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sushiwriterhereside · 2 years ago

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glory

pairing: adam parrish x ronan lynch summary: An exploration of Adam Parrish as religion. rating: teen + up word count: 5.7k warnings: catholic guilt, Tad Carruthers mention, mild physical violence (mention of Robert Parrish) notes: ao3 crossposting! this is my first fic since 2020, but please tell me what you think! excited to get back into creative writing/etc. i'll definitely write more TRC but I also have some other stuff planned. <3 ❧

Ronan’s love was biblical—Adam, made of dirt and dust; Adam, borne of the earth, the cracked, sun-bleached earth swirling beneath trailer park steps; Adam, Parrish. If Ronan was to describe his love for Adam Parrish (if), it would be in grand sweeping statements, quiet burning passion for finally being able to be near Adam. Don’t let the gruff demeanor, the harsh lines of his face and the ever-present scowl fool you. He would ask you to imagine looking upon the majesty of Pieta, of the grandeur of David, of the quiet intensity knowing you are standing in front of history millions of others have witnessed. And yet, Adam is a work of art unto himself, one he would like to keep in a personal collection.

Let others put their loved ones on display, for curators to analyze and write about, for conservators to swirl their brushes over and prod at—Ronan Lynch would keep Adam Parrish at the Barns for the rest of their days if he could (if he knew it wouldn’t kill him). He would watch Adam blossom under lush green foliage, watch the freckles populate his cheeks and shoulders, let the feeling of love and being loved settle deep in his bones. He would watch the Barns become a dedicated exhibition to all things Adam Parrish that the rest of the world was not allowed to see: a favorite mug drying by the sink; socks mixed in with Ronan’s in the laundry hamper in the bathroom; highlighters and textbooks strewn across the table a stone’s throw from the kitchen counter; pieces of himself that only Ronan had the privilege of viewing.

Blue had once remarked that only Ronan Lynch would know he was in love at first sight—only a boy born to a dream and a Dreamer, a marriage so idyllic yet false, would believe in true love. Ronan was not a liar, so he did little else but scowl and redirect the conversation toward Gansey and his coming back from the death. Bless his lack of conversational tact when his brush with death was mentioned, giving Ronan countless outs of being forced to admit his love for Parrish. Ironically enough, that conversation had happened before them, fortune for once turning in favor of letting him breathe. Adam had flushed slightly but failed to chime in, instead letting the sound of Gansey’s excited chatter cover the gap in the window to the budding thing they held close to their chests.

But she was right: it hardly mattered that Aurora was a false deity, that she was made of the same stuff Matthew was (perhaps too harsh to call it a lie)—she was made of dreams. Aurora was pancakes on Saturday mornings, skirts swirling and flowers picked off bushes hanging low with their fruit, hushed consolations and sickly sweet love. She was imbued with her purpose–to love Niall, to be his perfect yang, to be everything he desired and could not be all at the same time. Above all, Aurora had eyes only for Niall.

It wasn’t necessarily that Ronan was under any delusion that Adam had eyes for him only, he wasn’t a fool. But that wouldn’t stop that quiet, dark part of him from wishing that one day Adam would look upon him with the same intensity that he looked at applications for scholarships for college, that week’s paycheck: all longing and hunger, for more.

When someone would ask years later if he knew, when he knew, Ronan would not have a simple answer. How do you confess to someone that you knew from first sight and not sound like a cheesy cliche?

“Thanks for giving me straight teeth.” As if Ronan was capable of dreaming the creature that is Adam Parrish.

Everything began to fall into place after Adam’s father hit him for the last time. Ronan remembered little other than blinding rage, the knowledge that for once a problem could be, and would be, solved with his fists. He had few other choices, tunnel vision focused on Gansey’s latest pet project on his hands and knees in the burnt earth of that fucking trailer park. No matter how hard he tried, the sight of the blood running out of Adam’s ear would never leave his mind's eye. Something sickly twisted in his stomach every time he closed his eyes. Ronan couldn’t even bring himself to care about getting kneed in the stomach, about the black eye he would no doubt get shit for from Declan. All he knew was that no one would ever set a hand on Adam Parrish in anger ever again.

Let the lawyers paid for by Declan’s DC paycheck debate charges of assault, self-defense (“You’re lucky they’re not trying to charge you with felony trespass.”)–Ronan would sleep like a lamb at night knowing that he got the last word between him and Robert Parrish.

Perhaps Ronan’s viewpoint was too black and white, god knows Declan had hassled him countless times before to ‘be more flexible.’ But Declan was a hypocritical prick, a liar, and a thief of the highest order. Sometimes it was funny to Ronan that he was Niall’s favorite, it was Declan after all who was a spitting image of their father in all but appearance. Ronan Lynch could not lie to save his own skin; Declan Lynch lied about what he ate for breakfast. So Ronan settled on his course of action being the right one, if Declan wanted to guilt trip him for beating the crap out of Robert Parrish, he could carry that on his own conscience.

The apartment above St. Agnes simply fell into place like out of a dream.

“Thanks for giving me air conditioning.” Adam would have said.

And so it was: the two central poles of Ronan’s life suddenly concentrated on one square block of Henrietta. What was it then, that made him pause each time for just a moment outside his door? Clench his father’s keys in his fist, just a little tighter? He was a creature of projected confidence, and so he hid moments of pause behind a faltered breath, a cracking of knuckles.

Adam never sent him away. It didn’t matter if Ronan appeared at 4pm or 4am, whether Adam himself was present or not. Adam would simply adjust his orbit to the second point of gravity.

Once, Ronan lay on Adam’s floor, and let himself sink into the thoughts of what it all meant. Sleeping on his floor; bringing snacks and groceries that, for a time, would spark petty arguments (“I’m basically living here, Parrish, and dollar store wheat thins definitely do not cut it.”); making space for himself. If the women of Fox Way ever decided to scry and take a peek at St. Agnes, there sitting would be Niall Lynch’s BMW, shark nosed and all–or at the very least the trace of Ronan throwing the car into gear while glancing in the rear view one last time. There would be images of Adam running his hands through his hair and Chainsaw tearing old essays to shreds (“I was proud of that paper, Lynch.”).

Ronan knew that Adam did not let people make themselves space in his life—to be part of Adam Parrish’s life was to pass a million different little tests you never knew were occurring. Ronan sometimes felt like he was in a play he knew neither the lines nor the choreography for–what had set off that particular moment of intense silence, an argument half formed, he couldn’t be sure. Sometimes it was Ronan’s abrasiveness about money (because what else), sometimes it was the absence of an extra shift, the sting of a lighter paycheck too much for the sleep-deprived Adam. But ever a creature of intense self preservation, Adam would never let someone in if he didn’t feel they deserved it. Was Gansey, or Blue for that matter, sleeping on the faded wood floors of the second floor St. Agnes apartment Adam insisted on paying rent for?

Instead of letting the train of thought run away from him, Ronan simply turned on his side to find Adam wide awake. The clock behind Ronan had blinked 12:08 AM last time he had looked, what felt like 4 hours ago.

“Go the fuck to sleep, Parrish.” (Rest, love, rest.) His chest ached, and his fingers twitched with a not yet gained muscle memory dedicated to tracing the slope of Adam’s nose.

Breaking eye contact, Adam let his eyes slide shut without argument for once. If Ronan could have it his way, he would make sure Adam never had to work another day in his life. He’d sign his entire life away, to sleep at night (ha!) knowing Adam Parrish had a roof over his head and a full belly. What was the point of wealth, then, if those you love are not fully rested and unable to sleep in on a Saturday morning?

Ronan Lynch was fire and fury, the earth remaking itself in his image. Screw the laws of thermodynamics, Ronan Lynch could make the soil birth the dead. And yet, he found himself feeling more mortal than ever looking at the barely resting face of Adam. How do you make a man of a Dreamer? Greywaren, Lynch, Ronan—what did it matter who called him what, if for a moment he could match his breathing to Adam’s.

There were times when Ronan felt as if he was made from one of Adam’s ribs, feeling each inhale and exhale. Extra shift at Boyd’s because Gansey was gone for the weekend—inhale. A on his paper—exhale. Get in an argument with Ronan—inhale. Stare at Ronan as he pretends to sleep—exhale. Let his fingertips skim the top of Ronan’s hand when he’s in those fleeting seconds between dream and wake—inhale. Eat the food Ronan bought—exhale. Fight with Ronan–inhale. Catch Ronan staring–exhale. He wondered if Adam held his breath in those moments like he did.

More often than not, Ronan would watch with rapt attention as Parrish seemed to be oblivious to those around him throwing themselves at his feet for even a moment of his attention. Gansey was King, but Adam was Magician. The dead woke when Gansey spoke, and Ronan would follow him to the ends of the earth and back. But Ronan would remake the Nile River into dust with his bare hands if Adam wanted dry land to walk on. Even in a school of all boys, uniforms and flashy cars, Adam’s peers lusted after his attention. And he thought himself simply a man made of dirt.

“Tad is a creepy fuck.” Ronan had once said mildly to Adam as they were lounging about outside during their lunch hour. Well, Ronan was lounging–Adam was doing homework. Ronan had caught Tad openly staring at Adam no less than ten times in the first half of the day.

“I don’t know why you even bother to pay attention to him.”

The worst part of Ronan was glad for Adam not seeing the side eyes, the head-to-toe pass overs when Adam finally began to stand a little straighter, shoulders a bit fuller, in his secondhand sweater. Let Carruthers stumble over his own feet in attempts to catch Adam’s attention, let the underclassmen stare in awe at Gansey and his Court. Let Adam’s broad shoulders and arms lithe with hard-earned muscle be Ronan’s secret; information pulled from half-lidded, used-to-be shameful gazes.

He knew what Adam looked like as a god—and he was no worshiper of false prophets. But how else do you describe Adam Parrish and his hay-yellow hair illuminated from behind by the LED-bright lights of the apartment bathroom? What other name do you give to the feeling of watching Adam Parrish stretch his arms over his head in the dead of night, or at dusk, but the desperate need to worship at the pedestal of the highest deity?

Let God be the arbiter of Ronan’s sins after death. “Had Moses seen how my friend’s face blushes when he is drunk, and his beautiful curls and wonderful hands, he would not have written in his Torah: do not lie with a man.” Ronan was a Catholic boy through and through, all inherited guilt and practiced tradition. He could bring life forth, could bring light to darkness, could bring death to the living—who was God to say that Ronan could not long for the soft touch of Adam’s hands, for the firm press of his lips to Ronan’s? What use did a man who could create something from nothing have for religious guilt?

Ronan knew everything was changing when Adam began pausing when he would move into his space, as if weighing the change in gravity. There were more glances from under lashes, soft hums of thought when Ronan let his eyes rest–greedily, selfishly wanting Parrish to drink his fill in open stares. Ronan Lynch was a creature of desire—never in the way that Adam Parrish was, all hunger and starving gasps. Ronan was more cool lemonade on a summer day where the breeze was nowhere to be found, practiced, knowing, and expected; Adam was the desire to flee, to move, to be more than what he was (what more is there to be than everything?).

Ronan considered it a selfish indulgement in this desire to let Adam stare, let Adam touch. It gave him precious material in moments alone, to imagine what Adam’s calloused hands dragging over his skin would feel like. Ronan thought his fingertips might burn another permanent mark into his skin—this time instead of black ink underneath, a trail of light and lust burnt into his chest, his back. If he chose to spend his time with his arms stretched above his head to feel the weight of Adam’s eyes on the strip of ivory-toned skin below the hem of his tank top and above the waistband of a loose pair of sweatpants–well then, that was his sin alone.

There was perhaps a touch of irony for a Dreamer to be obsessed with another’s hands. Hands made, they fashioned, worked, created. Dreamers made without the use of hands–yet Ronan came to Boyd’s with the Pig in tow just to watch Adam twirl a wrench absent mindedly as he inspected the garishly orange car’s insides.

Sometimes, it was all too much, and Ronan found himself in his own head. Was he imagining the lingering gazes and the thigh pressed against his own beneath the worn wood of the Nino’s tabletops? But there is little chance to explain away the firm press of Adam’s hand on Ronan’s kneecap when he slides in the booth, only for the palm of his hand to stay where it was. There is little alternative reasoning to Adam invading Ronan’s personal space (as if you could label a welcome advance an invasion) for no reason other than to just press himself into Ronan when he laughed or rolled his eyes.

Even Gansey noticed, ever oblivious, ever involved with his Jane. Was it the twisting of pinkies together in the backseat of the Pig? The King must devote time to the politics, comings and goings, of his Court—of course he would notice. Sometimes Gansey gave knowing looks to Ronan: when he would cajole Adam into eating his lunch (he didn’t really want it anyway); when he would give Adam rides (this was now a given); when he would just stare, and stare, and stare. Sometimes he imagined himself going blind staring at the sun.

The day that Ronan got to fulfill his desire was overall mundane. He felt nothing as he dressed himself at the Barns and ate a simple breakfast before heading out to do barn chores. He didn’t notice the sun shine brighter or the birds sing louder. Niall’s BMW still purred in the same gentle way when he started it, the clutch was still just a bit stiff as he moved it into fifth gear; Ronan still wondered why his dad dreamt a faulty car. Tad was still trying to flirt with Adam as he gave one-word replies.

But Adam did smile sharply as Ronan pulled into the parking space next to the Shitbox, brushing Tad off. He let Ronan buy him lunch without complaint; the usual back and forth was absent.

That day, Adam didn’t have work, didn’t have mountains of homework. So the Court and their King went exploring. Or, rather, they would have if Adam didn’t politely decline and look pointedly at Ronan as he spoke of needing to rest. He would have felt pressured into offering to stay back with Adam if Gansey didn’t offer first, if he wasn’t already twirling his keys around his fingers.

Ronan drove them to St. Agnes out of habit, grabbed Adam’s backpack out of habit, climbed the stairs and threw the door open out of habit. He watched as Adam made himself comfortable in his own space, and Ronan let himself pull off his jacket to roll up and place on the ground as he lay on the floor.

“I wasn’t kidding, you know, about needing to rest.” Adam said from the bathroom where he was washing his hands and splashing water on his freckled face.

“I’m already asleep Parrish, stop disturbing my peace.” Ronan could feel the hardwood digging into his shoulder blades where they were poking out as his hands were folded behind his head. At least Adam’s mattress, the one that Gansey somehow managed to talk him into taking, had some degree greater of back support. Curse the builders of St. Agnes for not considering that Ronan Lynch may one day rest upon the wooded floors (curse the builders of St. Agnes for not considering that worship was not just on his knees, but on his back in Adam’s bedroom–but what is worship without suffering).

Ronan only heard Adam move to lay down, almost afraid to open his eyes. What would happen if he broke the quiet spell hanging over the apartment, the tacit agreement to simply dance around the elephant in the room? It was simply easier for him to pretend that they could spend forever hurtling towards the inevitable. Ronan wouldn’t ever consider himself the first to openly opine his feelings, and he wouldn’t start now. There were moments he worried about startling Adam like a newborn deer–beating his father, an eye for an eye, was one thing; confessing a deep, bone chilling love was something else.

“Wake me up in an hour, I want to go for a drive.” Adam murmured, and Ronan opened his eyes.

The moment was still as blue met green. For a split second, Ronan thought Adam would kiss him. Or maybe he would kiss Adam. He thought they would both be able to give up the pretense of a tacit agreement to simply let whatever happened, happen. Yet, Adam simply closed his eyes without making a move.

It was Ronan who pushed across the invisible boundary they had set for themselves, let himself have instead of simply wanting. He gently touched Adam’s hand that was hanging over the edge of the bed, closest to Ronan. Adam’s eyes fluttered but didn’t open. He traced the veins running up Adam’s arm like a vine, and a funny thought flitted by–maybe Adam should get a tattoo of a vine wrapping around his delicate forearms. Perhaps it would serve him well to carry a visible, permanent reminder of what he had been, what he was.

Ronan wasn’t sure if whatever six-figure salary paying, starched suit career Adam would inevitably pick out would be comfortable with their star employee having tattoos on his forearms. He let himself wish for a moment that he could keep Adam for himself.

Ronan’s fingers moved beyond his arm, but Adam’s eyes stayed shut. He exhaled softly.

When Ronan lifted his fingers from Adam’s arm, perhaps to touch his face, Adam’s lips parted, “Why’d you stop?”

Adam’s accent made him stretch out the o in stop like warmed taffy, slow and gentle. Ronan thought about how he himself sometimes sounded Irish, about how perhaps that was baked into his genes–proud, Irish Catholic blood. He thought about how Adam would hate the idea that an accent could be passed down like that, and how he knew that Adam would try and lose the accent when he finally was able to flee.

He put his fingers back to Adam’s skin and let the hour waste away tracing invisible patterns over Adam’s hand and arm. And when the hour was up, Ronan decided it would be out of character for him not to wake Adam so he pulled his arm back and reached over to shake Adam.

“Wake up, Parrish. The beemer beckons.” Ronan shot up like he’d been electrocuted when Adam sleepily grabbed his wrist.

He turned his face into Ronan’s wrist and mumbled, “Five minutes, Lynch. ‘M cold.” His lips pressed ever so gently into the place where Ronan’s pulse hammered five-hundred-miles-a-minute under his skin. He’d never imagined planning a chapstick run, the ways he’d sneak the tube into Adam’s backpack, the thrill of the impending argument about spending money on Adam (“I’ve gone this long without it why do I need–” “Your lips felt like the Sahara, don’t shoot the messenger.”), of seeing his lips go from chapped to smooth.

Ronan steeled his resolve, “C’mon Parrish. You can cosplay Sleeping Beauty in the car, I’m jittery.”

And so the two stormed down the stairs from the second floor, Adam sleepily pulling a flannel over his shoulders (was that Ronan’s? He had lost his favorite two weeks ago.) and Ronan not bothering to put his jacket back on. The beemer was warm enough in the fall air. Above their heads, Chainsaw called out with a piercing shriek.

“There you are, shithead.” Adam said lovingly, as she landed on his shoulder and made herself comfortable by digging her claws into his skin.

“Hey, she’s a lady.” Ronan threw the car door open and threw himself into the drivers seat with an equal amount of abandon.

“I can’t even repeat some of the things I’ve heard you call her, Lynch. Aren’t you supposed to be the Catholic one?”

“Catholic guilts’ a limited resource, Parrish. You might not know that as a filthy heathen. Spent almost all mine calling Declan a dickhead and the rest on the gay thing.” Ronan grinned at him.

Adam’s laugh was a free and unrestrained thing, breaking out of his chest and startling Chainsaw as he buckled his seatbelt. Ronan wanted nothing more to make an entire collection of cassette tape Sing-alongs with just that noise. Thank Niall for the console that could play whatever medium Ronan could put his mind to.

“Alright Parrish, you made me disturb your beauty sleep for a drive. Where the hell are we going?” The beemer didn’t need gas anyways, Ronan could drive to LA (though why the hell would he do that?) and not stop once.

“Anywhere but here.” For a moment, Adam looked wistful, as if in the first few weeks of their senior year Ronan could simply drive him anywhere but Henrietta and they could just be there. Screw the grades and the recommendation letters and the letters of interest, they could just be two people in another place, another time. Ronan’s gut twisted with guilt thinking about what Gansey would do.

So Ronan drove. He left the St. Agnes parking lot and drove past Monmouth towards some interstate he couldn’t remember the name of. It was still the mid-afternoon, something about Senior Fridays meant it was only about 4 in the afternoon. Plenty of time to drive to the end of the earth and back.

They drove in relative silence, Chainsaw cawing occasionally begging for treats and eventually bullying Adam into rolling down his window as Ronan tore down the interstate at a speed that was past reckless. The wind carried Chainsaw high into the sky and Ronan thought he could feel the freedom of the wind under her wings in his chest. What was a Dreamer if he could not give life and liberty to his creations? What did it mean to keep dreamt things confined? If Ronan had dreamt Adam, he knew he could not keep him here. He let the moment steal his breath and he pressed his foot down harder.

Eventually Adam told Ronan to pull over for snacks, and didn’t complain when Ronan paid for the haphazard collection of items that could barely pass as a meal. They pulled into a fast food restaurant next. Ronan felt like they were preparing for a road trip and the thought of it stole his breath.

Keep moving, he thought to himself.

“Will you take me to the Barns?”

And so Ronan drove, cutting across Virginia, avoiding Henrietta on their way back. If Adam noticed, he didn’t mention it, he just kept tossing fries into his own mouth and laughing at Ronan when he asked him to toss one his way.

“I’m not losing a fry to the depths of this car, Ronan. You want some scrawny Aglionby asshole to have to go fishing for it?”

Ronan felt himself flush at Adam saying his name, but found it in himself to laugh sharply. The thought of someone like Tad or Gansey even, digging around in the depths of his father’s BMW only to find knobs and buttons not found in any other BMW in town, and a center console that would play any radio station you wanted, from any time period you could think of. More realistically it would be Adam, insistent that he could somehow smell last week’s fast food adventures, armed with Boyd’s industrial vacuum and a sharp reprimand about cleanliness.

“I’ll just get this guy at Boyd’s to do it, I heard he’s good with his hands.” Ronan’s grin mirrored the shark nose of his car tearing down the road.

The moment was broken for a brief spell–Ronan didn’t need to turn his head to see Adam’s momentarily startled expression until he grinned, smile matching Ronan’s.

“I’m telling Tad you’re interested in him on Monday.” Was Adam’s only response as he laughed harder than he had that whole afternoon; moment fixed. “See if he can fix the beemer.”

“The day Tad gets his hands on my car is the day I get my hands around his neck.”

It felt natural to look at Adam in his passenger seat. Beyond all of the moments Ronan had carefully cataloged in his memory of driving Adam to and from school and work, there were hundreds of moments in the future he had yet to experience. The knowledge of that kept him going.

Somewhere along the way to the Barns, Adam told him to pull over in a field flush with wildflowers. Ronan’s heart stilled. They climbed out of the car, hearing it settle as Ronan tossed Adam the keys over the hood of the car. It was darker now, closer to dusk, washing Adam in a gentle gold that made him look godly. This was an altar Ronan would gladly kneel at, parables about false prophets and golden calves be damned.

Adam observed Ronan as he grew restless, both of them leaning against the hood of the BMW. Its black paint had warmed in the afternoon sun, and Ronan gladly soaked up the heat as the sun began to hide itself behind the tree lines.

Ronan broke the silence first. Or at least he planned to. Instead, Adam turned to look at Ronan in the eyes from where he had walked out a few steps in front of the car and cocked his head as if making some sort of decision. Ronan never got to ask what the hell he was doing, the easy quip he had on the tip of his tongue dying at a moments notice.

The kiss seared through him, and Ronan thought for a split second he might burn up from the inside out. Sin, it turned out, was pleasure and desire and hope and love rolled all into one. Maybe this was why Niall laughed about how his father wanted him to join a convent, and Aurora would blush and scold him for talking about that in front of the children. Maybe this was why Ronan could no longer bring himself to feel that deep sickly shame when he stepped through the archways of St. Agnes–what was it about the way Adam’s hair felt under his fingers and the way their breaths mingled that could possibly be an offense to God? This was worship unto itself, blessing the flesh and heart of the First Man, Adam.

Looking back, something was different about that day. But Ronan hadn’t noticed it in the moment, hadn’t noticed all the small things that had shifted around him to make space for the knowledge that Adam would be finding a permanent place in his life. Not that Ronan wasn’t aware of all the ways he could fuck this up, all the ways Adam could fuck this up, but in the same breath in a different moment that Blue had told him he was the only fool around who believed in love at first sight, she had also told him that she knew him well enough to know that when he got Adam, he would never let him go. Ronan had called her a maggot and moved on, but her speaking it aloud had planted a seed of deep, deep, hope in his chest.

Ronan had let his religiosity wane because he never had a saint to pray to, never found one that matched his calling as a god and a man rolled into one mess of a body. Never could quite put into words the way that prayer made him feel. And yet, in that moment, Ronan could have said a thousand Hail Mary’s, prayed a million rosaries, and it would never hold a candle to the way Adam’s hands felt gripping his waist, nails scratching softly against the buzzed hairs at the base of Ronan’s neck, the way his lips parted to exhale into Ronan’s mouth.

This was what dreams and vows were made of: the quiet screech of the insects at their feet, the gentle hum of the ley line below them thrumming with each of their pulses, the knowledge that there was no need to think of tomorrow or three years in the future.

At some point, it occurred to Ronan that the cat and mouse game was over. He didn’t want the dynamic to change, wouldn’t let it, though. They could very well leave the late night calls and sighed names to Gansey and Blue. There was no need for that, they could stay Ronan and Adam.

“Is this for real?” Adam broke the kiss to press his forehead into Ronan’s collarbone. “Or is this just another dream?”

All Ronan could say was, “You dream about me?”

He felt as though a carpet had been pulled out from under his feet. Adam dreamt about him? How could this be anything but real? Maybe he hadn’t meant for Ronan to react, so he simply combed his fingers through Adam’s hair and pressed his lips to the crown of his head, relishing the heat of his skin and the smell of something distinctly Adam.

Adam pulled back with a sly grin, cheeks flushed with the fulfillment of a promise made the first time Ronan laid eyes on him, “What, only the Dreamer is allowed to have dreams? Seems a bit elitist don’t you think?”

“Oh don’t quote Blue at me, you asshole.” Ronan paused, wanting to give a real answer, unfiltered by sarcasm and a desperate need for self-preservation above all, “I’ve been wanting to kiss your stupid lips for a long time, Parrish.”

“Well if you think they’re so stupid, maybe I won’t kiss you again.” And Adam attempted to pull himself from Ronan’s grip.

Ronan locked his arms firmly where they were crossed over Adam’s waist and shoulder blades. Like hell he was going to let Adam go now.

“Damn you and your rich people muscles.”

They tumbled through the door of St. Agnes, shoes and coats falling to the ground as Ronan grabbed blindly for Adam’s wrists, waist, anything. In a moment, Adam’s mouth was on his. This kiss was different from earlier, no less searing, but the feeling in Ronan’s chest swelled with an undercurrent of something other than pure warmth. Perhaps lust was the best moniker, but at the same time, plain desire did not even come close to what Ronan felt in that moment. Adam gently let himself fall backwards onto his mattress and Ronan climbed after him.

“Stay the night.” Adam gasped as Ronan worked his way down Adam’s neck with his lips and teeth.

Adam tasted of sweat and something sweeter, tinted by his dollar store body wash and lotion. Ronan barely registered what he had said, singularly focused on making up for time lost to petty quarrels (he would later have at least enough self insight to recognize those moments as some sort of convoluted courting dance).

“Hm? I stay over all the time.” Ronan breathed, not wanting to extricate himself from his current passion project of licking and biting across each square inch of Adam’s exposed skin after pushing the cotton t-shirt over his head moments before.

Adam groaned in lieu of a proper response and his nails scratched across Ronan’s scalp. Then, he shivered. Ronan decided he liked that response best.

“In my bed. Stay, in my bed.” Adam gasped out, back arching as Ronan bit particularly hard at a spot just below his left collarbone.

Ronan had the decency to pretend to be scandalized, “Adam Parrish, are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Ronan hoisted himself up above Adam on his elbow so he could look at him in the fading light. “I’ll have you know I’m a good Catholic boy, Parrish, and I will not have my purity–!”

Adam had apparently decided that that evening was no time for Ronan to get his kicks from laughing about his Catholic upbringing. He had, instead, grabbed Ronan by the scruff of his neck and dragged him down so that their lips would meet. Ronan felt his heart settle in his chest.

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