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It's quiet and empty, now, this place where he spent his idyllic childhood. He can still hear the echoes, though: his father's music; his mother's stories; his brothers' laughter. There hasn't been laughter in this house in way too long. He wonders if one bright peal of joyful laughter would be enough to shake the cobwebs from the ceiling and blow all the dust away. Return the warmth and light and soft, sheltered spaces.
He walks through the house, carefully stepping around the creaky floorboards, barely making a sound. It's a sacred place, but it's not a church. It wasn't meant to be the home of silence and saints and dead things.
He can almost see himself and his brothers chasing each other around, sliding on the floors with socked feet, knocking over objects. Remembers all the scraped knees and broken vases. Proof that childhood merriment filled up these walls not so long ago in lieu of must and neglect.
*
Adam examines things around the house when he thinks Ronan's not looking. Ronan finds it amusing. He isn't even sure himself most of the time what are dreams and what aren't (he's still not absolutely certain about himself either). It's not even wonder or fascination for him anymore, Ronan knows; he's just trying to figure out how it all works. He's still not entirely sure how he managed to fall for the most practical boy in the entire world.
Sometimes he looks at Ronan like he's working out a problem, like he's not actually seeing him at all.
*
Ronan leaves him to his investigation one evening, takes a walk around the fields, makes sure the barns are locked and everything is as it should be. He takes his boots off at the kitchen door, hangs his jacket up, and heats up some pasta from the night before. Even if Adam wants to leave, he's definitely sending him off with a big bowl of it, while claiming that he's probably just going to throw it out if he doesn't take it.
He stirs the sauce every couple minutes while he looks out the window. It's already mostly dark. Adam's quiet upstairs; he probably found something he took an interest in or he fell asleep. He definitely doesn't consider going upstairs just to watch Adam sleep in his bed for a moment.
Eventually, he turns the stove off and figures he should check on him.
He takes the stairs quietly in case he is actually asleep. The door of his childhood room is open and he just stands there, just outside, cloaked in shadow, watching the boy he loves. He can't bring himself to disturb this picture, at least not for a few more moments.
He's sitting on his bed, one leg tucked under him, engrossed in the photo album lying in his lap.
Ronan knows he didn't put the album away; maybe part of him was hoping he'd find it.
Adam's smiling the way you do when you think no one's looking, fond and unabashed; it takes years off his face, like he's been transformed into the kid he never got to be. It's a different Adam: one not weighed down by his unforgiving life or the pull of the ley line. He's unshielded, less cautious, more alive. But just as strong as he's always been.
As Ronan watches, he lets out a startled laugh that he quickly stifles, like he's afraid to shatter the silence in this house that's become a tomb for sleeping things parted from their dreamer.
But he thinks it could be enough, to chase away the darkness in the recesses of his mind, chase away all the ghosts in this house (but maybe he's just another one of them now).
He can't remember the last time he heard him laugh like that, free and unselfconscious. Maybe it's the first time. He wants to keep it. He wants it to be the only sound he ever hears, he wants to make him laugh every day forever, wants to make a fool of himself if that's what it takes, wants to write him a song, wants to dream him a world; it probably won't ever be enough. It feels like his heart's being choked with that knowledge.
It shouldn't hurt like this; he should be used to it by now.
But he figures Adam Parrish isn't going to stop finding new ways to torment him until he stops breathing.
It's still the best kind of pain, though.
*
He shifts his weight without thinking about it and the floorboard creaks and Shit.
Adam looks up; he looks like he's been caught for all of two seconds and then he says, "Stop lurking like a creep."
"What the hell were you laughing at, Parrish?" he says, sitting next to him on the bed.
Adam slides closer to him, half the album in each of their laps now, and he can smell the lotion on his skin and the mild sweetness of his shampoo. He chances a look while Adam's head is bowed. His skin's glowing, from his temporary mirth or from something else, something more permanent (Ronan can't be the only one to notice he's carried himself different lately: less exhausted, healthier, eyes wide open, dark circles fading). He wants to lightly stroke the backs of his fingers over his cheekbone. His hair looks soft. He wants to run his hand through it, right over his ear; he wonders what would happen if he did.
"Your hair," Adam says trying not to laugh and failing.
"I wanted a Harry Potter haircut." He shrugs.
"You straightened it?" Adam asks, horrified.
"Yeah, every day for months."
"Wow, that's dedication."
"I always wanted to be a wizard."
"Well, you kind of are," Adam points out. He swallows, and then reaches up almost absently, and traces a lightning bolt on his forehead with his thumb. It's just the ghost of a touch but Ronan feels it all the way down to his toes.
He smiles shyly at him before he ducks his head and Ronan wants to say, No, no, don't stop, don't ever stop.
"No, you're the wizard," he says instead.
"Magician."
"Same thing, Parrish."
They flip through the album again for a while, with Ronan providing anecdotes, mostly involving the pranks he'd pull on Declan while somehow always avoiding getting in trouble.
Adam stops on a page with an eight-year-old Ronan holding a guitar that's as big as he is.
"Do you play?" Adam says, glancing at the guitar sitting on the armchair next to the bed.
"A little bit. I dabbled in a lot of things, but nothing really stuck, I guess."
"I found some of your drawings," Adam admits.
"When did you become such a snoop?"
"I'm not — I just. You should play something for me sometime," he says, obviously trying to change the subject.
Ronan smiles at him; maybe he will sometime.
"I heated up some leftovers. If you want to stay, I mean. I could still drive you back if you want —" He hopes he's not betraying how much he wants him to say no.
"No, no, I want to," Adam says earnestly, looking up at him, and they're unnervingly close right now; he can feel the warmth of Adam's thigh where it's pressed against his own.
"Well, you can make yourself comfortable," he says, trying to make it sound as casual as possible.
"What, in here?" He sounds like he thinks Ronan's joking, like it's a truly ludicrous idea to even suggest.
"Yeah."
"What about you?" Adam says, eyes narrowed.
"I'll just take the couch or whatever."
"I can't just sleep in your room," he says, like just the thought of that is scandalising.
"Why not? I sleep in yours all the time," Ronan says, pointedly.
"It's different."
"Why?"
"Because maybe it means something," Adam says, avoiding his gaze now, nervously toying with a corner of the album cover.
"Do you want it to?"
"I don't know. Maybe," he says, hushed.
Ronan reaches over and takes the album from his lap, closes it and sets it aside. Then he rests his hand on his shoulder gently, fingers splayed against the side of his neck.
Adam's hair brushes Ronan's forehead as he turns towards him and their breathing is so loud in the silence. Ronan tilts his head to the side, parting his lips, a question, an invitation.
And then Adam's pulling away from him.
"Sorry," he says. "God. I just need to — I need a minute —"
And then he's leaving the room.
Each of his footsteps on the stairs is like a punch to the gut.
*
He finds him in the kitchen after giving him about fifteen minutes to himself.
He's standing next to the sink with a glass of water in his hand like he's forgotten he's still holding it.
Ronan takes it from him and sets it down before standing in front of him, an arm's length away.
"What are we doing?" Adam whispers kind of incredulously.
"I think you were making fun of my haircut when I was ten and I was thinking about how good you look in my bed."
Adam winces. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?" Ronan says, stepping closer now.
"Because."
"Because what?"
"Because I might do something I shouldn't."
"Like?"
"Like start wishing for things I can't have."
They just look at each other for a long moment and then Adam shakes his head plaintively and slips out from between Ronan and the counter and starts heading towards the den.
"I'm right here," Ronan calls after him, voice seemingly echoing off all the walls in the entire house; echoing in the abyss between them and echoing across space and time. And it sounds like something else; it sounds like his soul crying out: I'm real, I'm alive, I'm yours.
And amazingly, somehow, that's all it takes.
Adam turns around and walks back to him, presses him against the counter and kisses him like something cataclysmic, like they're burning up at the centre of the sun, like they can't tear themselves away, like it'll kill them either way so best to go out in flames.
"This is too much," Adam says, gasping for breath, still close enough that he can feel the heat of his skin.
"Yeah, I know," Ronan says, leaning up to kiss his temple, then smiling at him, arms firmly wrapped around his waist.
"No, I mean — I want to kiss you. A lot." He looks slightly frantic, like it's physical painful for him to not be doing that right now, like it was almost impossible to pull himself away.
"I think you've made that clear." He almost lets out a hysterical laugh, because Adam wants this, really wants it, wants to kiss him, wants to be here too —
"Maybe we should go somewhere else," Adam says, taking in a deep breath, seeming to regain his control.
Ronan drops his arms, slightly crestfallen, as Adam moves back a few steps, out from between his legs.
"We could go back upstairs."
Adam's eyes are clouded with uncertainty when he looks at him. "Isn't this weird for you? I feel — I feel like I'm intruding. I feel —"
Ronan can't believe he's worried about that, but of course he is — because it is a lot, just being here is a lot for him most of the time, but it's still — it's still just an empty house, now, a big, empty house surrounded by big, empty fields that he doesn't want to feel so alone in anymore.
"Hey, I want you to be here. It's never gonna be like it was when I was a kid again. And that's okay. I just — I want you to be here." For the rest of it, for every new happy memory he wants them to make together.
Adam smiles his boyish smile again, going slightly red. He reaches out and laces their fingers together, studying how they fit, like it's something curious but altogether unsurprising.
He brings Adam's hand to his mouth and kisses the back of it and then the centre of his palm, like he's always wanted to. He hears the tiniest hitch in his breath.
"I didn't know before," Adam says when their eyes meet again.
"Know what?"
"You."
You've always known me, he wants to say. It's a blessing and a curse, but Adam's seen the worst things in the darkest depths of his mind and he's still standing there, in his family home, holding his hand, looking at him like he's some kind of miracle.
He'll do anything to be worthy of that.
*
It's hard to stop touching each other afterwards. They don't talk much during dinner, but Adam smiles at him between mouthfuls of pasta and kicks at his shins gently with his toes, like he's just making sure he's still there.
Adam helps him wash up afterwards, standing next to each other at the sink, hips bumping and bare feet brushing.
They put on a movie and the opening credits haven't even finished before he's pressing him down into the cushions and getting on top of him. He kisses his cheeks and nose and eyelids while Adam flushes all over.
It feels like hours have passed, feels like the seasons have changed or maybe the world's ended outside, but they're trapped in this one moment, preserved in this house of frozen dreams, like they're just another one of them, destined to spend forever like this: laughing into each other's mouths, clumsy elbows in ribs, eager fingers dipping under clothing, lips tracing shivering skin, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, eyes meeting, both unafraid.
"We should go upstairs," Ronan says, when they finally can breathe properly again, lying on his back, Adam tucked along his side.
"Just to sleep, right?" Adam says, eyes closed, warm hand resting on his stomach under his shirt.
"Yeah, just to sleep," Ronan says, turning his head to place a kiss between his eyebrows.
*
Morning light breaks through the window, illuminating the room, and Ronan wakes up in his own bed for the first time in years. And not alone.
Adam shifts in his arms, hair tickling his chin, and Ronan opens his eyes to see him leaning over him, eyelashes gone golden in the sunlight and smiling contentedly; it's warm and slow and lavish when he kisses him.
He thinks this is what home feels like now.