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Peace painted itself over his life and his heart faster, and much gentler, than Ronan thought possible, given his vague understanding of contentment. The last several years had passed him in hurried blurs of blood and teeth, rubber and other vices; chaos dressed as agents for survival.
Grief never truly went away, he had learned, but instead came with volume buttons, where it took effort—took finally asking for help—to access control of the remote. On cold nights, holidays spent with fewer people than years prior, birthday cakes with no one to blow out candles, he could feel familiar thrums of dark energy daring to swarm him: the need for climbing speedometers, the punishing pain of knuckles to faces, knuckles to glass. Memories that fed on screams. He still had these episodes, but with each season, their impacts were less sticky, and he, less reactive.
The difference was, where there once was rage, now was understanding—maybe one day, even, acceptance.
There was Gansey (alive; blessedly, alive) rattling about some new archaeological discovery in Mongolia, regluing together a miniature gas station while Ronan slingshot paper clips into his hair. There was Blue drowning in the sweatshirt he lent her, giggling maniacally as they set up fireworks that he dreamt out in the fields farthest from the animal barns on New Year’s. There was Matthew draping a sleepy Opal over his shoulder, bouncing up the stairs toward his old room as gently as Matthew was capable of, whispering the stories of their childhood into her ear. Hell, there was even Declan. And Adam—
Ronan would never openly volunteer himself as a sentimental man, but fuck. There was Adam.
Ronan never imagined his world could be soft.
It was late spring now; a warm southern afternoon that promised summer but still treated them to a cool breeze. It was also Saturday, one of the very rare Saturdays when Adam didn’t work at all, when homework consented to be left for the following evening, making it Ronan’s favorite kind of Saturday.
The two of them swayed lazily on the hammock Ronan hung up in the backyard a few days ago, Adam dozing across him. Ronan thread his fingers through Adam’s hair, scratching his scalp with every exhale against Ronan’s bare chest. He could lie there with him all damn day.
The radio sang from inside through the porch screen door—some bluegrass station Parrish pretended not to like. Somewhere out in the distance, he heard Opal squealing and Chainsaw squawking, water splashing, all duetting wildly with the crickets and Adam’s breathing. They were his favorite farm sounds.
He heard the rope snap before he felt it.
“Fucking fuck,” Ronan coughed as he landed on the twiggy dirt; as Adam landed on top of him.
Adam gasped out a laugh against his neck, where Ronan had instinctively tucked—crushed—him, his hand still cupping the back of Adam’s skull. “I can’t breathe.”
“You can’t breathe,” Ronan griped. “I’ve been impaled by sticks and shit. I saved your life.”
Adam laughed—wheezed, really—as he pushed himself up into a straddle, pulling Ronan with him by the arm. “Let me see,” he said, clutching Ronan to his own chest so he could inspect his back.
Ronan grit his teeth. “Fuck, that hurt.”
He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Adam’s warm shoulder, Adam quietly wiping the dust away from his tattoo, picking out a splinter with his fingernails.
“Some scratches. Nothin’ bleeding,” Adam said. “Guess you’ll live.”
“Hmm.”
“You are filthy now.”
“Hmm.”
“Should we take a bath?”
Ronan had only just caught his breath before Adam started kissing up his neck, sinfully slow, and his heart raced again.
The tub in his parents’ old bathroom was massive; pearl-white and porcelain, it was one of those vintage clawfoots that normally got water everywhere but was instead made with dream magic that always kept the tile dry. Ronan remembered their last bath together, about a week ago: steam clouding the room like a sauna, the two of them kissing feverishly in a position not unlike how they were now, only with Adam’s lips marching downward, and with haste.
Another breeze cut through the heat surrounding him, bringing Ronan back to himself.
“What’s—” Gah. Goddamn it, Parrish. “Time. What time is it?”
Adam detached himself from him and checked his watch—a cheap one he bought from Walmart after deciding he wasn’t getting his old one back. “Almost two-forty.”
It amazed Ronan how quick Adam could jump from one state of being to the next: from dead asleep to balancing equations; coming out of a deep scry, then springing right into action; dropping foreplay for responsible reality, even while half hard.
His Magician, thumped his heart.
“Shit,” he swore instead. “I gotta deliver all those strawberries to Cheyenne’s down the road before four. Meant to do that before you got here.”
Adam shrugged. “You want help?”
Ronan didn’t normally bother Adam with farm errands; he’d rather let Adam finish his work while Ronan wasn’t home with the hope that he might have his boyfriend’s undivided attention when he returned. He’d skip the chore altogether if he didn’t have a deal with his neighbor, who sold most of his produce at the farmer’s market for him, in exchange for a small portion of his profits, so he wouldn’t have to. (Ronan’s one and only attempt at manning his own stand had been simultaneously one of the dullest and would-pull-hair-out-if-not-bald mornings of his life; Adam swore he was never deleting those pictures.)
But Ronan was feeling selfish with Adam’s time today. And he’d never turn down the chance to go for a drive.
Adam stretched his arms over his head, groaning from the back of his throat like a cat uncurling after a snooze in the sun. Sleep was still a luxury for him, despite fewer after-hour extracurriculars. (Cabeswater might’ve been quiet, but the real world was not.) Friday had been a marathon; Saturday was their reward.
Ronan took a moment to appreciate Adam’s body—lean, and, to Ronan’s joy, freckling darker each day closer to summer—running his hands along the valleys of each rib. He thanked God again for the Barns: for its privacy; for its safety to worship Adam out in the open air with no hesitancy, no decorum. This fort they’d started building for themselves, slowly, beautifully, since last November was invitation only—and for good reason. There were few strong enough to survive an Adam Parrish truly uninhibited; few were equipped to love an uncanny god and earn permission to view. To touch.
That was a battle he would’ve gladly died fighting. One he almost did.
Ronan dug a thumb hard into Adam’s side.
“Ow—asshole.”
Adam stood, ignoring Ronan’s antagonism, picking up the torn hammock.
“Figures,” Adam said.
“What?”
“There are bite marks all over this thing.”
“Fucking—we need to start buying her chew toys or something.”
“What makes you think she stops at chewing,” Adam smirked.
“Whatever.” Ronan stood, dusting the dirt and grass off his ass, and headed toward the house. “Grab me a shirt? I’ll start packing the truck.”
Last winter, Ronan and Opal found an old, rusted Chevy pickup in one of the outer barns, tires flat and covered in cobwebs. Adam only needed to poke at it for a couple minutes to figure out it was a dream truck, and he didn’t have the tools to fix parts that didn’t exist in regular cars. When Adam argued, after Ronan dreamt him dream tools, that he could have just dreamt a functioning truck instead, Ronan suggested his solution was more entertaining for everyone involved. Adam had pretended to be annoyed by more work on his plate, but the outcome was as Ronan expected: there wasn’t a puzzle Adam Parrish didn’t love to solve. January was spent next to the space heater in the barn, watching Adam tinker away under the hood in between Saturday shifts and after Sunday masses. Hidden deep in his camera roll, in a folder no one would know about, was a photo of Opal, burritoed in multiple sweaters, perched quietly on a stool beside Adam while he explained each repair he made. The picture lodged desires he wasn’t ready to name so tightly down Ronan’s throat, it was a picture he rarely looked at.
Now, with a purring engine and painted cherry red, Ronan used the truck specifically for deliveries and pickups, transporting feed and equipment to the barns and animals farther on the property. He still preferred driving the BMW in most scenarios, but it was the particularly powerful combination, Ronan privately understood, of becoming a farmer, a father, and Adam Parrish’s partner that started pouring practicality into his cereal bowls.
A plain white t-shirt struck him in the face as Adam slid onto the seat bench, slamming the passenger-side door behind him.
“Quit it,” Adam giggled, Ronan wringing and slinging the shirt back at him in retaliation. “You’re going to stretch it out.”
“So, what. Only gonna wear it an hour, tops.”
Adam shook his head, already fussing with the radio. “The less time you waste flirting with me, Lynch, the quicker we’ll get back.”
“Flirting? Pshaw.”
Ronan dressed with no further fanfare. He stretched to rest his right hand at the back of Adam’s neck, looking over his shoulder as he backed out of the gravel driveway.
“Seatbelt, bitch.”
“I can never get a station to stick,” Adam said, clicking his belt. He slapped the dash as if he expected the static, like a candy bar, to come loose.
Ronan squeezed his neck. “See if the cassette works. I think I saw a tape in there.”
“Not sure if I want to find out what’s on it.” Adam kept festering with the radio, unable to leave any problem be until he fixed it. Which, he did—finally connecting to his country station from earlier once they were nearly a quarter mile down the county road.
Ronan wondered whether he’d ever stop suspecting magic of every interference in their world.
They drove in (almost) pleasant silence. (Ronan wasn’t big on banjoes.) He played with the curling ends of Adam’s hair, fighting—impressively, he thought—the impulse to pull them. Adam himself had his hand on Ronan’s thigh—a little too high, he thought. (Not high enough, he thought.)
The driveway up Cheyenne’s property wasn’t as long as the winding road that lead to the Barns. He hadn’t even known there were other farms nearby until he moved back from Monmouth. Growing up, Ronan never realized how isolated he and his brothers really were, hidden safely behind trees and dreams. Though, Ronan from a year ago would growl that, clearly, it was never safe enough.
He thought of the hidden picture in his phone, and Ronan made a mental note to add some plans into his dream journal when they got home.
Ronan parked the truck and found Adam staring at him, charged with dangerous want.
His breath caught in his throat, as it nearly always did when Adam looked at him like that. Sometimes, Ronan wasn’t sure he didn’t accidentally cage himself in a dream, his mind deciding for him that any sleeping simulation was a kinder trick than waking to world in which he’d never found Adam looking back.
The engine was still running, and the strawberries, forgotten.
Ronan traced the elegant slope of Adam’s jaw, reveling in the rough texture of his uneven shave against his fingertips.
Adam gulped, arched in anticipation, in invitation. Ronan’s eyes moved to his throat, his thumb following, daringly slow down his neck. A whispering stroke over his Adam’s apple, Ronan’s body stirred with need. He was so achingly attracted to him.
Ronan opened his mouth, a plea on his breath—throw the berries on the porch, let’s go home—only, when he looked up, tears were falling down Adam’s cheeks.
Except, these tears were horrifyingly, familiarly, black.
“What the—” Ronan breathed, panicked in confusion as nightwash oozed from Adam’s eyes, his ears.
“Ronan?”
Ronan jerked back into the car window—he’d seen the nightwash bleeding out of Adam’s gums—only, Adam fell into him over the center console: Ronan’s hand still curved around his throat. He couldn’t let go.
He couldn’t let go—why couldn’t he let go?
Adam gasped, shock stunning him in an almost bizarre acceptance. Then, he grabbed Ronan’s forearm, digging his nails sharp enough to break skin, as if trying to communicate in a way his vocal chords currently couldn’t.
“Adam—I—"
Ronan willed his fingers loose, commanded his muscles and bones to move as they were supposed to. Instead, they clung to Adam’s neck like Velcro. No—like a noose, circling tighter and tighter with intent to snap.
He had lost control of his hands; he was suddenly trapped in one of his worst memories, but horribly, awfully reversed.
“No—fuck! Help!” Ronan shouted. If Cheyenne was home, she would have heard all the noise he was making. “Fuck, Adam—fight back!”
Ronan slammed himself into the car door, in the hope that, maybe, if he threw them out of the car, Adam would have more space to get himself free—but he was locked in place by his seatbelt.
“Jesus, Mary,” Ronan prayed. “Stop me!”
Adam only turned bluer and bluer. Ronan sobbed violently, apologizing over and over again in utter agony.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—baby,” Ronan’s voice cracked; the word fell out of him, absurdly—never in his life had he called anyone that—and yet, never in his life did he think he’d watch, helplessly, as the love of his life perished, even more absurdly, by his own hands. He was too distraught to be embarrassed.
“Don’t let me do this!” Ronan roared. “Adam…”
Even as Adam’s hands slowly lost their grip around Ronan’s wrists, his eyes remained locked on Ronan, bulging blue, blue, blue in unwavering, veteran understanding.
Ronan heard Adam’s neck pop before he felt it.
Screaming, everything went black.
“Ronan? Ronan.”
His eyes ripped open, the rest of him frozen—paralyzed, despite the rampage in his chest.
It was bright; he was no longer in the truck, no longer screaming his throat raw. Someone was shaking him.
The second Adam leaned over him, head haloed by late afternoon sun, Ronan’s limbs broke free. He gasped for air, trembling as he sprung forward, pulling Adam protectively into his chest.
“It’s okay,” Adam said. He cradled a hand to the back of Ronan’s head. “I’ve got you.”
Over Adam’s shoulder, Ronan took in the mess around them: their hammock torn to pieces, and a sea of exploded strawberries surrounding them in the dirt. He closed his eyes, focusing instead on matching his breath to the rhythm of Adam’s pulse. (Alive; blessedly, alive.)
After a while, Adam sat back on his heels. He plucked an eyelash stuck to Ronan’s drying cheek.
“What was it this time?”
Ronan shook his head, unable to speak. Instead, he took both of Adam’s hands and brought them to his lips. He exhaled, impossibly exhausted with a feeling he could only process as relief. He let the smell of Adam’s skin, the feel of his callouses—Opal and Chainsaw and crickets, the entire score of the Barns—envelop him until he was certain he was awake.
Opening his eyes again, Adam’s were patient, never pitying after a nightmare.
Adam smiled warmly, pressing a soft kiss to Ronan’s forehead before standing. He offered Ronan a hand.
“Come on,” Adam said. “Let’s a have a bath.”