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Ronan let in five goals from Palmetto State and Adam lost his shit. Gansey lost his, too, but Gansey was a level-headed shit-loser and after five fucking years of fucking idiocy from Ronan Lynch, Adam thought he was entitled to some next level unravelling. Sure, there was a time for Gansey to give Ronan his stern dad bit; sure, sometimes it even worked.
Now was not that time.
“Palmetto fucking State!” Adam snapped. “That’s barely a team, that’s six angry social rejects and a ball and they’d probably be happier fighting each other than putting the ball in the back of your net. I could have kept those goals out.”
Ronan leaned against the back of the house, smoking. “I wanted to see how far apart they could fall,” he said. “Chill out, Parrish, we still won.”
“‘We’,” Adam said, drawing aggressive quotation marks with his fingers. He was still sweaty from the game. It made his hair stiff. “Because you were so helpful tonight.”
“C’mon,” Ronan said. “You know if you weren’t making up for me you wouldn’t have scored half as many points.”
Adam heard the noise, a growl, low in his throat before he was conscious that he was making it. “Jesus fucking Christ, Lynch,” he snapped. He pulled the cigarette from Ronan’s hand, and stamped on it, twisting his heel into the ground for good measure. “You’re gonna fuck your lung capacity,” he added. “Fail your VO2 for sure.”
Ronan took a breath, half a flinch, and then covered it. “You love the game, Parrish,” he said. “Shouldn’t that make up for me?”
“Is this-” Adam shook his head. “Five years,” he said. “Five years, Lynch, and you’re still so predictable.” He stepped backwards, drew his hand back and slapped Ronan across the mouth. The sound of it rang, appalling and loud, through the yard. “This is what you want? Say it.”
“Indoors,” Ronan said, sharply. There was blood in his teeth but Adam thought it was from the game, probably, not him. He knew how hard to hit Ronan, usually, and that wasn’t anywhere near what it would take to make him bleed. “Not out here.”
-
Palmetto fucking State, Adam thought, following Ronan up the stairs to his bedroom. Least-ranked in the entire NCAA, and they’d scored five times on Ronan fucking Lynch.
“Blue’s pissed,” he said. “You’re lucky you got me and not her.”
Ronan flinched, very slightly. He had started doing it whenever Adam talked about Blue, which was ridiculous, because Ronan liked Blue as much as Gansey and Adam, and had pushed just as hard to get her on the team as a late walk-on.
Blue was smart, and she understood things about Adam without Adam having to spell them out, and she wouldn’t try to save him. Gansey and Ronan tried , but both of them wanted to . Blue understood that she didn't have to, that she couldn't even begin to. It was refreshing.
“Yeah, well,” Ronan said. “I doubt Blue is as good with a knife as you are.”
Adam closed his eyes and opened them again.
Ronan stepped aside to let Adam unlock his door and pace through it, holding it open so Ronan could follow.
“You are, you know,” Ronan said. Adam tried not to look at him, because his blood was boiling, and Ronan had his stupid even voice on, and Adam could let himself do exactly what he wanted in t-minus-
Adam went to the dresser and started pulling things out. Ropes, first. The rough ones, tonight. Five fucking goals. “What’s that?”
Ronan’s eyes gleamed. He leaned against the door, long and aggressive and uncaringly beautiful. “Good with a knife.”
Adam exhaled. His lungs felt too big for his body, and too small. He felt as though he was the smoker and not Ronan.
“So,” Ronan said. “You gonna show me? Or are you too tired from, how’d you put it, carrying the whole team- ” He was smirking. He was always fucking smirking.
Adam snarled, low, under his breath, and went for him.
-
Two truths:
- Adam Parrish didn't want to hurt anyone.
- Adam Parrish wanted to hurt everyone.
-
Before this - before Ronan - Adam had beat himself up after bad games. He’d run himself into the ground, he’d pushed himself too hard in the gym.
In Year One at Aglionby, Gansey had caught him and given him a long talk about his own self-worth. Shortly after that, Ronan had given him a length of rope. (“To hang myself?” Adam had quipped, unsure. Ronan had looked at him, steady and even, and then the next game had been one of the ones where he didn’t show up at all and Adam had said, “do you want me to tie to you to the net,” and Ronan had just fucking smirked. Ronan didn't ask; neither did Adam. They just did what made sense.)
He had started out using his hands, but he didn’t like that. The reasons he knew where marks wouldn’t show weren’t things he wanted to impart to Ronan, no matter how sloppy Ronan was on the court.
Thankfully, he and Ronan were both very capable of using the internet. Adam’s scholarship stipend probably shouldn’t have gone to paddles, and specific medical-grade knives, and then nipple clamps - but what the board didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. And they were the best in their division, so the board probably wouldn’t have cared even if they had known.
The board really cared about very little, as long as Adam and Ronan and Gansey were bringing home trophies. But they were, so, that was that.
-
Adam was flexible. He bled a lot on the court, but that didn’t necessarily mean he liked it. He didn’t like pain, per se; what he yearned for was sensation. He could get that just as well on the other side of the equation, and Ronan - Ronan bled well.
Sometimes it scared Adam, how quickly to violence he turned, how Ronan could make him snap like this. But Ronan liked it, and Adam liked it, and that meant it was an equitable arrangement. More than that, it was efficient. It helped them win.
Adam went from bleeding all over the court to making Ronan bleed all over him, and when they didn’t have time for blood he’d settle for a scream.
Ronan never gave in. He took everything Adam had to give, and smiled through it; and mostly Adam was exhausted by the end of it and didn’t care. Knowing that Ronan bore the marks of him was enough, and usually it would stave off Ronan’s boredom for the next few games, at least, keep him focused.
This was how Adam reconciled it, at least.
Once or twice, he would get Ronan to close his eyes, or take a deep breath. Sometimes he could get Ronan to shake his head, which was Ronan for enough.
Five fucking goals.
Adam wanted blood. But blood was easy, from Ronan, just like it was easy from Adam. They had shallow veins. Close to the surface.
More than blood he wanted acknowledgement. He wanted Ronan to know what he had done. He wanted to feel that surety in his teeth, in his bones.
“Can you just care about something,” Adam said, breathing out hard through his nose. His hand hurt, and there was blood all over his hands and his knives. The blood was Ronan’s, not his. All shallow. Nothing that would scar, and he had been careful to keep away from the lines of Ronan’s tattoos.
Adam was good at following the letter of the law, if not the spirit.
Ronan shook his head. “Maybe you have to stop thinking of me as predictable,” he said.
“Really,” Adam said. He checked the ties on Ronan’s wrists: too tight, because Ronan fucking never said anything. He loosened them, just enough, and Ronan rolled his eyes.
“Fuck me,” Ronan said, abruptly. “I’ll pay attention if you do that.”
Adam dropped the rope. “What?”
“Come on,” Ronan said. “Like you haven’t thought about it.” His eyelashes were damp. Normally by this point he had at least sobbed, in frustration if not in surrender, but this time - this time he was holding out.
Adam had, lately, or not so lately if he wanted to be honest with himself, which he didn’t, been thinking about it. By ‘it’, he meant Ronan’s mouth, and Ronan’s hands, and the long easy stretch of Ronan’s body, better when it was covered in marks Adam had left.
When Ronan looked like he was Adam’s .
“Even if I have,” Adam said, “it would be irrelevant. You’d like it. The point of this exercise is that you let us down .”
“Sure,” Ronan said, “keep telling yourself that.”
“What?”
“Please,” Ronan said, too lightly for someone in the shape that he was. Sweat was in his hair, and he’d dug little bloody marks into his own wrists. “You get off on this. I get off on this. Might as well say it out loud.”
Adam dug his fingernails into his palm. He’d taken several too-hard hits and his reflexes were slower than normal; his muscles were yelling at him slow down stop get off the ride but Adam Parrish had never gotten anywhere letting his body tell him what to do.
He had however gotten a lot of places listening to Ronan’s body, which he mostly understood, even when Ronan was being an absolute shit. It was how he and Gansey and Ronan made a trio; how, Blue aside, backliners didn’t need to be relevant to the game they played. Adam knew what Ronan wanted, and Ronan knew what Adam wanted, and that was the win.
“Two weeks,” Adam said.
“What?” Ronan blinked, like he hadn’t thought Adam would actually do it. Like Adam had spent four and a half years beating him bloody after games only to back down now.
“Two weeks,” Adam said, leaning down to bite a firm, malevolent mark into Ronan’s shoulder. “You make it two weeks without pissing me off, and I’ll do what you want.”
“On the court,” Ronan said. “Without pissing you off on the court.” His eyelashes fluttered.
Adam laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh, but he was very rarely nice around Ronan Lynch. “Okay,” he said. “Deal.”
He untied Ronan, so they could shake on it. Ronan’s grip was weaker than normal, but still, pretty strong.
-
“What did you do to him?” Gansey asked, under his breath, at breakfast the next morning.
Ronan was humming the Aglionby fight song, moving shirtlessly around the kitchen. The marks Adam had left shone bright and vicious. They stood out on Ronan’s skin like modern art.
They were lucky Blue and Henry had gone to the gym early to run yet more partner drills; Blue was fitting in nicely, but this thing with Ronan and Adam was confusing and tangled up and even they didn’t know how to explain it, really. Gansey could understand it, sort of, because he had been there as it evolved; the idea of putting it into words for Blue was not something Adam liked the idea of, not when he couldn’t even do it for himself.
Adam poured himself a glass of orange juice. “It’s fine,” he said. “It’s worked out.”
“Last night-” Gansey said.
“You talked to him,” Adam said. “Maybe it worked.”
Gansey narrowed his eyes. “Adam,” he said.
“I’m trying something out,” Adam said.
Ronan came over, with a skillet of eggs. Without asking he slid them in three parts onto Gansey’s plate, then Adam’s, then his own. “I had a good idea, Gansey,” he said. “Parrish is gonna help me out, give me something that’ll make games a little more exciting for me.”
“Jesus,” Gansey said.
“It’s like a bet,” Ronan said, leaning down to press one finger to Gansey’s lips. “Shh, don’t tell the NCAA.”
-
“You won’t make it one game,” Adam said, lowly. He dug his fingernails into Ronan’s shoulder: punctuation.
Ronan smiled at him lazily, bitterly, full of grace.
Adam hated how he could do that; Adam hated that it set his pulse racing, thumping like the drums that opened all of their games, overwhelming. Adam hated that he was looking at Ronan and thinking about how it would feel to fuck him, thinking about getting Ronan naked and desperate and pushing right into him. He was thinking about the way Ronan’s mouth would fall open; the way, perhaps, that Adam might make him beg.
“I’ll make it,” Ronan said, steadily. “Make sure you bring protection, Parrish. God knows where you’ve been.”
-
Ronan didn’t let in a single goal. For two weeks.
Their coach, new this season, call me Gray, didn’t know what to make of it. Coaches never really knew what to make of Ronan, so that wasn’t a surprise.
Gansey shot Adam a Look. Gansey was always shooting Adam Looks, and Adam didn’t particularly care because they were a well-oiled machine, for once.
When Ronan was at his best, it wasn’t that he stopped goals, even though he did; Ronan at his best was an unstoppable wall, through which nobody could pass. But there were many goalkeepers like that in the league; even Palmetto State had one.
The true skill of Ronan Lynch, in goal, was his ability to turn the most purely defensive position into an incredible offensive force. Ronan could get you the ball from the net, if you were smart enough, in sync enough, to be in exactly the position he needed you in.
And then you would score.
Adam was always in position. Adam might have dislocated his shoulder to get into position (Glendower at Duke, 3-0, Glendower), but Adam was in fucking position.
Sometimes, he thought, Ronan looked almost proud.
That was all right. Sometimes Adam looked almost proud right back.
-
Adam had been a backliner, until he met Ronan Lynch. He had been a good backliner, too. Dedicated, determined. He wasn't flashy; he wasn't about glory. He wanted the ball out of the net, and the W.
That first game, he and Gansey and Ronan - Ronan had sent the ball up the court on a redirect so hard it scorched the turf. Nobody had seen it except for Gansey, half the court away, and Adam, on the back line, already running.
Adam skinned his knees wide open trying to get the goal, and missed, but Ronan sketched him a mocking sort-of salute, like he knew that Adam had been trying anyway, but had fallen short.
Gansey sat there afterwards picking pebbles out of Adam’s knees, like he knew nobody else was going to do it. He said, “You ever thought about moving up?”
Ronan did not say anything. Ronan just smirked, like a dare.
Adam had flushed, hot and furious. He felt sick in his stomach, like he had been judged and found wanting.
Ronan was so good at getting under your skin.
Adam felt very few things. He felt Exy. He felt this.
Adam didn't let go of things he could feel.
-
“Jesus,” Blue said, clapping him on the shoulder after they crushed Georgetown 7-0. “Way to step it up, Lynch!”
Ronan smirked. “Seemed like it might be fun to try,” he said, drifting his eyes in Adam’s direction. “Someone said he’d make it worth my while.”
Adam went to him, bumped their shoulders together. It would look friendly to Blue, even, but Ronan would know. “You win,” he murmured. It didn’t feel like losing even when Ronan won. They were teammates.
“My brothers are here,” Ronan said to him, quietly. “I’ll meet you later.”
“All right,” Adam said, and then, softening. “If you need-”
“I need what we agreed on,” Ronan said, very sharply. “Don’t back out on me now, Parrish.”
“You know that’s not what I do,” Adam said.
Ronan smiled, wound as tight as the strings of Adam's racquet. “I know,” he said.
-
It should have been awkward but it wasn't. It was just like any other time. Adam and Ronan, in a bedroom. Ronan’s hands tied. Adam’s mouth on Ronan's skin, the salt of his sweat burning Adam’s tongue.
“God,” Ronan said, as Adam pushed in. His head tilted back, his whole body taut, but for once not in resistance. “Parrish-”
“I know,” Adam said. This was easy, now. He’d had five years of practice hurting Ronan; of course he would know how to put him back together. Of course. “I know, I got it.” He put his fingers against Ronan’s wrists, crossed over his head, and pinned him to the bed, and held him there. Still, whole.
Ronan’s eyes gleamed. He did not look away. It was like a dare. It was always a dare, with Ronan.
Adam said, “Can I?” He pressed harder, with his hands, with his hips, and Ronan surged into him, not trying to get away, trying to get more.
“Yeah,” Ronan said, shivering underneath him. Ronan, with his two switches: indifference, and screaming, soaring want. “Yeah, do it.”
Adam smiled, and leaned down, and kissed him. He made sure to use his teeth.