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When he opened his eyes, it took Ronan a minute to remember where he was. He inhaled deeply, smelled rain and earth, animals and hay; right. The Barns. He'd almost forgotten about bringing Adam to the Barns again, about wanting to conduct more experiments with his ties to Cabeswater and the sleeping animals. (That was the excuse; the truth was something entirely different and nothing he'd ever give life by speaking aloud: there had been letters from Aglionby, Gwenllian being obnoxious as shit, favors for Cabeswater; and finally, finally, a phone call, which could only have been from Mrs. Parrish, that had Adam looking like he was about to splinter into a thousand jagged pieces. Ronan hadn't known if the others had noticed, and to be honest, he hadn't cared. The next day, he'd grabbed Adam and ripped out of the gravel lot in front of Monmouth, Noah waving them off. That had been this morning; now, here they were.) His mind was groggy, back stiff and shoulders heavy from sleeping in a bad position, and when he looked up at the lights in the ceiling, he was filled with the overwhelming urge to break every last bulb.
"'S too damn bright," he muttered darkly as he glared up at them; somehow, and much to his ire, they didn't spontaneously combust with the force of his hatred. Still, he tried for just a little longer before finally deciding to tolerate the fact that it wasn't going to happen. It was an acceptable trade-off for not bringing anything back from his dreams this time, Ronan conceded. He looked around then, and paused once he realized why his shoulders (just the one, really) were so heavy. The tip of his nose brushed soft hair when he turned his head, the smell of soap suddenly overwhelming. His heart immediately began thundering in his chest.
Adam had apparently fallen asleep sitting next to him, and sank over far enough that his head had come to rest on Ronan's shoulder.
Ronan froze, and immediately all of his senses jumped to life from their sleepy catatonia. He could hear the light tapping of rain on the roof and from beyond the open barn door; the deep, slow breaths of the animals asleep around them and the boy on his shoulder. The lights weren't that bright, in all honesty; they cast a soft glow over everything, and were really only made brighter by the raincloud darkness beyond the door. The world smelled soft and moist, like hay and rain and (Adam's soap and) home; like everything that made life good again. He was seated on the floor of the barn, legs stretched out in front as he rested back against the gently heaving side of a copper-colored cow, and Adam Parrish was asleep on his shoulder. If Ronan closed his eyes, he could imagine that the world had been reduced down to this singular room. He could wish that it had.
It was a moment, a quiet, intimate moment, the sort he wasn't used to and wasn't ever sure he would be, and despite being a part of it, he still felt like he was intruding. Among the list of things Ronan Lynch was not, intimate, he felt, should be towards the top. It would be kept good company with loving and happy, and yet here he was, sitting in his childhood home, with the boy he liked leaning on him as he slept. It felt eerily like happiness, and he didn't know what he should do about it.
Ronan wasn't used to the indecision. He was, however, more than familiar with the absolute certainty that if he moved, if he breathed the wrong way, he'd irrevocably shatter the peace of it all, just like everything else precious and fragile that had ever been set in his path. The proverbial bull in a china shop, if the china shop was life and the bull had a vendetta. Most times, he had no qualms about it. Most times, he felt, deserved the destruction. This was not most times. He couldn't — wouldn't risk it.
His resolve only lasted for another few minutes, though to his credit, it wasn't his fault. It was Adam's, who shifted in his sleep and ended up sliding off Ronan's shoulder entirely; he jerked awake with the falling, looking around wildly before his eyes settled on the boy next to him. Ronan was frozen for only a second before trying to school his expression into one of cool indifference before Adam looked back at him. He wasn't sure if he succeeded or not.
"I fell asleep," Adam murmured, rubbing his cheek where it'd been pressed into Ronan's bare shoulder. The hem of his muscle shirt had left a dent in the soft skin there. Ronan tried not to let his eyes get stuck tracing the pattern.
"No shit," was his response, though it lacked most of the ferocity he'd wanted behind it. Adam just rolled his eyes, and Ronan had to force himself to look away. Instead, he cast his gaze to the rafters, looking around the barn as he drew his knees up, resting his arms on top of them. A deep breath, and he let the prickly second skin he wore like an armor slip, just for a moment. "It's a good place to sleep," he said, and when he said sleep, it didn't feel right. "To relax," Ronan amended, not bothering to try to hide the defensive note in his voice, and he was glad he wasn't looking at Adam as he said it.
Adam was quiet for a minute. Ronan could feel his eyes on him, appraising this different, quieter side of him. Closing his eyes made it that much easier to avoid meeting his gaze, so he did, leaning his head back against the cow again. He didn't want to know what Adam was thinking. He didn't want to know what (or who) Adam was seeing. This was a much less guarded version of himself, one that even Gansey only ever saw very rarely, rarer still since Niall Lynch's death. He didn't know if Adam realized it yet, and very decidedly didn't want to know if he did, nor what his opinion was.
"Yeah," came the quiet agreement, and Ronan let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Relief that someone else might feel at peace here, too, that his obvious bias could be overlooked. But Adam was hesitating on something now; Ronan could feel it in the air, a subtle shift in the atmosphere. It started to bring back the sharp boy he'd become, all razor edges and a too-short fuse. His usual acidic self started sliding back into place as his irritation grew, and he couldn't help himself as he snapped.
"Spit it out already, Parrish."
His hesitation became almost tangible then, so strange and nervous it was, and Ronan had to resist the urge to heave a sigh of relief when Adam finally moved. It wasn't an answer, told him nothing of why he was nervous, but it was better than just sitting there like a damn weirdo.
(And it was way better than those moments when he was more Cabeswater than Adam.)
When Adam moved, it was to sigh, leaning back against the cow again. His shoulder was dangerously close to Ronan's, not quite touching but near enough to send a prickle of electricity along his skin, just a ghost of a sensation. All at once he was too aware of the not-distance, and it was agonizing.
"Thanks."
Ronan was silent for a moment, waiting for more, for an elaboration, for anything. Nothing came. He opened his eyes, finally looking at him out the corner of his eye; Adam was gazing up into the rafters, head tilted back against the cow, but he wasn't asleep. Ronan allowed himself a moment of indulgence, furtive glances as he unconsciously started memorizing his profile: the angle of his nose, the way his lips curved. He looked simultaneously old and young, human and other. After all that had happened to them, to him, it wasn't hard to understand why. The most important thing, however, was that the shadows that had begun to crowd his face were finally lifting, and Ronan dropped his eyes as his quiet agony increased tenfold. Don't move away. If nothing else, just don't move away.
Adam moved.
Ronan's heart froze mid-beat.
The weight against his shoulder was unmistakable for anything other than what it was, and what it was happened to be Adam's shoulder pressed to Ronan's. Was he aware he was doing it? He had to be. He was conscious this time, not wide but still awake, the heat of his skin easily read through thin T-shirt. They were a mirror of the earlier image, one boy leaning onto the other, but this time both were awake, were cognizant of their positions. Ronan held his breath.
He hadn't cared, what felt like months ago now, when they'd been trespassing, about destroying anything in the house. He had been too full — of grief, of homesickness, of frustration, of everything. He could feel a similar sort of fullness crackling across his nerves, his skin, through his veins; here in the barn, however, surrounded by sleeping animals, it wasn't the same, not even close. It was too much, and yet not enough. It wasn't destruction; no, this instead was something he couldn't put a name to, that made his throat stick and hands clench. Now, he cared too much.
It took some effort not to jump when a hand not his own settled atop one of his, gentle as it coaxed that fist into relaxing. Ronan looked up quickly to see long fingers and delicate bones, the light pink line of a nearly-healed scar. He could feel rough skin, calloused palms, caught the faint scent of mist and moss. It felt like an eternity since he'd come out of his dreams and scrawled out a single word, and dropped off the dreamed item. Manibus, Ronan remembered. He's actually using it. He could feel Adam watching him, and the shame burned his cheeks with the knowledge that he couldn't meet his eyes. Instead, he watched their hands, and after a moment, relinquished his palm to Adam's searching fingers. Digits folded around each other, and Ronan found that he was nervous, possibly for the first time in his life.
"Hoc est realis?" he asked quietly, and it was perhaps the smallest his voice had ever been. He hated it, trying not to wince at how pathetic it sounded. The effort it took to keep any shadow of hope (of expectation) hidden was Herculean.
Is this real?
It didn't surprise him at all to find that he wasn't sure what he wanted the answer to be.
"Est realis," was the reply, and Ronan's hand twitched involuntarily around Adam's at the answer.
His gaze finally cut sideways to meet Adam's, sharp and much too fragile. "Are you real?" he demanded next. He was glad for how angry he sounded; it was easier that way, hid just how afraid he was that it was a dream, for once. It's always Latin in my dreams. It was his own fault, for using Latin in the first place; if this were a dream, though, maybe it would make everything so much easier.
(Easier, neater, and utterly agonizing.)
Adam rolled his eyes, unfazed by the look as he shifted his gaze back toward their hands, tracing a thumb across Ronan's wrist. (Belatedly, he realized there was probably no way to hide the way his pulse was racing.) "Last I checked." And after a moment, his voice tentative: "Are you okay?" He paused again, as if considering something, and then added, "You look like you're about to break something, or have an aneurysm."
"Yeah, and whose fault do you think that is?" It was said with only about half the venom he intended, and Adam grinned in response. Ronan had to look away, had to try to ignore the way his heart began pounding in his chest at the sight, riding the wave of relief that surged through him at the implications: they were speaking English. He wasn't dreaming. The weight in his hand was real. He was holding Adam's hand, and he wasn't dreaming.
Logically, Ronan knew that this was the literal least they could do, as two people with beating hearts. (The thought of Declan and his varied flavors of the weeks flashed through his mind, the knowledge of what he does so casually hot on its tail; a snarl threatened to curl his lip, but Ronan shut it down, refusing to let that asshole sour this.) Holding hands was something kindergartners did before getting mercilessly teased by their friends. It was one of the most basic shows of affection. The fact he was holding hands with Adam, however, was what made it a big deal. That, and the dizzying knowledge that apparently Adam wanted to hold his hand, and Ronan was pretty sure that if he caught fire just then, he'd die happy.
"Hey." Adam's voice was quiet when next he spoke, and even without looking at him, Ronan could hear the frown on his face.
He's gonna ask me to let go and forget all about it, was his immediate thought. A sudden surge of anger seethed through him, despite Adam not having said anything; don't be stupid, he told himself, tamping the anger down and refusing to let it through. For once, don't be a complete asshole. Ronan didn't say anything as he looked up at him, cautiously met his eyes.
Adam considered his words carefully, asking quietly after a moment, "Is this okay?" And there was a squeeze to their clasped hands to punctuate the question.
Ronan laughed as all that anger evaporated, and it was a sharp sound, incredulous. "Are you seriously asking me that?" A hurt look immediately crossed Adam's face, and Ronan dropped his eyes, suddenly cowed. Damn it. What was that about being an asshole? He took a deep breath, scrubbing his free hand back across his scalp. "It's fine, numbnuts. This's— It's fine."
It was a lame finish, and he knew it. He wasn't sure what else to say, though. Adam didn't respond for a long minute; the only way Ronan was (mostly) sure he hadn't put him off was the fact that their hands were still clasped, shoulders still pressed together. A sudden realization hit him then: what if he had screwed everything up? Ronan glared at their hands, gripping just a little tighter and deciding to commit every second, every sensation to memory. This was a fragile, precious thing, the likes of which he was wholly unused to. If he'd messed it all up by being an asshole (by being himself), he wasn't sure he'd be surprised at all. At least he could do this, staring at the way their fingers looked, memorizing the subtle roughness of Adam's skin as their hands shifted against each other. He could remember, and if it got too unbearable after this, maybe he could just dream—
No. He wasn't going to let this (whatever it was) die before it even hatched, and he wasn't going to dream himself another Adam Parrish, because there was and could only ever be one Adam Parrish.
"I like you," he blurted instead, and swore under his breath. His face was burning, the tips of his ears tingling; Ronan looked away, glaring at the wooden paneling of the wall instead of looking at Adam. It was the only way he could think of to salvage this, to mend the hurt shuttering Adam's face: to tell the truth, no matter how embarrassing. He braced his other elbow against his knees, pressing his face into the crook of his arm. It was a cold and nearly tangible pain when he realized this dislodged him from his shoulder.It was the only way he was going to get through this, though. "I like you, Adam," he repeated to his lap, his voice soft. "A lot. So this—" and he squeezed Adam's hand to emphasize his point, "is fine."
The silence that settled once his voice faded shouldn't have surprised him, and really, it didn't. More than the silence, it was the anticipation of what Adam's response would be that had his skin crawling, nerves buzzing. He wanted him to say something. He didn't want him to say anything. He wanted to crawl far enough into the dirt that he would vanish into it. He wanted to wake up and know that this was all a dream. A fantastic, beautiful, painful dream.
He did not wake up.
He was not swallowed by the earth.
Adam did not say nothing.
Adam said something.
It was (still) not a dream.
And Ronan refused to let himself believe he'd hoped for anything else, as Adam's voice murmuring "Me too" echoed through his head.
Time was a circular, never ending thing, this Ronan knew; it still felt like an eternity, however, before the air shifted and Adam moved. Ronan tried to will his heart to keep beating at the feeling of warm, soft flesh against his bare shoulder again, the scent of cheap soap. A familiar weight against him, this time unmistakeably intentional, and at once, he hated how their arms and clasped hands were in the way. But this — this was good, this was better than good. And after a moment:
"Ronan?" Adam's voice was soft, questioning, more nervous than he'd ever heard him before.
It was enough to pull him out of his hunch, and when Ronan finally managed to look up at him, they were almost nose-to-nose. He could see the lightest dusting of freckles across Adam's face, no doubt caused by long hours in the sun; he almost swear there was a red tinge to his cheeks. He wondered how closely, if at all, it matched his own. He took a deep breath, and tried again.
"Is it okay if... Can I..."
"Spit it out already, Parrish."
His voice was so much more of a whisper than he wanted it to be. He hated it, hated the way he was echoing himself, hated the electricity dancing along his nerves. Calm down. Calm down, he begged himself. Neither his pulse nor his heart bothered to listen.
In retrospect, it was such a miniscule thing when Adam shifted, just a fraction of a movement; still, it was enough to close the distance between them, and it felt like the world shook when Adam's lips brushed his.
It couldn't be called a kiss, not really. Could it? He wasn't sure. The only certainties Ronan had were that Adam's bottom lip was a little chapped, that those were definitely sun-kissed freckles across the bridge of his nose, that his shoulder was most definitely in the way, that it felt like a dream.
Most importantly, that he wanted to keep doing it.
(If I'm dreaming, please don't wake me up.)
Adam sat back after a few seconds, and god, he was, in fact, blushing. He bit at his lip, teeth worrying at the dry skin, before meeting Ronan's eyes. "Is that okay?" he asked, his voice unsure. "Because if it's not, I can—"
Damn it, Adam Parrish.
Ronan shifted to pull their clasped hands out of the way, twisting where he sat so he could face Adam properly, and leaned in to kiss him again. He meant for it to be a real kiss this time, but his nerves failed him; instead, it became another brush of lips, something near insubstantial as their noses bumped into each other. (He couldn't help but find some small comfort in the knowledge that, as bad as he was at this, Adam didn't seem to be any better.) It was light, lingering, and had his every nerve fine-tuned to Adam and what he was doing, trying to find just the right way to fit against him.
It was close to perfect — until Adam pulled his hand away. Ronan jerked back as though he'd been burned, eyes going to his suddenly empty fingers and finding them wanting. He wasn't on the verge of panicking. He wasn't. What happened? Why—
(Just a dream, just a perfect, fucked up dream—)
"Ronan," Adam murmured under his breath, and it was the only thing that stopped his chest from collapsing in on itself.
He looked up even as he kept his head bowed, and Adam's hands were gentle as they cupped his jaw, gently raised his head, and this time, he could say with confidence that it was definitely a kiss. Adam closed his eyes as he leaned in this time, and Ronan was positive that the only other time his heart had run this fast was when he'd raced the Pig against a white Mitsu. But this...
This was so much better.
Adam's hands were gentle, shifting from his jaw, to the back of his neck, to rest at the base of his skull, and the kisses came a little harder this time, bore just a little more pressure. There was only a second's hesitation before Ronan met them readily, finally allowing himself to close his eyes, slowly accepting that if he did, there was a good chance he wasn't going to wake up twisted in his own bedsheets. It had to be real: the feel of chapped hands against the stubble on his scalp, warm lips and soft breaths. There was no way it couldn't be. And yet, and yet — he couldn't bring himself to touch Adam back, hesitating as his hand hovered at Adam's waist. He couldn't, could he? Did he dare?
...no. He couldn't. Ronan's shoulders slumped just a little, disappointed and disgusted with his own cowardice. It seemed an intrusion, something too intimate for the way they were still learning each other. He settled instead for hooking his fingers into the fabric of Adam's shirt, at first a gentle pinch before shifting into a desperate grasp. Anything to ground him, hold him to this moment; anything that wasn't too much, wasn't too far, and this time, it felt as though the world had been refined to just this moment and nothing else.
Nature decided to interrupt just then, thunder crashing above the barn and sounding like the world was being ripped in half. It was similar to how Ronan felt as they finally separated, his heart thundering in his chest with the knowledge that something (everything) important had changed. Adam's hands slipped from his scalp to settle on his shoulders as they looked toward the ceiling, at the barn in general, half expecting to see everything falling apart around them and half disappointed when it wasn't. Once the thunder died down, they were left with just the rain, tapping quietly and steadily on the roof above them, and the faint buzz of electricity from the lamps above. After a moment, Ronan found himself looking at Adam, at the tousle of mousy brown hair and wide eyes, the color in his cheeks and reddened lips.
This is the boy I like, he thought to himself, and when Adam finally met his gaze, the small smile he offered made Ronan's heart hurt. A short, breathy laugh was his only response, and after a second, he leaned in to rest his forehead in the crook of Adam's neck. His face was burning, heat spreading to the tips of his ears and across his skin; the less Adam saw of it, the better. There was a moment before long fingers traced idle patterns across his scalp, along his neck — he could feel them along the edges of his tattoo, and wondered what it'd be like for him to trace the whole thing.
(A shiver ran down his spine at the idea. He wondered idly if Adam could feel it.)
Once he felt that it was safe, Ronan sat back, taking his seat against the cow again. This time, however, he let himself sit closer to Adam, let himself (albeit still a bit tentatively) take his hand, and study the shape their clasped fingers made. Adam shifted to lean against him, his eyes also trained on their hands, and wiggled his fingers around Ronan's.
"Thanks," Adam said after a moment, quiet. "For bringing me here, I mean."
The cow's side heaved beneath them, and Ronan gave it time to settle before nodding. And hesitated, wondering what he could say. He wasn't used to things like this. What was he supposed to say?
"We don't have to go back," is what came out of his mouth, "at least not until you want to." A grin crossed his face, and he leaned back against the cow, cast his eyes to the rafters above. "Shit, man. Let's just not go back at all."
Adam's only response was to snicker quietly and elbow him in the side, which made the dumb joke more than worth it. It would never be an option to not go back, to abandon Gansey (and Noah and Blue) when Glendower was so close. He knew that, and it was fine. For now, at least, they had the quiet of the Barns, the tapping of the rain overhead, the sound of thunder rolling across the fields as the storm moved on. They had a moment of peace and quiet, and for the first time in what felt like years, Ronan fell into an easy sleep. His last conscious thought was this: he hadn't ever expected that when sleep finally came quietly, it would be with Adam tucked against his side, and he would never be able to voice how happy it made him.
He woke up later, as the sun was beginning to peek out from behind the clouds, just in time to bid the world farewell as it sank behind the hills. What a useless bastard, Ronan thought as he glared at it. Adam was already awake, though, and Ronan was silent as he watched him kneel in front of cow on the other side of the room, pressing his forehead against it and closing his eyes. He could see his lips move, but was unable to hear what he was saying. He had a good guess, though.
"Thought we established that only my dad would be able to wake them up," he drawled, startling Adam so that he nearly fell over.
He caught himself, but only barely. Adam glanced back at the cow, chewing absently at his lip. "I figured it was worth another shot. He got them from Cabeswater, right?" Ronan shrugged noncommittally, and Adam rolled his eyes. "Anyway, I thought that maybe—" And here he trailed off, unsure about what he was about to say. "I thought maybe I could talk to whatever of Cabeswater's magic was left in them. It sounds stupid."
"Stupid? Are you kidding me?" Ronan threw his hands into the air. "It's goddamn brilliant. It's not like the things I tried worked, and they're," here he nodded to the cows, "not going to Cabeswater." He could see the recognition register in Adam's face when he remembered — the moss blanket, the piece of a dream. Briefly, Ronan wondered what Adam would think of the other things he'd dreamt, the useful, the useless, the beautiful and hideous. Then shook his head to clear the thought away.
I don't need to impress him, he told himself. Stop that.
Adam watched him for a moment, some incomprehensible expression on his face; it sent a sharp jolt down Ronan's spine, made him feel both watched and dissected. He had to look away. After a moment, there were scuffing noises, and then Adam's legs in front of him. And a graceful, misleadingly delicate hand held out to him.
"We should probably be getting back," Adam said, and there was a quiet note of apology in his voice. He didn't need to be apologetic, though; he was right.
Ronan took his hand, let Adam pull him into standing. He groaned as he stretched, stiff from sitting so long, and silently and stealthily catalogued the way Adam's eyes dared to skate over the strip of his belly that was revealed by the lift of his shirt. He paused then, wanting—
Wanting what? For Adam to keep looking?
Maybe. Yeah.
What if he's changed his mind?
Don't you fucking dare. And he couldn't figure out whether it was directed at himself, or at the possibility.
Almost as if he was reading his mind, Adam cleared his throat. The nervousness was clear on his face, and in the way he wouldn't quite meet Ronan's eyes. "So."
Ronan couldn't bring himself to say anything. They were standing close now — neither of them had moved away after Adam had helped him up. They were too close, it would be too easy, too simple to reach out and— "So."
Contain yourself, Lynch.
Adam hesitated for a moment more, before drawing in a deep breath. Finally, finally, he looked at him, and there was a strange sense that Adam was steadying himself. But for what? "I guess...we're boyfriends now, huh?" he asked tentatively.
Ronan's heart soared. He grinned, and something in his expression changed Adam's, made relief break across his face like a wave, made the smile infectious. Adam leaned up to kiss him, just a quick, chaste thing, before turning and heading for the door. "C'mon. Let's head out."
Ronan took a few long strides to catch up with him, catching a hand in his own, and they walked out together.