Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ronan’s bedroom at the Barns is a mishmash of interests. Band posters and tangled Celtic knot artwork jostle for space on his walls. His floor is a pile of discarded clothing, junk food wrappers, books, and strange baubles; there’s half a dozen pillows and squishy beanbag chairs scattered about for easy lounging, and a stack of CDs and DVDs lean in a disorganized tower next to the video game consoles under the flat screen TV.

It’s entirely different from the massive, orderly, sanitized, crisp bedroom Gansey left behind at his parents’ estate, and just like everything else about the Barns, Ronan’s room had been the subject of Gansey’s instant adoration.

Gansey’s sitting cross-legged on Ronan’s bed, a pencil tucked behind his ear, the heavy history textbook spread open in his lap. They're several months into their sophomore year, and although Gansey doesn’t find Aglionby’s coursework excessively challenging, the frequency of assignments means he has to sacrifice afternoons of exploring or researching for afternoons doing homework. It’s a rough shift, especially after his summer traversing the globe, but Ronan’s company these past few months has made it infinitely more bearable.

Ronan’s sprawled horizontally on the bed next to Gansey, holding the English reading assignment above his head in a way that looks decidedly uncomfortable. His socked feet are invading Gansey’s space, pressed against his thigh and tapping irritatingly along to the beat of the music from the stereo. Occasionally, the movement’s enough to make Gansey lose his place on the page, and when it does he flicks at Ronan’s big toe until he stills enough that Gansey can continue.

This easy comfort they’ve fallen into, despite having met less than six months prior, already feels timeless. These lazy, warm afternoons at the Barns might’ve easily been taking place for years. Already Gansey knows how the rest of the day will play out: when Ronan reaches the limit of his tolerance for sitting in one place doing one thing, which tends to take less than an hour, he’ll become increasingly more distracting until Gansey calls it a day as well.

Then the two of them will spend some time on the internet or with Gansey’s ever-present books, looking for more information about ley lines or Welsh mythology or Henrietta’s history. If Ronan’s attention span isn’t up for that, then they’ll turn up the music and talk, or watch TV, or Ronan will wear Gansey down until he agrees to a humiliating round of some video game. Maybe they’ll take the Pig and drive somewhere and get disgusting fast food. More likely, Gansey will make Ronan come downstairs and help him set the table for the dinner Aurora’s making and Gansey is implicitly invited to stay for.

As he underlines a sentence that seems important, Gansey quietly marvels at how easily this place, and these people, have become home.

Ronan’s foot flexes, heel digging hard into the muscle of Gansey’s thigh, and Gansey fixes him with a stern look. Ronan’s book has been cast aside, his arms thrown lazily behind his head. At Gansey’s look, Ronan grins slyly, his foot jiggling a little harder against Gansey’s leg in synchrony with the increasing beat of bass from the stereo. Gansey pinches the offending foot by the toe with his thumb and forefinger and flings it away from him majestically. Ronan laughs and lets it fall right back into place. “Lynch,” Gansey says, in his best professorial voice, “I’m trying to study.”

“Study this,” Ronan says, and shoves his entire foot into Gansey’s lap on top of the textbook. Gansey’s about to retaliate, potentially in a way that involves tickling, even though that carries significant risk of getting himself kicked in the face, when Declan opens the door.

“Ronan, do you know where – ” Declan stops mid-sentence, his eyes fixed on Ronan and Gansey’s stacked legs. He’s still wearing his Aglionby uniform, despite the fact that he’s been home for an hour.

“Learn to knock,” Ronan suggests breezily, appearing completely unbothered by the interruption. His leg stays firmly planted on Gansey’s thighs, but his entire body is much stiller than it had been a second before.

Declan’s expression shifts, suggesting someone who’s been to the dentist and finds they need an exorbitant number of fillings. “Can I talk to you?”

“I thought you already were. Isn’t that what the sound coming out of your mouth means?”

“In private.” Declan’s voice is stiff and entirely unsubtle. In a tone that says Dad’s away and I’m the oldest, he adds, “Now.”

Ronan rolls his eyes so exaggeratedly that it’s nearly a full body activity, but he rolls up off the bed and follows Declan out of the room.

Gansey shuts his textbook with a quiet snap, his face warm. He can’t help but feel like he’s done something wrong, even though rationally, he knows he hasn’t.

Declan’s attitude toward his brothers, Ronan specifically, has recently become increasingly overbearing. Gansey suspects the shift has to do with Declan’s new place as part of the prestigious in-group of upper div boys at Aglionby. The more time Declan spends with them, the more carefully he’s begun to carry himself, and the more he’s spoken about things like the importance of social standing, and how one’s actions reflect upon one’s family.

Gansey’s no stranger to his attitude; he’s heard similar sentiments from nearly every one of his immediate and extended family members throughout his life. But it’s put an obvious strain on Declan and Ronan’s relationship. When Gansey first met the Lynch brothers, Ronan and Declan had fought just as savagely as any pair of teenage siblings, but had an underlying camaraderie and comfort in each other’s presence that was readily apparent. Now, they actively avoid each other, and nearly every comment Declan makes in Ronan’s presence is met with a derisive sneer.

From the hallway, Gansey hears the first harsh notes of raised voices escalating toward a full-blown argument, and he gets up from the bed, sense of propriety warring with his sense of protectiveness over Ronan. 'It’s impolite to intrude on family matters,’ says his mother’s voice in his head. But if Declan’s current bone to pick has anything to do with Gansey, then he should at least be allowed to add his two cents, shouldn’t he?

Through the door, Gansey hears Ronan laugh. It’s an ugly sound, born of something caustic and bitter, and it makes Gansey’s stomach clench. He opens the door.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Ronan spits out. He’s standing with his back to Gansey, entire posture screaming defensiveness. His shoulders look sharp enough to crack granite.

Declan stands opposite, arms crossed, his eyes flicking toward Gansey and away. “I’m just saying,” he says, managing to sound both placating and judgmental at the same time, “you need to think about how your actions affect the family.”

Ronan’s fists clench at his sides. “Don’t pretend this is about anyone but you. I don’t give a fuck if my actions” – the word is wielded like a whip – “make you look bad.” He pauses for a second, and Gansey can almost feel his anger, a wave of blistering heat. “That’s just an added bonus.”

Declan tenses, and Gansey places a hand against the doorframe, solidifying his position at Ronan’s back. “It’s not just about me,” Declan protests, tightening his arms across his chest. “Think about Matthew. Think about Dad.”

“Oh, please,” Ronan shoots back. The mention of Niall – or possibly Matthew – has made Ronan’s spine snap even straighter. “You’re such a pathetic shit.” He takes a step toward Declan, his hands tight fists at his sides. “Just say what you really mean. Come on.”

Declan narrows his eyes at the challenge, and an alarm rings in Gansey’s head. “Declan,” Gansey says, warningly, and then in the same tone, “Ronan.” Neither of them pay him any attention.

Declan’s lip curls like a bullet sliding into a chamber, and he glares into Ronan’s face. When he delivers the shot, his voice is low and tremulous with viciousness. “Isn't it enough that you're pretending to be a boy? Do you really have to go and be - ”

Before Declan can finish, before Gansey can even process the full weight of the words, Ronan's fist is swinging. Declan’s arm shoots up to absorb the blow, and Ronan snarls, the sound raw and at odds with everything Gansey’s come to expect from him.

Gansey leaps forward, trying to grab the back of Ronan’s shirt, but he might as well be trying to capture lightning. Ronan is wild, all sharp edges and whip-crack limbs, and his next blow catches Declan hard in the stomach.

The breath shudders out of Declan, but he’s already retaliating, stance strong and sure as he slams a fist toward Ronan’s cheek. Ronan dodges, but the blow still catches the side of his mouth, and Ronan’s head snaps back in a way that makes Gansey feel sick.

Ronan finds his balance with a hand braced on the wall. Declan’s breathing hard, handsome face an ugly mask of defiant anger. “Stop,” Gansey commands, pleads, the unexpected show of violence making him completely lose hold of his vocabulary. Watching the fight is like watching tectonic plates tremble together and apart; the earth shuddering beneath him as he tries to find balance.

Ronan’s already moving again, smashing his forehead into Declan’s nose as his hands shove at Declan’s shoulders. Declan curses and falls back a foot, hand flying to his face.

Gansey uses the opportunity to dart forward, arms catching Ronan around his upper chest. Ronan’s spine goes ramrod straight as he freezes, and Gansey realizes his error a second too late – his chest – his chest, fuck – before an impossibly sharp elbow is smashing back into his ribs. Gansey gasps and falls back, entirely useless in the face of sudden pain even with the cocktail of adrenaline and hot shame rocketing through his system, and he’s helpless as Ronan tears forward with renewed savagery. Ronan slams into Declan and they both go down, bodies meeting the wooden floor with a heavy thud, and Gansey can’t tear his eyes away from this carnage: the horror of two brothers so desperate to do damage to one another.

“Boys!”

Declan and Ronan both go completely still at the sound of the voice – Declan’s hand curled sickly around Ronan’s throat, Ronan’s clawed fingers dangerously close to Declan’s eyes – as though someone’s smashed a pause button on the fight.

Aurora is standing at the top of the stairs, her lips set in a grim line, her hands clasped in front of her chest, prayer-like. “That’s enough,” she says quietly, and Gansey thinks, surely, it can’t be that simple, but Ronan is already rolling off of Declan and up to his feet.

Both boys are breathing hard and avoiding looking at their mother. Without another word, Ronan shoves past Gansey and into his bedroom, door slamming like an exclamation point. Declan stands with a wince that gives Gansey a short stab of vindictive pleasure and smooths down his rumpled Aglionby jacket.

“I was just - ” Declan starts, already readying his defense, but Aurora just shakes her head, effectively silencing him. She looks to Gansey, who immediately feels another swoop of shame. He should’ve stopped this from happening.

“I’m sorry,” Gansey tells Aurora, for lack of anything better to say. He feels heavy, like he needs to be wrung out. It’s not my job to protect him, Gansey reminds himself, but the words ring hollow even inside his own head.

Aurora’s gaze softens, and she inclines her head. “It’s certainly not your fault, Gansey.” She looks to the bedroom door behind him. Her concern is tangible.

“I can look in on him if you like,” Gansey offers.

Aurora graces him with a small smile. “That would be kind of you. I’m sure he’d also understand if you need to go home.” At first Gansey thinks she might be politely asking him to leave. But the overly gentle tone of her voice makes him think that she’s providing him with a way out, should he need one.

I can handle this, he thinks sternly. It’s Ronan. “Thank you, but I’d like to stay, if that’s alright with you.”

“Of course.” Her smile is brighter this time, but it fades from her face as she finally turns her attention to Declan. “Declan, come downstairs with me.”

Declan, quietly fuming through this whole exchange, hesitates for a second before following his mother. Gansey does not envy him in the slightest. Although Aurora Lynch always appears tranquil, Gansey’s seen the steel that hides beneath her gentle exterior when it comes to the wellbeing of her family.

Taking a breath in and out like a soft plea, Gansey presses open the door to Ronan’s bedroom. He’s just in time to see Ronan’s foot collide with a stack of DVDs, sending half of them skittering across the room. Near Gansey’s left foot, Kill Bill hits the wall with a sharp crack.

The easy, lazy energy that had filled the room has been replaced by something frenetic and dark and painful. Blood is dripping from a small cut on Ronan’s mouth, and Gansey takes another restricted breath. His chest feels heavy and sharp, like his lungs are filled with gravel.

Ronan moves on from the toppled stack, pacing back and forth in front of Gansey like he doesn’t see him. This is not the Ronan that Gansey has come to know. This is something else entirely: the smell of smoke that leads to the realization that the house is burning. The eerie green light in the sky just before the tornado siren. It makes him uncomfortable in a way he can’t put words to.

Declan’s words had been awful, yes; barbed tips that were designed to sink their way through all of Ronan’s defenses. But Gansey doesn’t understand how they could have unleashed all of this: this violent being in front of him who looks like he’s ready to rip apart anything in his path.

It’s frightening, and Gansey feels the urge to go to Ronan, to smooth his hands over his rough edges the same way he might grasp the Camaro’s shaking wheel. But he stays put, hands loose at his sides.

“Fuck him,” Ronan mutters, and then louder, “fuck him.”

Gansey’s not sure if Ronan’s talking to him, or just talking, and he’s tentative in his response, testing the water. “He was entirely out of line.”

Ronan’s eyes flicker to Gansey and then quickly away, and Gansey frowns. Underneath the burning anger, there’s something in Ronan’s movements that suggests shame, or embarrassment, perhaps. Gansey considers this, running over the pre-fight conversation in his head once more. It hasn’t really occurred to him before that Ronan Fuck-Off-If-You-Have-A-Problem-With-Me Lynch might be vulnerable to attacks on his identity. From day one of their friendship, Gansey’s had the sense that Ronan has no time or fucks to give for people who judge him for the ways in which he is Ronan Lynch.

But maybe an attack coming from within these walls is different.

“You know he’s full of shit, right?” Gansey tells Ronan, finally easing away from the door, but still taking care to steer clear of the other boy’s personal space.

Ronan stops moving abruptly, spine still taut with knots of emotion, face turned away.

Gansey takes a cautious step closer. It’s important to him that Ronan understands this. “Ronan. You know I don’t care – that I’m fine with - ” Gansey falters, still uncertain of what he’s allowed to say. It’s not his place to make assumptions. But he thinks it is his place, as Ronan’s best friend, to lend assurance where he can. “I think maybe he just wants to protect you.”

He knows this is the wrong thing to say a second after he says it. Ronan snorts harshly and whirls toward Gansey, eyes blazing with hellfire. “Wants to protect his reputation, maybe.” Gansey thinks maybe Ronan’s trying to stop shaking, and that’s why his fists are curled so tight. His chest aches. “He’s already embarrassed enough, having a freak for a brother. Can’t handle me being a faggot, too.”

The word stings like a slap in the quiet room. Ronan’s mouth is twisted up into an ugly sneer, and he’s still unable to hold Gansey’s gaze. Gansey casts around for words, trying to find the right combination to make this better. It’s a harsh realization when there aren’t any.

Ronan seems to deflate a little, finally, expression turning from contempt to something like defeat, and Gansey almost wants the rage back, because this is much more terrifying. “It used to be different,” Ronan says quietly. “He didn't used to give a shit about –” He breaks off, and his shoulder jerks up and down in an aborted shrug. “Declan, Matthew, my mom, my dad – it never mattered.” The anger seems to be ebbing away now, and Ronan’s eyes are hollow when they finally meet Gansey’s. “It never mattered, Gansey.”

Gansey wants to charge downstairs and continue what Ronan started with Declan, wants to put his fist right through his brother’s righteous face for doing this to him. The surge of ferocious anger is tied directly to how tight his throat feels, is amplified by how young Ronan looks suddenly, how obviously difficult it is for him to hold it together. “I’m sorry,” is all Gansey can say. “Jesus, Ronan. I’m sorry.”

Ronan drops to the edge of the bed, and after a minute, Gansey joins him. Ronan leans toward him fractionally; enough that Gansey can feel the warmth of his skin. Gansey cautiously leans toward Ronan too, so that their shoulders and upper arms are pressing against one another in comforting and familiar pressure.

Gansey doesn’t think Ronan wants to hear platitudes about how even though Declan is being a dick, he still cares about him, or how he’ll probably come around eventually. Ronan’s not the platitude type. Gansey’s hands feel cold against his thighs, and a fresh stab of pain in his ribs provides him with the flash memory of Ronan’s body tensing when Gansey’s arms had gone around him. Gansey swallows, trying to wash away the sour taste burning the back of his throat. “And I’m sorry for earlier, when I – the way I grabbed you.” His discomfort is like a pulled muscle; he wants to shift from side to side with it, but forces himself to stay still and present. He can’t risk any part of what he has here. The thought of doing anything that would cause Ronan to shut him out is too much.

Ronan’s shoulder moves against his, another quick shrug. Slender fingers drum quickly against his leg, the movement catching Gansey’s eye. “S’okay.”

“It’s not, really,” Gansey objects. Although time spent together has burst most of the personal space bubble that initially existed between them, Gansey’s observant enough to know that certain ways of touching Ronan are off-limits. “I’ll be more careful in the future.”

Ronan looks at him sidelong, and Gansey meets his eyes. His smirk is small, but it’s something, and some of the rocks lodged in Gansey’s lungs seem to loosen. Ronan nudges him with his elbow, dissolving the rest of the tense formality between them. “Got you for it though, didn’t I? And in the future, you should just let me cave his face in.”

Gansey raises an eyebrow. “Honestly, after that little display today, I may beat you to it.”

Ronan snorts, and throws himself back on the bed, arms crooked so his head falls into his cupped hands. He licks away the blood that’s collected on his lower lip. “What are you going to do, starch his shirts to death?”

Gansey draws himself up a little, holding back a smile. “I’ll have you know I’m quite formidable in a fight.”

That earns him a laugh, loud and only a little jagged. “C’mon, man. You couldn’t intimidate a Girl Scout.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Ronan’s face and posture change immediately – from at ease to guarded and hostile in a matter of seconds. Gansey’s cursing in his head until they hear the voice attached to the knock call out. “Ronan?”

The tension lifts right back off of Ronan like it’s been yanked away, and Gansey lets out a relieved breath. “Hey, dude,” Ronan calls, and Matthew opens the door and enters, beaming at them with a grin that could grow flowers. He’s wearing a dirt-stained soccer uniform, and he’s got a green smudge of grass across one cheek.

“Hi, Gansey,” Matthew says, and crashes onto the beanbag next to the bed like it’s his favorite place in the world. It’s very possible that it actually is. Gansey leans over to bump fists with him, a gesture he’s still learning to not be self-conscious about. “What’s up with Declan? He looks like somebody shit in his loafers.”

Ronan looks startlingly thoughtful at this, and Gansey speaks quickly. “I don’t think Matthew meant that as a suggestion, Ronan.”

“Still,” Ronan says slowly, a bit of a familiar evil gleam in his eye, “There is an awful lot of cow shit on this farm. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for some of it to wind up in his shoes. Or his bed.”

Matthew laughs uproariously at this, and Ronan is grinning, loose and easy, and Gansey feels expansive with relief. “Unless your cows are routinely wandering the halls, I think you could argue that that would be a stretch,” Gansey admonishes.

Ronan comes up on his elbows so he can get a better look at his brother. “You smell nasty. Good practice?”

“You mean my manly aroma?” Matthew asks, as if he’s in his twenties and not all of thirteen. “I blocked some goals!”

“Yeah?” Ronan raises a skeptical eyebrow. “And how many did you let through?”

Matthew grins, sheepish and good-natured. “About three times as many.” Ronan snorts, and Matthew punches his leg. “If you practiced with me more, maybe I’d get better!”

“Maybe later, pipsqueak.” Although Ronan’s face has lightened considerably, he looks tired, deep down. “Right now, I could go for kicking Gansey’s ass at Smash Bros.”

Gansey groans, and Matthew jumps up in delight to grab the controllers. “Come on guys,” Gansey says in mock despair. “What did I ever do to deserve this?”

Ronan and Matthew ignore him, launching into an oft-repeated debate about the merits of playing as Falco versus Fox, and Gansey finally feels the last of the tension drain out of him.