[It's in this moment that Adam feels a burst of adoration for Ronan, and is reminded that he's just a kid. They're both just kids, and they're both bigger than themselves and each other.
He stands against the counter and eats his "poison", hates how nice and warm it feels in his empty stomach, and doesn't offer any to his boyfriend because 1) hunger and B) he would just make some snide comment if Adam had.]
Shit's never going to go away. [His way of affirming Ronan's suspicion. This is their normal-- Ronan's for being born a dreamer, and Adam's for stepping into that pentagram and offering himself as a sacrifice. He can still feel the thrum of the ley line under his feet.
And for this, there's no solution Adam can find.]
Hopefully next time it won't be such a mess.
[He pushes himself forward, taps his shoe against Ronan's foot.]
[ Next time. Because there will be one, and adulthood welcomed Ronan Lynch with the punch of death, decay and a ruthlessly perverse inheritance — along with the rare, but choice reminder that sharing is caring, and the universe is just making sure the cartoon-comedy bad luck makes the rounds.
They'll be here again, in a few months' time, if they're fortunate. Weeks, if not. Over a bad stretch, like the sunset days of November — days.
There's a moment, Adam reaching, when he wants to flinch — to deny his boyfriend their candid little underground reunion, leg flinching, for nothing but the private pleasure of seeing someone else suffer beside him. He fights his inner son of a bitch. In a moment of superheroic climax, wins. And then he's tangling their feet at the angle, delicately tugging Adam in, warmth of his limb spearing an indelible, prickling print on Ronan's calf. ]
We'll get'em with the hose.
[ Water, chaps, a symphony of angered birds. It would be theatrical, if Ronan weren't convinced someone might lose an eye for it. ]
And you'll God damned cuddle on the couch after. [ As if Adam were a long-suffering saint, once more exposed to the torture of his boyfriend's misplaced PG affections. ] And use that valedictorian brain to think up some... I don't know. Wards or blood spells or OUT WITH THE HEATHENS signs, or something.
[The bowl of slop masquerading as food hits the counter as he’s caught by Ronan and pulled in. Fingers stroke Ronan’s cheeks, move up and ghost over his buzzed head. He leans down and presses his lips against his boyfriend forehead, and Adam hopes he doesn’t comment on the sweetness of it. The gentleness. But he also hopes that his feelings for Ronan are conveyed in the gesture. An “I love you” without the words. Because he’s not ready for the words yet, doesn’t know if he’s ever said them to anyone.]
So violent. [The hose in the winter. Dear God, those poor dream creatures.] It’s a good plan.
Blood spells might be out a my wheelhouse, though. [A joke. A smile tugs at the corner of Adam’s mouth to show it.
He moves off of Ronan, holds out his hand, palm up. They should get to work. It’s already late afternoon, and the sun will be going down soon. The one thing worse than playing with water in the winter is playing with water in the winter at night. ] Let’s do this.
[ He leans into Adam like every flower rediscovering spring sun — hesitantly at first, learning to trust the motions. Weary, but steadfast. Strong.
I love you in cuts and bruises. In the cantankerous, coarse texture of Adam's dried lips. Drink more water, but then, Sleep and Eat and Don't topple over exhausted, and the rest of all that finery.
Adam has a lifetime of feel-good advice to implement. Ronan isn't changing his life today. He's moving instead — darting up, to seize Adam's hand by the wrist, because they've had too much softness for the past two minutes, and it's time for Ronan to remind his boyfriend why he's always destined for the bad end of a particularly terrible romantic deal. Getting dragged along for the ride comes with the Lynch territory.
( So, maybe he wants to touch his boyfriend a little longer, while they cruise between kitchen and corridor and the back door. Sue him.) ]
You realize I could just make you do it and abandon you. Every man for himself.
[ There are more sheds spread across the Barns landscape than Ronan cares to name or count. Better hope that hose made it into one of the first dozen.
Then, as if he only now remembers, softening with a parting glance: ]
[Leave him. Abandon him. Not now, with the hose, and not ever. They’re stuck together. A team. An item. And then Ronan’s next sentence makes it’s way to him and it’s a brief minute of confusion.
Cover his... ear? Adam wonders what Ronan what Ronan could possibly do to make a noise loud enough to hurt his ears, but he doesn’t question out loud, just does as he’s told.
A flash of a memory from years ago— or perhaps it is several memories combined- Adam, young, sitting against the wall of his bedroom with his knees pulled up to his chest, hands over his ears to drown out the sounds of Robert Parrish’s raised voice. Now, here in a safe space, his hands cover both hearing and unhearing ear; instinct, muscle memory, whatever you want to call it. Hands guised as earmuffs, he glances over at Ronan for him to do whatever comes next.
Lead the way, Captain, his eyes say, a glint of excitement behind the exhaustion. There’s always something exciting about dealing with anything magic. It calls to Adam even without Cabeswater to guide him.]
[ Good instinct, listening to the consummate hooligan, one's inescapable boyfriend: it's not that the ravens are attracted to soft roundness protruding from their skulls, but there's an overt vulnerability to ears that seems determined to absorb the lion's share of their undivided attention. They fly right by Ronan's, nipping or simply prodding, never quite drawing blood — and he's damn well aware that minor physical inconveniences for the able-bodied are criminal injustices for a boy who's already one ear bereft. No need to deepen his discomfort.
Then again, they're both men — and one treacherous bird, bee-lining behind them — on a mission, and Ronan mimes as much as he leads the way out back, where an intrepid investigation of several barns in a handy line-up reveals a colony of spiders, two heavily deformed potted plants, something not unlike a palm-shaped microcosmos Ronan supposes he may have dreamed up on Matthew's footsteps...
...and a hose, mangy but long, still bound to something likened to a water source. It'll do. It'll do handsomely, and Ronan weighs it in earnest consideration in one hand, before nodding outside, where the horde awaits and speaking slowly enough for Adam to understand it's safe to briefly lower his hands now: ]
[His hands lower and he looks at Ronan with level eyes. The cold had bitten through his threadbare jacket on their barn excursion, taking away any of the substantial warmth he had gained inside the farmhouse. He blows out a breath— just an exhale, but he’s aware it might sound like a sigh.
And Ronan’s words sound like a challenge. Parrish, are you hard enough to blast these fuckin’ dream birds? Adam is hard enough. Adam once stared their Latin teacher down, gun held in front of him, preventing him from running from his just death.
His hand closes around the hose.] I got it. Turn the water on?
[ Hell hath no fury like a redneck scorned. It's not that Ronan fears the mean cut of his boyfriend, now and then, so much as he's come to accept certain worldly inevitabilities: roses are red, violets come blue. Adam might fit the poster boy image of a serial killer wholesomely intent of ridding the world of every last nuisance, when he dons his college interview suits and his steel look, but he's soft and cuddly inside.
Deep down. Somewhere. In depths unseen, but suspected.
He gives his order, and who's Ronan to ignore it? With a careful nod, he waits for the ravens to righteously assemble, before one wrist bend unleashes true menace by way of a hungering water jet. To his credit, he didn't dream his flock stupid: they disperse before there's casualty, and maybe (just maybe) Ronan takes personal pride in the last protesting caw, before he elbows Adam like every dutiful accomplice and nods ahead: ]
Adam Ravenslayer. Come on. It's got a ring to it.
[ But the enemy hasn't been completely driven back, and there's no time like the present to be proactive. ]
Want to do the rounds, Parrish?
[ Kick'em while they're down. ]
I am so sorry this took so long!! It's been a rough couple of weeks
[It's a bit exhilarating; the stream of water blasting out if the nozzle, watching the dream creatures fly quickly away. A smile tugs at the corner of Adam's mouth as he aims his weapon and the raven's scream.
There are days when Adam Parrish pretends to be perfect, pretends to belong at Aglionby, pretends to be someone like Richard Campbell Gansey III, and then there are days like this. Days where Adam find a bit of joy in chaos.
It probably has something to do with the man next to him. And it probably has something to do with his upbringing. A deadly combination.
Adam Ravenslayer... the name makes him laugh, makes his smile grow, makes him want to grab Ronan by the collar and pull him in for a kiss so hot it would melt the snow around them.]
Yeah. [He doesn't know what Ronan means by "the rounds," if they're just going to force the birds back further or what, but he'll follow Ronan anywhere at this point.]
Let's hurry up, though. It's fuckin' freezing. [A dropped 'g'; his accent slips through the cracks as his teeth chatter together. Cold seeps in as they stand still.]
[ The trouble (inevitable) with owning so much land is that now and then, Ronan's condemned to walk it — and here's Adam, trailing after him, a grudging but benevolent acolyte, dragging the hose along like an impudent instrument to their crime.
They face off ravens at every turn, smudges and battalions of them, receding before the first nips of water as if they're the devil himself, expelled. Ronan wants to say, You assholes had it coming. Knows they get it, even without the pronouncement.
And then there's Adam, with him, faithful knight in shining armor, waving the hose around like Excalibur, in glory. Ronan concedes him the honor of exterminating their winged threat, neither feather nor beak of them left by the time he's done.
Then, carefully, one arm fastened around his boyfriend's shoulders: ]
[He melts into the touch, the weight of Ronan's arm around his shoulders. The hose, turned off now that the last raven has left their vicinity, hangs limp in his hand.
"You're my hero," Ronan says, and Adam snorts, rubs his cheek against the scratch of Ronan's shirt.]
Come on, Lynch. [Adam's arm winds around Ronan's waist, his fingers dropping the hose to the ground as they move back towards the farmhouse, where central heating lives. And, if Adam recalls, Ronan had promised cuddling. Or something.
They walk, and Adam's mind wanders as they move. Sometimes, Ronan's dreaming was a nuisance; an inconvenience. But at least he had...something. Ronan still had that other worldly, magical something to hold on to.
What did Adam have without Cabeswater? He was still trying to figure that out. His fingers itched for his cards.
They make it back to Ronan's childhood home still wrapped in each other, though it made walking quickly hard. But Adam didn't want to let go: he goes through moods of pulling away from any physical affection to wanting to be in constant contact.
He kicks his shoes off as they enter, and sighs.]
Issue solved. Crisis averted. Another victory for team Parrish-Lynch.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He stands against the counter and eats his "poison", hates how nice and warm it feels in his empty stomach, and doesn't offer any to his boyfriend because 1) hunger and B) he would just make some snide comment if Adam had.]
Shit's never going to go away. [His way of affirming Ronan's suspicion. This is their normal-- Ronan's for being born a dreamer, and Adam's for stepping into that pentagram and offering himself as a sacrifice. He can still feel the thrum of the ley line under his feet.
And for this, there's no solution Adam can find.]
Hopefully next time it won't be such a mess.
[He pushes himself forward, taps his shoe against Ronan's foot.]
no subject
They'll be here again, in a few months' time, if they're fortunate. Weeks, if not. Over a bad stretch, like the sunset days of November — days.
There's a moment, Adam reaching, when he wants to flinch — to deny his boyfriend their candid little underground reunion, leg flinching, for nothing but the private pleasure of seeing someone else suffer beside him. He fights his inner son of a bitch. In a moment of superheroic climax, wins. And then he's tangling their feet at the angle, delicately tugging Adam in, warmth of his limb spearing an indelible, prickling print on Ronan's calf. ]
We'll get'em with the hose.
[ Water, chaps, a symphony of angered birds. It would be theatrical, if Ronan weren't convinced someone might lose an eye for it. ]
And you'll God damned cuddle on the couch after. [ As if Adam were a long-suffering saint, once more exposed to the torture of his boyfriend's misplaced PG affections. ] And use that valedictorian brain to think up some... I don't know. Wards or blood spells or OUT WITH THE HEATHENS signs, or something.
no subject
So violent. [The hose in the winter. Dear God, those poor dream creatures.] It’s a good plan.
Blood spells might be out a my wheelhouse, though. [A joke. A smile tugs at the corner of Adam’s mouth to show it.
He moves off of Ronan, holds out his hand, palm up. They should get to work. It’s already late afternoon, and the sun will be going down soon. The one thing worse than playing with water in the winter is playing with water in the winter at night. ] Let’s do this.
no subject
I love you in cuts and bruises. In the cantankerous, coarse texture of Adam's dried lips. Drink more water, but then, Sleep and Eat and Don't topple over exhausted, and the rest of all that finery.
Adam has a lifetime of feel-good advice to implement. Ronan isn't changing his life today. He's moving instead — darting up, to seize Adam's hand by the wrist, because they've had too much softness for the past two minutes, and it's time for Ronan to remind his boyfriend why he's always destined for the bad end of a particularly terrible romantic deal. Getting dragged along for the ride comes with the Lynch territory.
( So, maybe he wants to touch his boyfriend a little longer, while they cruise between kitchen and corridor and the back door. Sue him.) ]
You realize I could just make you do it and abandon you. Every man for himself.
[ There are more sheds spread across the Barns landscape than Ronan cares to name or count. Better hope that hose made it into one of the first dozen.
Then, as if he only now remembers, softening with a parting glance: ]
Cover your ear. The one you've got.
no subject
[Leave him. Abandon him. Not now, with the hose, and not ever. They’re stuck together. A team. An item. And then Ronan’s next sentence makes it’s way to him and it’s a brief minute of confusion.
Cover his... ear? Adam wonders what Ronan what Ronan could possibly do to make a noise loud enough to hurt his ears, but he doesn’t question out loud, just does as he’s told.
A flash of a memory from years ago— or perhaps it is several memories combined- Adam, young, sitting against the wall of his bedroom with his knees pulled up to his chest, hands over his ears to drown out the sounds of Robert Parrish’s raised voice. Now, here in a safe space, his hands cover both hearing and unhearing ear; instinct, muscle memory, whatever you want to call it. Hands guised as earmuffs, he glances over at Ronan for him to do whatever comes next.
Lead the way, Captain, his eyes say, a glint of excitement behind the exhaustion. There’s always something exciting about dealing with anything magic. It calls to Adam even without Cabeswater to guide him.]
no subject
Then again, they're both men — and one treacherous bird, bee-lining behind them — on a mission, and Ronan mimes as much as he leads the way out back, where an intrepid investigation of several barns in a handy line-up reveals a colony of spiders, two heavily deformed potted plants, something not unlike a palm-shaped microcosmos Ronan supposes he may have dreamed up on Matthew's footsteps...
...and a hose, mangy but long, still bound to something likened to a water source. It'll do. It'll do handsomely, and Ronan weighs it in earnest consideration in one hand, before nodding outside, where the horde awaits and speaking slowly enough for Adam to understand it's safe to briefly lower his hands now: ]
You want to do honors, or shall I?
no subject
And Ronan’s words sound like a challenge. Parrish, are you hard enough to blast these fuckin’ dream birds? Adam is hard enough. Adam once stared their Latin teacher down, gun held in front of him, preventing him from running from his just death.
His hand closes around the hose.] I got it. Turn the water on?
no subject
Deep down. Somewhere. In depths unseen, but suspected.
He gives his order, and who's Ronan to ignore it? With a careful nod, he waits for the ravens to righteously assemble, before one wrist bend unleashes true menace by way of a hungering water jet. To his credit, he didn't dream his flock stupid: they disperse before there's casualty, and maybe (just maybe) Ronan takes personal pride in the last protesting caw, before he elbows Adam like every dutiful accomplice and nods ahead: ]
Adam Ravenslayer. Come on. It's got a ring to it.
[ But the enemy hasn't been completely driven back, and there's no time like the present to be proactive. ]
Want to do the rounds, Parrish?
[ Kick'em while they're down. ]
I am so sorry this took so long!! It's been a rough couple of weeks
There are days when Adam Parrish pretends to be perfect, pretends to belong at Aglionby, pretends to be someone like Richard Campbell Gansey III, and then there are days like this. Days where Adam find a bit of joy in chaos.
It probably has something to do with the man next to him. And it probably has something to do with his upbringing. A deadly combination.
Adam Ravenslayer... the name makes him laugh, makes his smile grow, makes him want to grab Ronan by the collar and pull him in for a kiss so hot it would melt the snow around them.]
Yeah. [He doesn't know what Ronan means by "the rounds," if they're just going to force the birds back further or what, but he'll follow Ronan anywhere at this point.]
Let's hurry up, though. It's fuckin' freezing. [A dropped 'g'; his accent slips through the cracks as his teeth chatter together. Cold seeps in as they stand still.]
it's all good!
They face off ravens at every turn, smudges and battalions of them, receding before the first nips of water as if they're the devil himself, expelled. Ronan wants to say, You assholes had it coming. Knows they get it, even without the pronouncement.
And then there's Adam, with him, faithful knight in shining armor, waving the hose around like Excalibur, in glory. Ronan concedes him the honor of exterminating their winged threat, neither feather nor beak of them left by the time he's done.
Then, carefully, one arm fastened around his boyfriend's shoulders: ]
You're my hero, Parrish.
no subject
"You're my hero," Ronan says, and Adam snorts, rubs his cheek against the scratch of Ronan's shirt.]
Come on, Lynch. [Adam's arm winds around Ronan's waist, his fingers dropping the hose to the ground as they move back towards the farmhouse, where central heating lives. And, if Adam recalls, Ronan had promised cuddling. Or something.
They walk, and Adam's mind wanders as they move. Sometimes, Ronan's dreaming was a nuisance; an inconvenience. But at least he had...something. Ronan still had that other worldly, magical something to hold on to.
What did Adam have without Cabeswater? He was still trying to figure that out. His fingers itched for his cards.
They make it back to Ronan's childhood home still wrapped in each other, though it made walking quickly hard. But Adam didn't want to let go: he goes through moods of pulling away from any physical affection to wanting to be in constant contact.
He kicks his shoes off as they enter, and sighs.]
Issue solved. Crisis averted. Another victory for team Parrish-Lynch.