Because. It was. Ronan. (Today’s Ronan, the one that hung out with Kavinsky, might’ve just driven past Adam—which was an unkind thought.)
It was always Gansey who messed things up and he didn’t even fully comprehend why. What was it about him that intrinsically made Adam defensive?
A petty voice inside his head fed him theories about jealousy—money, upbringing, class, opportunity. Freedom. Family. Objectively speaking, Gansey owned by right of birth everything that Adam lacked and longed for. It wasn’t preposterous to conclude that it might be envy. And Gansey tried, he tried , to share what he’d been born with with Adam because he was aware of the intrinsic value of it all, but all his efforts were met with open disdain.
Adam was his own man, and what he wanted, he would get for himself. By himself.
Gansey wondered why it was so hard to love someone who thought themselves unlovable.
A slight movement caught his eye, and he glanced at Adam who was rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Do you have a headache?”
“It’s fine.”
It wasn’t.
Gansey despised the cruel thoughts that crossed his mind. If he dropped off Adam at the church, he did not have any reassurance that he’d allow himself the comfort he needed. But what choice did he have ?
“I, um,” he started. “I was looking for Noah and Ronan.”
The lie sat bitter on his tongue. He did not have the same distaste as Ronan did for untrue statements, but he did not relish in them, either. Plus, he reasoned with himself, it wasn’t technically a lie. He had hoped to find them, instead of a lost Adam. He was glad he had, though.
He could feel Adam’s steady gaze on the side of his face—Gansey forced himself to keep his eyes ahead.
“We can look together,” Adam offered in the end.
Gansey allowed himself to smile because he was relieved—not that he would be getting a second pair of eyes in his search for his wayward friends, but because Adam would be here. Maybe if they found Noah, they could both persuade Adam to spend the night in his bedroom. Maybe if they found Ronan, they could persuade… well. Everything.
“Thank you.”
Gansey took a turn that would lead them to another street outside Henrietta—mostly, because he didn’t believe their missing friends would be there. And lastly, because this barely lit road was particular for its soothing curves, and Gansey knew it like the back of his hand (during the daytime, the allée created beautiful shadows and shapes, and during autumn, the bright orange foliage lit a fire in his chest.
He drove, and he drove, and he drove the minutes away. When the sound hit his ears, Gansey finally allowed himself to take a deep breath and release the sigh he’d been holding. Tension melted from his muscles and he leaned back against the seat, his hand switching gears swiftly as he turned to another secondary street.
He let the sound of Adam’s steady breathing soothe him.
If Adam wouldn’t let Gansey take care of him, the least Gansey could do was let him sleep safely.
Concern still prickled at the tip of his fingers and he kept driving, keeping the motor sounds steady, wondering if there would ever come a day when Adam would accept Gansey’s help.
Just because Gansey was Gansey.