Chapter Text
“Is it good at least?”
Ronan’s stomach twisted; there had been a charge between them, static-filled air since Adam’s eyes had snagged on the fingerprints which flowered across Ronan's neck; Adam’s lips had pulled back almost imperceptibly, but Ronan noticed. For once, it had been Adam who held the matches and Ronan was the one silently pleading for him to put them down.
Ronan had been in a good mood until then- St. Agnes, as small and dingy as it was, was quite lovely in mid-afternoon, the dusty sunshine streaming through the windows, landing in little pools of warmth on Ronan’s skin, where he leaned against the wall. Now, Ronan could feel Adam’s eyes scraping over his bruises, but couldn’t bring himself to look up to where Adam was sitting at his desk, to see the judgment set on his face, the disgusted curl of his mouth.
“We’re not talking about this.”
“Why not?” Adam asked, eyebrows raised.
“Because.” Ronan said.
Adam rolled his eyes, “Don’t be a child. Answer the question. Is it good?”
The truth was that Ronan had no idea if it was good or not. The drugs were good. Kavinsky was not good. Hot skin against hot skin was good. The way it made Ronan feel wasn’t good, but it wasn’t not good either. It was not good but in a good way. Which would make absolutely no sense to anyone but Ronan.
How could Ronan explain that he didn’t like kissing Kavinsky so much as he liked the taste of vodka and desire on Kavinsky’s tongue, the way it always felt like Kavinsky was consuming him from the inside out until there was nothing left but a Ronan shaped person, where his hooks and violence should be?
“Why do you even want to know?” Ronan demanded.
Adam’s eyes narrowed, “Because I want to figure out why you let him- let him-”
Ronan felt the tops of his cheeks go red, but he refused to break eye contact, “Do what to me?”
“Do that to you.” Adam sneered, and Ronan flinched at the ice in his voice.
When Ronan was younger, his dad had always told him stories of knights and princesses, of vine-covered towers, and moonlit kisses. And for as long as Ronan was too young to understand that he was different in any sort of way- too young to even notice that princes never kissed other princes- he imagined his life as one of those stories. He’d wake up after dreams of beautiful boys in glass coffins, roses clutched in his hand. Their thorns would dig into his skin, blood running down his wrist, as he waited for the paralysis to wear off.
Joseph Kavinsky was nothing like the boys Ronan used to dream about: his smile ugly and savage, the glimmer in her eye promising war.
Their first kiss had been in a parking lot, an ocean of white cars and black cement reflecting, refracting, and magnifying the already too hot sunlight. Ronan had been uncomfortable, pale skin threatening a sunburn, and too drunk to pull away. It hadn’t lasted long, Kavinsky’s tongue in his mouth, invasive and demanding, then, after he grew bored of Ronan’s passiveness, Kavinsky had shoved him away, with an eye roll.
The second time had been at night: electric and dangerous. It hadn’t been good, and there had been a hunger on Kavinsky’s lips that made Ronan’s stomach flip with unease. This time, when Ronan tried to pull away Kavisky’s fingers had tighten on his jaw, locking him in place. It was that, for some reason- not the kiss but the tightening of Kavisnky’s fingers- that made Ronan reel backwards and punch him, splitting Kavisnky’s lip open. Kavinsky punched right back.
The third time had been in the gray slant of the morning, empty bottle of vodka on the floor and fourteen missed calls from Gansey on his phone. Kavinsky’s lips hadn’t felt like forgiveness, rather penance, a divine sort of punishment.
“Ronan?” Adam asked, a note of concern in the question, and Ronan realized he hadn’t responded.
Ronan wanted to snarl, wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up before I make you shut the fuck up, wanted to storm out and drink until the Adams judgement felt blurry and vague. But he looked at Adam, his freckles and delicate features in high definition through the unfocus of Ronan’s loathing, and when he opened his mouth, all that came out was, “Can we just talk about something else. Please.”
Adam sighed, “Ok, I’m- I shouldn’t have pushed you like that.”
Ronan nodded, worried about what would come out if he opened his mouth. Silence was never the wrong answer.
Adam looked like he wanted to say more, but Ronan was done with talking- he felt weird and fragile, and Adam was far from careful; he just closed his eyes and tilted his head back. They hadn’t even fought, but somehow, he still felt washed out- the things Adam hadn’t said cutting deeper than anything he said could have.
Ronan couldn’t be sure when he had dozed off- he hadn’t meant to, not with Adam right there- but one minute, he was in the warmth of St. Anges, and the next, he was sprawled in the cool grass of Cabeswater. Kavinsky was leaning over him, face split into a wolf's smile.
“Funny to run into you here.”
* * *
Adam watched as Ronan nodded off, breaths slowing to the point where Adam was tempted to check his pulse- it was disconcerting how Ronan, always crackling with pent-up energy, could be so still when he slept.
For the first time since seeing Ronan's bruises, Adam’s jaw unclenched. In the vulnerability of sleep, the blue and green smeared handprints on Ronan’s neck looked less like trophies and more like violations. Had it even occurred to Adam to ask if Ronan was okay?
He dug his homework out of his backpack and began meticulously translating sentences into Latin, glancing up every few moments to make sure Ronan was still breathing- something, which he logically knew was pointless, noone, least of all Adam, could help Ronan when he slept (it had never occurred to Adam how scary that must be), yet, it still brought Adam a strange and irrational of comfort, too see the gentle rise and fall of Ronan’s chest. To know for now, at least, Ronan was breathing.
After an hour, Adam looked up, just in time to see Ronan twitch; he could always tell when Ronan had just woken up from a dream by the way he woke up. When Ronan woke up normal, it was a slow affair, a yawn, and stretch, occasionally, the mumbled curse words of annoyance. Judging by the way Ronan’s eyes shot open, he had been dreaming.
Ronan's eyes met Adam’s, They were wide, and- to Adam's horror- afraid. And then Adam understood. Ronan was still. Too still. The rise and fall of his chest had stopped.
Adam didn’t have time to panic. Years of living with Robert Parrish had taught him what a useless thing panic was. He rushed to Ronan’s side, using his two fingers to force Ronan’s mouth open- but before he could lock his own mouth over it, as like they always did in movies, he saw something. A rose. It seemed to be lodged, inexplicably, in Ronan’s throat.
Ronan burst to life, convulsing, and Adam just hade time to help Ronan onto his side, before he was coughing violently. The rose fell, crumpled, on the floor of St. Agnes, the color of blood against the wood.
Ronan looked at Adam, cheeks flushed.
“What the fuck, Lynch?” Was all Adam could manage to say.