Chapter Text
Ronan’s phone rings five minutes after he’s settled on the roof, cigarette dangling from bruised fingers. The sun is painting the sky red and purple, a sign that fall is upon them once again. Fall brings a new season, brings stupid fucking early practices and the maggot hounding his ass until he gives in and stops a fucking shot on goal.
It’s a Sunday evening, and this is a scheduled call.
“Parrish,” is all Ronan says, breathes out a ring of smoke and sets his phone next to him. “You’re late.”
“I’m only just alone now.” Adam’s voice is hushed, even though Ronan knows he’s squirreled away in his favorite maintenance closet, the one place Joseph never thinks to look. “I need to be careful. He’s … I’ve been assigned a partner.”
Now that is actually news. Never, not in the eight years Adam’s been in the nest, has he ever been assigned a partner. Kavinsky never wanted Adam to have someone he could rely on, and Adam never wanted someone to be thrust into his situation.
“Who is it?” Ronan hears the gruffness in his voice. It’s not the first time he considers turning the seven hour drive to Edgar Allen University into five by speeding as fast as physically possible.
But he can’t. He’d have to answer to Gansey, and Blue, and fucking Coach Johnson. They’d drag his ass back to Palmetto kicking and screaming, after what it took to buy out his contract. In fact, after what he’d drunkenly spilled about life in the Nest, they would chase him down before he was even out of South Carolina. That’s not what’s stopping him, though.
Ronan would have to answer to Adam. And he can’t do that, not when Parrish fucking martyred himself to get Ronan out.
Ronan flexes his left hand, feels the faint soreness of the bones settling back into place. It’ll never be what it was.
“Ivanova, weirdly enough,” Adam says, and it’s the way Ronan can hear the corner of Adam’s mouth quirk upwards through the phone. “I don’t think that’s supposed to be allowed, with university dorm rules and all.”
Ronan feels his chest loosen at the Russian name. He knows Susan Ivanova—she was his backup goalie. There aren’t many women in exy, and there are much fewer women on the Ravens. She is fierce, brutal even, on the court, but never off of it. If nothing has changed, she still likes Adam. That’s what matters.
“Is she any good at stitches?” Ronan takes another drag of his cigarette, and there’s a long pause on the other end.
“Yes—she won’t let me stitch myself up when K’s experimenting on me with drugs.” Adam’s voice is cold, clinical, as he relays the, frankly, horror show of information. Ronan knows if he doesn’t tread carefully Adam will just hang up. “I don’t get it. I can do it myself, even when I’m seeing seven copies of my hand.”
“Whatever, man. What time is it there? Has Whelk put you all back to twenty-four hour days yet?” The Ravens operate on sixteen hour days during holidays. It’s the maximum efficiency for practice, and it’s not like they see the sunlight in the Nest anyways. They’re kept under the court, and the court itself has no windows.
As Ronan stares at the purpling sky, he wonders how long it’s been since Adam saw the sun.
“Sometime during the night. Kavinsky just let me go.” There’s too much to unpack there. “I don’t want to talk about it, Lynch. I have news.”
Ronan feels anger flare deep in his gut. His car keys twitch in his hand. It’s only seven hours to West Virginia.
“What’s the news?” Ronan wants to ask about what happened. What Kavinsky did this time, where he needed stitches, if anything was bruised or broken, but he knows he won’t get an answer out of Adam.
“We’re coming south. Edgar Allen is switching districts,” Adam says. “No one but Kavinsky and the ERC know right now, so keep it quiet.” Ronan’s brain whites out for a second—there’s only panic. “Ronan?”
There’s worry in Adam’s voice.
“Blue is going to blow a fucking gasket.” Ronan looks down, and he sees the cigarette trembling between his fingers. He knows that it doesn’t matter, that this doesn’t change his contract with the Foxes, that Kavinsky can’t drag him back to the Nest, but that doesn’t quell the panic rising in his lungs like seawater.
“It’ll be fine. They can’t void your contact,” Adam says. “Just don’t give in.”
That should be obvious. Ronan Lynch is the antithesis of weak; he is tall and broad and ripped and can lock down a fucking goal. He’s tattoos and buzzcuts and sharp jawlines and taunts on the court. But Adam knows him, has known him longer than all of that. He was raised with Kavinsky, before he knew Declan and Matt existed, and in the nest surviving sometimes means bending your knee so you don’t lose your head. Kavinsky knows Ronan’s weak spots, and he’s not afraid to press in hard.
He needs to get Adam the fuck out of there.
“One more season,” is all Ronan says, steeling his voice and himself. “One more season and if you’re not here by then I’m shredding your contract and dragging you to Palmetto myself.” Adam laughs, a hollow, bitter thing.
“If you shred my contract, you might as well sign my death certificate yourself,” Adam reminds him. Adam has always had bigger monsters than Joseph Kavinsky. Ronan knows this.
“I’ll kill all of them myself.” If it were anyone else, Adam would just laugh. But he can’t when it’s Ronan. He knows Ronan would, knows he would scorch the whole earth if it meant finding the pit Adam’s buried in.
“Listen,” Adam says, and Ronan never likes whatever comes after that word. “You need to pull it together this season. There’s only so much I can do. You need to perform, and Kavinsky is getting desperate to get you back. Dangerously desperate.”
“I don’t give a shit about exy,” Ronan fires back.
“Start giving one.” Adam’s voice is blunt, cold. He doesn’t want Ronan back in the Nest, but if the Foxes don’t stop being a disgrace to Class I Exy then there’s little he can do. He doesn’t know anything about what plans are being made, because Kavinsky isn’t that stupid, but he knows there are plans taking shape. Plans that will put Ronan in danger.
Ronan’s cigarette is almost burnt down to the filter. He knows they’re out of time.
“I’ll see what I can do. Same time next Sunday?” Ronan makes no promises, because he will not lie to Adam Parrish.
“Yeah. I’ll text you. I gotta go, Lynch. Tamquam.” Ronan hears how tired Adam sounds. Not for the first time, he wants. He wants to see Adam, wants to run his hands through brown curls and feel the way his forehead fits perfectly into Ronan’s shoulder. Ronan wants to wrap his arms around Adam’s back and hold him until Adam can finally rest.
But he can’t say that.
“Alter idem.” And then Ronan hangs up the phone.
He takes his time meandering back down the stairs, back into the Foxes’ shared lounge and kitchen for their floor of the dorm.
Sure enough, everyone is there, including Coach Johnson and her maybe-wife-but-definitely-Blue’s-mom Maura. Declan moves over on the couch to make room for Ronan, but he just walks deliberately over to where Blue is sitting in an armchair and plops down on the arm rest.
“Now that Lynch has finally graced us with his presence, I have news,” Coach Johnson says. Ronan looks her up and down, and he knows that he already knows what it is. What he didn’t expect was her to drop the news this quickly—clearly, if Adam was telling the truth, she must have found out no earlier than Ronan had.
“Let me guess,” Ronan says, voice blatantly uninterested. “The Ravens are coming south.”
“How did you—nevermind,” Coach Johnson says, and Ronan feels his mouth quirk into a smirk at the shocked look on her face. She brushes her box braids out of her face and looks at the rest of the team. “The snake is right. Edgar Allen has requested a district change and the ERC granted it. They’ll be in the southern district come fall season.”
“What the fuck?” Blue asks, and not for the first time Ronan wonders how she fits so much rage into such a short body. But, fuck, you don’t become the first female Class I exy captain, and put up with the Foxes by playing nice. “How was that allowed?”
“I don’t know, Maggot, maybe because it’s the fucking Russian mob?” Ronan asks. “They are exy. They own the whole fucking sport.”
“It doesn’t matter. We’re making it to championships, and we’re getting to the death matches,” Blue says, and Ronan isn’t the only one that snorts.
“You’re more likely to be captaining a Class II team next fall than us making it that far,” Henry Cheng says.
“Maybe if you and Tad could stop getting in a pissing match long enough to score a goal, we’d win a game.” Declan barely looks up from his phone, his voice bored. “Doesn’t matter if Ronan stops any goals if we can’t make a single one.”
“We’re going to make it to finals,” Blue says, baring her teeth. “And that starts with night practices.”
“Fuck off,” Ronan says. “You’re lucky if I show up to mandatory practices this year.”
“You will show up. For Adam.” Oh, if Ronan wasn’t in a room with both Blue’s mother and the woman who has signed him up for three separate marathons this summer alone, he’d have punched her in the face.
“You don’t play that card, Maggot. You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing,” he snarls, and then he’s on his feet. Until Dick’s hand is touching his elbow.
“Ronan, I’m sure Jane didn’t mean anything,” he says, because while Richard Campbell Gansey the Third can listen to the rest of the foxes argue all day long, he draws the line at his best friend and his girlfriend. Which is unfortunate for all parties involved.
“I don’t see why the ex-Raven’s Raven-ex is off limits,” Tad says, because he can’t not jump into a fight when Ronan is involved. “Just get over that he dumped you already. He’s a Raven. They suck.”
The sigh Gansey lets out is the perfect impression of a long-suffering teacher. Or an octogenarian.
“If you can’t keep Parrish’s name out of your mouth, I’ll cut out your fucking tongue.” And no one doubts that Ronan means that.
“I thought we already agreed we were leaving personal business out of court matters,” Blue says, and that diffuses the tension just enough that Ronan rounds back on her instead of continuing to glare at Tad.
“I’m not doing your stupid extra practice,” Ronan huffs out, towers over Blue and hopes the maggot backs down. Of course she doesn’t.
“You will, just wait and see,” is all Blue says.
“Is this meeting over? I want to enjoy my last night of freedom before she—” Ronan points at Coach Johnson “—owns our asses for the next eight months.”
“Not so fast,” Coach Johnson says. “There’s some administrative bullshit we need to get through.” And Calla just stands there until Ronan sits the fuck back down. “Tomorrow you all need to complete your physicals with Maura. I don’t want to hear it, it’s university policy. It’s also your mandatory sessions with Persephone. Behave, and don’t get yourselves kicked off my team.”
That’s one of the things Ronan finds so absurd about the Palmetto State Foxes. In the Nest, the only doctors you were allowed to see were the team medics, and that was only if something truly terrible had happened. Things as benign as bruised ribs and stitches don’t make the cut. And a team psychiatrist? Yeah, that doesn’t exist at Edgar Allen.
Persephone is nothing like Ronan expected. Of all the conditions Coach Johnson could’ve placed on him for accepting an ex-Raven onto her team, weekly therapy appointments with Persephone is the best he could’ve hoped for. All they do is drink hot chocolate and talk about Adam. Patient-doctor confidentiality, and the fact that Seph actually gives a shit and treats that rule like the law that it is, is the only reason why he’ll risk spilling secrets that are only partially his own. Because the only time two can keep a secret and both stay alive is if one loses their license if they tattle.
It’s a good week to have a little extra time with Persephone.
“Starting tomorrow, we move back to the normal semester schedule. I expect to see all of your asses awake, caffeinated, and ready to go at the gym at six. I get you from six to eight, then again from three to seven. I know all of your class schedules, so don’t try that shit with me. Got it?” The foxes just stare at their coach. They know the drill. “Great. See you then.”
Ronan wastes no time in retreating to his dorm room. Unfortunately, he shares a suite with Declan and Matt, and of course Gansey just follows them back, unwilling to socialize with his own roommates.
“How’s your class schedule this semester?” Gansey asks, as he flops onto their ancient couch.
“You ask that like he’s planning on going.” Declan’s opinion is unwanted, as always.
“It’s not too bad. Should be able to get away with only attending a few a week,” Ronan says, grins when Gansey lets out another geriatric sigh. He’s not going to fail his classes. He needs to pass his classes to keep this stupid exy scholarship, and if he loses that not even Joseph Kavinsky will stop Adam from driving down to South Carolina just to murder Ronan himself.
“I have to take ochem this semester,” Matt says, and only he could smile as he says it. Only Matt could try to complete pre-med requirements along with a biochemistry major and playing Class I exy. “I’ve heard the professor is a nightmare.”
“Get a tutor if you need to,” Ronan says. “I’m playing Mario Kart. Dick, you in?”
“I’m in,” Gansey says, and he even extracts himself from the couch to grab the controllers.
Ronan tunes out Declan, dedicating his sole focus to beating the shit out of Gansey. Despite the fact that he’s only had access to video games for about six months, Ronan had quickly become the best in the room. He has a theory that if he could get Adam over his disdain for shit like that, he would easily pummel them all. But there’s a lot of if’s involved there.
“How was your weekly call?” Matt asks, after Gansey had proclaimed he had a date with Blue to watch the latest episode of the Bachelor and left their suite. Ronan sighs from where he’d stopped in the doorway of his bedroom.
“Good,” Ronan says, and he doesn’t want to elaborate. “Parrish gave me a heads up about the district change.”
“Kind of him,” Declan pipes in. “How long had he’d known before he chose to share?” One of the many things Ronan cannot fucking stand about Declan is his inexplicable disdain for Adam. If Ronan had known that meeting with his family would make him regret meeting his family he probably would still be in the Nest. But what the Lynches lack because of Declan they make up for one hundred-fold with Matthew.
“He’d only just found out,” Ronan says through gritted teeth. “Keep talking about him and I’ll fucking punch you.”
“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Declan says plainly. “I just think you could reconsider spilling your guts to him when he could turn around and tell it all to Kavinsky.” Ronan opens his mouth to argue, but Declan continues before he can get a word out. “I’m not saying he would intentionally, but people cave to torture all the time.”
“He won’t,” Ronan says, adds enough growl to encourage Declan to drop it. “You don’t know him.”
“So you understand why I don’t trust him.”
Ronan doesn’t dignify that with a response. He just slams the door to his room.
———
“It’s good to see you, Ronan,” Persephone says, when Ronan stalks into her office the next day. Coach Johnson always pairs them for their semesterly visits to Persephone, as a way to make sure no one runs off and subsequently can’t attend training until they complete the appointment. She shouldn’t have had to worry about it with Ronan, considering he sees her every week, but she paired him with Declan and just driving over with his brother has put him in a shitty mood.
“I just saw you two days ago,” Ronan responds, flops onto her lumpy couch and puts his combat boots up on her coffee table.
“Feet off my table. I just cleaned it,” Persephone says, and Ronan grumbles but removes them. “Now. How are you feeling about the district change?”
“Coach Johnson told you already?” Ronan asks. He’d hoped to avoid this until next week. He doesn’t want to think about it at all. When Persephone just nods, Ronan knows he’s not getting off that easy. “I’m worried.”
“Worried about what? Your contract? Your safety?” Persephone sets a mug of hot chocolate in front of Ronan.
“I mean, yes, but not like that. It means K is going off the fucking deep end,” Ronan explains, wraps his hands around the mug to feel the warmth in his hands. “It’s not the district change itself. It’s what else is going to happen because of it.”
“What do you think is going to happen?” Persephone asks. She’s always a blank canvas, and Ronan thinks again how much she and Adam would get along. Two intellectual, rational beings calmly dissecting trauma and finding the most logical solutions forward. Except for Adam loves logic until he has to apply it to himself.
“It’s what I already know is happening. Inside the Nest.” Ronan’s hand picks at the hole in his black jeans, right on his knee. He breaks one of the threads still hanging on. “Adam won’t tell me shit, but it’s worse. It’s been getting worse. Before you ask, I won't tell you specifics.”
“I know you’re worried about mandated reporting,” Persephone says, like she always does. Ronan just levels her with a blank look. They both know the only thing Persephone would get for reporting shit about the Nest would be a bullet in her skull, courtesy of the Russian mafia. “Are you worried that he will escalate outside of the Nest?”
“Adam said K was getting ‘dangerously desperate’, and considering his baseline is, like, one fucking inch from absolute madness, that means shit is going to go down,” Ronan responds. “I wasn’t supposed to make it this long.”
“But you have,” Persephone says. “And you are stronger than ever.”
She can’t say shit like that, because then Ronan has to do his best not to cry into a fucking pink mug of hot chocolate. Ronan knows, he knows he is so much healthier than he was in the Nest. He knows that as much as he pretends to hate these sessions, an uninterrupted fifty minutes to talk about his feelings is the only thing stopping him from fucking exploding. But it doesn’t mean he is strong enough.
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough to outlast him,” Ronan admits. “Not when Adam is stuck in there with him.”
“You are not responsible for Adam,” Persephone says, another one of her greatest hits. “He is an adult who makes his own choices.”
“Free will is an illusion, Seph,” Ronan responds. “I don’t think he’s ever had the ability to make a real decision, either.”
“He made a decision on his own in December,” Persephone says, and before Ronan can erupt she continues. “But I don’t think he has had many unforced decisions in his life.”
“It’s why it’s so effective for K to dangle him in front of me.” Ronan lets out a dark chuckle. “K always follows through. If he says he’ll hurt Adam because I refuse to come back, Adam will be hurt because of me.”
“Adam would be hurt because of Kavinsky, not because of you,” Persephone clarifies. “Because Kavinsky wouldn’t have given you a real choice, either.”
“Whatever,” Ronan says, and he wants to bail out of this line of questioning ASAP. “Can you just ask me normal shit today? About classes and shit?”
“Are you nervous for classes?”
And Ronan successfully wastes the remainder of the fifty minutes talking about shit that doesn’t matter. He wonders what the fuck Declan says to Persephone; fuck, he bets Gansey talks about Welsh history. What Ronan doesn’t want to to think about is that in two weeks, for the first time since Kavinsky broke his hand, he’s going to step out on an exy court and play a fucking game.
Will he be as good as he used to be? Will he be enough?
Ronan only knows one thing: this year is going to be hell. But hopefully, at the end of it, he can follow through on the one promise he’s made. Adam will be out of the Nest.