here's some more zombie au for you (it's coming along really well!) 🎃🎃🎃
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Ronan’s eyes flew open.
He didn’t think being dead was supposed to hurt so much.
Everything seemed too bright, too harsh on his eyes. It was daylight now, and he didn’t think it had been the last time he remembered being at all aware of his surroundings. He was also no longer outside.
A blanket covered him, and there was something soft under his head. Slowly, he moved to sit up — it was so painful that he knew he must be alive — and a voice stopped him short.
“You’re finally awake.”
The voice was hoarse, tired, and Ronan turned to see Adam Parrish sitting across from him, looking absolutely spent.
All those weeks on the road where Ronan thought he would have given anything to see Adam’s face again, finally catching up to them just like he’d promised he would.
And now here he was, at last, and Ronan didn’t know how to feel. He wasn’t sure there was anything left inside of him to feel anything at all.
Adam still watched him, waiting for a response. Ronan reached across the space between them, taking Adam’s wrist, feeling his pulse, the warmth of him. Real, then.
“I thought I dreamt you,” he said.
accidentally started a crazy exgirlfriend rewatch and now I'm thinking about your wip.... might you, perchance, have anything to share 🥺🙏
cheeryos ily!!! 🥺🥺 god i need to do a rewatch too. also thank you for asking, I've been looking for an excuse to post the beginning of this fic lmao. and by the beginning, I mean nearly the whole first chapter uhhh........... enjoy? 💖
When Ronan Lynch was sixteen years old, his family rented a vacation house in Cape Cod. Surly teenager that he was, Ronan wanted nothing less than to be in the heat and the sun and to share a room with his older brother Declan. He spent the first couple of days melting under various umbrellas and eating his body weight in popsicles in an effort to stay cool.
The house next to them was considerably larger and more ostentatious, and it had been empty, at first. Then a family took up residence. Even from down the beach, Ronan could tell they were the kind of stuffy rich that Ronan had no interest in.
Until Gansey.
Gansey was beautiful and sweet, intelligent and really fucking weird. He believed in truth above all else and he thought magic was real. He took to Ronan so quickly that Ronan could hardly remember what had been the catalyst to their friendship. It felt instantaneous. Inevitable.
When they finally kissed, it was all fire and explosions—the fucking Fourth of July in Ronan’s stomach and his heart.
Gansey was Ronan’s first. His first kiss, his first time, his first love.
They spent nearly two weeks together. And then Gansey left. He was always going to leave, of course. Gansey had a life in DC and Ronan’s family lived on a farm in upstate New York, and they were only ever going to be temporary. A summer fling.
But Ronan thought he would have more time. They should have had two more days together. Instead, he woke one morning to find the Ganseys’ summer home vacated, luxury SUV gone from the circular driveway, Gansey nowhere to be found. He hadn’t even said goodbye.
***
In the townhouse he shared with his brothers, Ronan was doing his level best to sink into the uncomfortable and austere living room couch. The townhouse was entirely to Declan’s taste, which meant that it was not at all to Ronan’s taste, which meant that Ronan vehemently hated every square inch of it. Its bland, boring walls and its bland, boring furniture, and its bland, boring artwork.
With his eyes shut and blood-pumping EDM blaring through his headphones, he could almost drown out that expansive hatred. Almost.
Someone pulled the headphones off his ears and around his neck. He turned his head to make sure it wasn’t Matthew before he snapped at them. Sure enough, it was Declan. He was wearing a bland, boring suit, had his curls styled back in a bland, boring fashion and he was holding a stack of bland, boring mail.
Ronan opened his mouth to shout something involving a compound fuck-word based swear, but the shout came out wordless because Declan threw the topmost piece of mail directly into Ronan’s face. Its corner jabbed him in the nose with surprising force. The envelope was heavy with sheets and sheets of paper inside.
He batted the envelope away and said, “Jesus shitting fuck, assface, what’s your fucking problem?”
Declan’s eyebrow raised, pointedly. He said, “Open it. It’s from BU.”
Ronan’s heart dropped into his stomach. He shut his eyes. He crumpled the envelope in his fist.
Declan said, “Come on, Ronan, don’t you want to see if you got in?”
“No.”
He stood up from the couch and went upstairs to his room. He shut the door behind him and sat on the edge of his bed. He uncurled his fist.
The curtain was shut, so it was dark, but unfortunately not dark enough that he couldn’t see the envelope addressed to him and stamped with Boston University’s seal.
He ripped it open. Dear Mr. Lynch, it began. Congratulations—
Ronan's vision swam. He dropped the envelope to the floor. He didn’t know how long he sat there, with stomach acid still eating his insides away, bit by bit.
He couldn’t breathe. He needed—air, or something. Anything.
He was in the foyer with feet jammed into untied boots and leather jacket over his shoulders before he’d even registered the desire as more than an abstract. Declan was saying something. Matthew was saying something else. He slammed the door as if the sound would slam him back into his own body, but it didn’t.
He walked, and walked, unseeing, until he came to the park a few blocks away from Declan’s townhouse. The air always felt clearer there, although Ronan knew it wasn’t. It was the same polluted city air that was all over Boston, but here it was filtered through trees just starting to sprout leaves and lush, green grass, and the closest approximation of wilderness available in a place like this. He dragged in lungful after lungful of it. It smelled of spring-fresh foliage in the rain, and only then did Ronan realize it was raining—dripping down his face and soaking through his clothes.
When he came to the little bridge that crossed over a stream, Ronan stopped, and he stood there, staring at ripples in the water, for a long time.
It was good that he’d gotten in, wasn’t it? That was why he’d applied, after all.
No, it wasn’t. Declan was why he’d applied. He’d finally worn Ronan down, after one too many years of listlessness, and school was at least something to do. Something to occupy the endless hours of the day.
But now it was real. He’d been accepted, and he would have to sit for lectures, trapped in classrooms, condemned to a life of homework and tests and pointless assignments, and for what? A degree that he didn’t want. A job that he didn’t want. A future that he didn’t want.
He couldn’t do this again.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ronan saw someone walking toward him with an obnoxiously purple umbrella and an obnoxiously turquoise polo shirt. He looked back to the river, but something tickled at the back of his mind. He looked back at the stranger and he took in their face.
And it wasn’t a stranger, after all.
Everything in Ronan lit up with recognition, inundated with memories—wet sand between his toes and surf lapping at his thighs. Summer warm hands on his waist. Kisses that tasted like mango gelato.
Breathless, Ronan said, “Gansey?”
The stranger looked up. Ronan met a pair of hazel eyes, bright and curious behind gold, wire-framed glasses. He smiled a big, dimpled smile and said, “Ronan? My God, is that you?”
“Yeah. Fuck.”
Gansey jogged the last few steps to meet Ronan on the bridge, and he wrapped his arms around him—one looped around his ribs and the other stretched up to curl over his shoulders. Ronan had to lean down to return the hug. He pressed his face into Gansey’s shiny, windswept hair. Gansey smelled like fresh mint and he laughed delightedly into Ronan’s ear.
Ronan’s heart was going to explode.
Gansey pulled from the embrace but kept his hand on Ronan’s arm, umbrella lifted up high so Ronan could fit under it with him. He said, “Wow. It’s really you. It’s been so long.”
“Yeah.” Ronan knew he should say something else, but his mind was wiped clean—empty but for every memory he possessed of a single summer nearly ten years ago. And Gansey, glowing and radiant in front of him—the sun shining through dreary, gray clouds.
Gansey smacked Ronan’s arm gently and dropped his hand. “What have you been up to? I didn’t know you lived in Boston!”
“Yeah. Uh, not much,” Ronan said. He needed to divert the conversation away from him so Gansey didn’t find out what a loser he was. “What about you?”
“Oh, I’m just in town for a moment moving the rest of the stuff from my apartment.”
Ronan’s spirits sank nearly as soon as they’d lifted. “You’re moving?”
“Yes! Back to Virginia. Henrietta to be exact. It’s a lovely town. I’ve been living there for a couple of months, I was just waiting for someone to close on my old house so I could make the full leap.”
“Oh. What’s in Virginia?”
“A position opened up at a law firm where a friend of mine works, and he put in a good word for me! I’m rather excited. It’s so nice to be around like-minded people. People who really want to make a difference. And you should see it, Ronan. It’s so beautiful. It’s been so long since I’ve been surrounded by nature’s majesty like that.”
“Yeah, that sounds. Nice.”
“It does indeed! But I do wish we’d run into each other earlier, Ronan. We could have grabbed a drink, caught up properly.”
“We could get one now,” Ronan pleaded.
Gansey’s face fell, like maybe he didn’t want to reject him, but Ronan could see it coming anyway. He said, “I'm afraid I don’t have time, at the moment. My sister Helen is waiting for me to return. You remember Helen, don’t you? She’s helping me move. Well, directing the movers. We really need to get on the road soon. Work in the morning, you understand.”
Ronan did not understand, but he said, “Yeah. Sure.”
Gansey thumbed at his bottom lip. It was only for a second, but it was enough to make Ronan’s stomach flip over. He longed for the taste of mango gelato. Just one more time.
Gansey reached into the pocket of his chinos and fiddled with his phone for a moment before handing it to Ronan. “Listen, give me your number. If you’re ever in Virginia, please let me know. I’d love to see you again. I mean it. We’ll get that drink.”
Ronan nodded, certain he was betraying his eagerness, but he didn’t care. “Okay.” He put his number in and sent himself a text.
Gansey smiled. “We have so much to catch up on.”
And then Gansey’s phone started blaring a generic ringtone. They startled away from each other. “I’m sorry,” Gansey said. “I should get this.” He raised one finger in the air to signal that Ronan should wait, and put the phone to his ear. “Hello Helen.” Gansey shut his eyes. “Yes, I’m on my way back.” He paused while Helen pattered on and on. “I got caught up with an old friend. I’ll be there soon. Not more than a few minutes. All right. I said all right. Bye.”
Gansey hung up and heaved a great sigh. “Sorry about that. I really should go.”
Ronan's throat was tight so he cleared it and said, “It’s fine. Go. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
A sad, private smile lit up his face. “I hope so. Well.” He reached out a hand like he was going for a handshake, but changed his mind at the last moment and pulled Ronan in for another hug.
He let himself sink into his warmth and the soft, solid planes of his body. He couldn’t bring himself to let go, but Gansey could.
Just like old times.
“Goodbye, Ronan,” he said, and then he was gone, and it was as if it had never happened at all.
The entire interaction couldn’t have lasted for longer than a couple of minutes. It shouldn’t have impacted Ronan’s life at all, but something had shifted inside of him. Like Gansey had cracked open a door and some dusty corner of his heart had been exposed to fresh air and morning light for the first time in years.
He drifted back to the apartment in a haze, floating on the high of Gansey’s touch, replaying his words over and over.
I’d love to see you again.
I mean it.
We have so much to catch up on.
And then—Henrietta.
Henrietta.
Henrietta.
The first thing Ronan did when he got back to the townhouse was fend off another interrogation from Declan. When he got back to his room, there was no crumpled letter lying discarded on top of piles of dirty clothes. Declan must have taken it, which meant he’d been in his room, which meant Ronan would have to murder him later.
The second thing he did was boot up his laptop. It took him several minutes to figure out his Goddamn Facebook password, and when he managed to log in, he searched for Richard Campbell Gansey III. He sent a friend request, and waited for a solid minute and a half for a follow back.
When none came, he Googled Henrietta, Virginia. It was a quaint, bustling little town sprinkled with old buildings and Victorian houses, nestled in the lush valley between the Blue Ridge mountains. He could see why it appealed to someone like Gansey, who, despite his image, had always come alive surrounded by nature and beautiful old things.
A notification popped up. Ronan swore at it, until he realized that Gansey had accepted his friend request. A surge flooded Ronan’s whole body. He clicked on the tab so eagerly he closed it by accident and then had to reload it.
He looked at Gansey’s profile. He went through every photo and absorbed every scrap of information he could get his hands on. He knew where Gansey worked, knew who his friends were, knew how and where he spent his free time. The most important bit of information, though, was his relationship status—single.
I’d love to see you again.
I mean it.
Gansey had Instagram, too, but the problem was that Ronan didn’t. He couldn’t create a new, empty account for himself, and then follow Gansey immediately. That would look too desperate. So he created a fake one and hoped Gansey wasn’t the type of guy to reject followers he didn’t actually know.
Fortunately for Ronan, Gansey seemed to be something of an influencer for fucking nerds, and he had a few thousand followers. Ronan was just one of the masses, eager to see more of the man posed on a mountain cliff like an intrepid explorer, or a king looking over his sprawling kingdom. It was possible that some of them were genuinely into Welsh history, but Ronan was willing to bet not many.
Then Ronan found himself on Zillow, looking into Henrietta, Virginia’s real estate. Declan might have been proud, if it was for any reason other than this.
***
Incense permeated the air. Holy water was still wet on Ronan’s fingertips. The cushioned wood of the kneeler creaked under his weight. He opened his eyes.
The church was empty and cavernous. Dust motes floated in a haze of kaleidoscopic colored light. Stained glass stretched towards the ceiling and slipped across every surface.
Every pillar was a tree trunk. Vines crept up the walls. Flowers sprouted up between cracks in the marble floor. An archway stood where the altar should have been, made of twisting branches and leaves.
Ronan walked through it, into the forest beyond. It was wild and dense with oak trees—nothing at all like the park by Declan’s apartment. He wandered down the narrow footpath until the ground was taken over by twisting stems covered in thorns. Ronan followed their path with his eyes, up and up, to a throne made out of perfect red roses in full bloom. Sitting on the throne, golden crown on his head, was Gansey.
Even in wire-framed glasses and a turquoise polo shirt, he belonged there—the just ruler of this forest. Of the whole world.
Ronan climbed up the clusters of rose stems. Thorns cut into his palms, over and over, until blood was dripping down his wrists—a distantly familiar feeling.
Gansey looked at him only when he’d nearly reached the throne. He held out his hand, adorned by a golden claddagh ring with a glittering ruby at the center. Ronan took Gansey’s hand in his and touched his lips to the ring.
“Ronan,” Gansey said, amiably. “Get over here.”
In the space of a blink, Ronan was at his side, standing next to the throne, overlooking his kingdom. Henrietta, Virginia. It was the aerial view he’d seen on Google images.
An inexplicable sense of rightness washed over him—belonging. Purpose.
Gansey said, “What do you know about Welsh kings?”
***
Ronan woke up.
He got out of bed and packed all his clothes and his favorite things into three suitcases. He managed to sneak them all into his car without anyone noticing until the very last one.
With a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he passed by his brothers at the kitchen table on his way to rummage through the fridge. Declan was sipping a latte and Matthew was shoveling a whole piece of burnt toast into his mouth.
Declan said, ”Ronan, what the hell are you doing?”
Ronan said, “Why don’t we have anything to eat?” He slammed the fridge door.
“Ronan.”
Ronan slid his own piece of toast into the toaster and turned it on. Dismissively, he said, “I’m moving to Virginia.”
Declan stood up. “You’re what?”
Matthew said, “What’s in Virginia?”
“Trees and shit, I think.”
Declan said, “What the fuck, Ronan? You’re not moving, you’re starting school in the fall.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Man that shit didn’t work on me when I was a teenager, what makes you think it will now? I already have the trust, there’s nothing for you to hold over my head anymore. I’m a fucking adult—“ Declan interrupted him with a sharp bark of a laugh. “And if I want to move to Virginia, you can’t stop me.”
Declan pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes in disappointment or frustration or hatred. “What is wrong with you? I thought you wanted to go back to school.”
Ronan snorted humorlessly. “Please.”
His toast popped, and he slathered it with butter.
“What are you going to do in Virginia? Do you even have a plan?”
With his mouth full of toast, he said, “Nope.”
Declan stood in the doorway of the townhouse with his arms crossed over his chest. Ronan tossed the duffel bag into the backseat of the BMW.
Hovering on the sidewalk, Matthew said, “You’re really leaving?”
His face was frozen in a childlike pout. Why Matthew cared so much was a little beyond Ronan. Matthew would realize in a few days—how much more peaceful and pleasant his life was without him there.
“Yeah,” Ronan said. “You can come visit when I’ve got a place.”
Matthew pulled him into a tight hug. It hit Ronan, then, how much he would miss him. How he was the only person on earth who could stand him. And how it was likely that Gansey wouldn’t be able to stand him, either, once he’d seen the person Ronan had become.
***
Ronan spent the first night in a hotel, and the following day touring rental properties. The first was a freshly remodeled bungalow with an open floor plan and shiny, new appliances. The second was a shabby, 30-year-old two-story several minutes from town, where every surface was the same shade of greige.
The third rental was a shithole fixer-upper row house four blocks from Henrietta’s sad excuse for a downtown. The wood hadn’t been painted with a fresh coat of blue in years and was starting to rot. The backyard was a fenced-in plot of dirt and crabgrass with one scrawny tree trapped in the far corner.
Ronan signed a month-to-month lease for way more than the place was worth.
When Ronan finished moving in (throwing his suitcases on the floor of the living room), he went for a walk around the neighborhood. The downtown area was all old buildings and quaint little shops.
When he looped back around to the row house, he noticed a bar partially obscured by the flowers and plants crawling all over the brick facing. The sign read Nino’s, and he recognized the name from posts tagged on Gansey’s Facebook and Instagram alike. Gansey hung out here—it was one of his usual haunts, and so Ronan shoved the door open and went inside.
It was 3pm on a Monday, and Ronan knew that Gansey was unlikely to be at a dive bar, but a wave of disappointment hit him, anyway, when he wasn’t.
Ronan took a seat at the bar. The bartender approached him. Her dark skin was very tattooed and very pierced and she looked entirely too city to be in this town.
This was confirmed when she said, in a British accent, “What’ll you be having, mate?”
“Beer, whatever’s on tap.” He’d missed lunch, so he added, “And you got anything to eat in this dump?”
The bartender laughed. “That very much depends on your definition of edible.” She slammed a laminated menu onto the bartop in front of him. He liked her, immediately.
Ronan glanced at the menu, and when the bartender came back with his beer, he could’ve sworn she was wearing a different outfit—something lacy and orange—but he chalked it up to not paying very much attention to women’s clothing. She said, “What’re you having, hotshot?” and it was just flirty enough that Ronan changed his mind. He didn’t like her at all.
He ordered a burger, medium rare, and took in the ambiance. The dark, old wood had grime sticking to it like a second skin, every surface comfortable and worn, barely lit by dim, old-fashioned stained-glass hanging lamps. The place really was a shithole, but like the row house, Ronan basked in it. He always felt more comfortable in shitholes.
When Ronan glanced back towards the bar, there were two identical bartenders. One was in leather, the other in orange lace. Ronan blinked, and another one emerged from the kitchen, tossed a plate in front of Ronan, slipped her apron over her head and left out the front door.
Bewildered, Ronan said, “Why are there so fucking many of you?”
The pair in front of him grinned the same blinding, toothy grin and said, in unison, “Identical sextuplets.”
Ronan popped a French fry in his mouth, and with it still full, said, “There are six of you? And you just decided to work at the same place, to what? Confuse the shit out of people?”
The one in orange said, “Pretty much, yeah.”
The one in leather said, “What’s the point of being an identical sextuplet if not to fuck with people?”
“You’ve got a point,” Ronan conceded.
Some deranged part of him was charmed by this place and this weird fucking chick and her gang of clones. Ronan’s trust covered the house, but he could use some extra cash. More than that, he needed a way to spend his time, he had experience, and most importantly, it would be a built-in excuse to see Gansey.
“Hey, I know you’ve got this whole family business or whatever-the-fuck going on here, but are you hiring?”
“Actually, yes,” the leather one said. “Only three of us work here, and Brooklyn wants to quit. You got experience?”
“Yep.”
The orange one said, “You some kind of serial murderer? A mafioso goon?”
“If I was in the mafia, what the fuck would I want to work here for?”
“No offense meant, mate, you’ve just got that kind of face. And you don’t seem like a local.”
“Neither do you.”
“Touché.”
“I’m not local, I just moved here and I could use a job, are you hiring or not?”
The leather one grinned and said, “All right, fuck it, you’re hired.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah. You ready to start now?”
“What the fuck, I’m eating.” Ronan gestured to his plate.
“Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “We’ll have to do a background check and all that shit. And the owner will want to meet you. Bring your shit tomorrow and we’ll get you sorted. I have somewhere to be on Friday and I need someone to cover my shift. What’s your name, guy who is definitely not a mafioso goon?”
“Ronan.”
She held out her hand and Ronan shook it. “Hennessy.”
***
Ronan started work on Wednesday. He knew what he was doing, so training was pretty minimal, and the owner didn’t seem particularly hung up on the paperwork side of shit.
He was cleaning up a spill when the front door opened. He glanced at it, only to find another rando instead of a familiar face.
“Are you looking for somebody?”
Ronan jumped, undignified, and bared his teeth at Hennessy. She was hovering over his shoulder with an insufferable smirk on her purple lips.
He said, “Who the hell would I be looking for? I just moved here, remember?”
“Then why are your eyes drawn to the door whenever it opens if you’re not looking for somebody?” Ronan glared in a way that made lesser people back down immediately. She said, “Exactly. Now who is it? Some other goon who you owe money to? Your dealer? Or an ex-lover, perhaps?
Ronan’s jaw clenched. “Shut the hell up.”
“Oh, really?” She grinned. “I didn’t take you for a lover, more of a fighter. You’ve got layers, I see.”
Apparently God was listening to Ronan’s prayers, for once, because they were both flagged to opposite sides of the bar before Hennessy could continue sticking her septum-pierced nose where it didn’t belong.
There was a man sitting at the bar, all but batting his pretty eyes at Ronan. He ignored him for as long as he could, and then sucked it up and stepped in front of him.
The guy was good-looking in an abrupt, startling way. He had an interesting face—gaunt, sunken-eyed, but elegant. Ronan’s heart flip-flopped. His hands tightened into fists until his nails bit into his palms.
The guy tilted his head and gave Ronan a clear once-over. He said, “You’re new.”
Ronan rolled his eyes. “Yep.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen you around town before.”
“Just moved here.”
The guy leaned his elbows on the bartop. He had the sleeves of his slick, corporate button-down rolled to show tanned forearms, sinewy with muscle. “From where?”
“Boston.”
“Oh, I went to school in Cambridge.”
Fuck. It was even worse than he thought. The pretty-boy was a Harvard douche. Ronan growled, “Did you want something, or?”
Ronan only noticed the smile in the guy’s eyes when it vanished. His voice was cool when he said, “Gin and tonic.”
Ronan made him a gin and tonic. He handed it to him, and the guy’s long, knobby fingers wrapped around the glass. He said, “Thanks.”
The door opened again, and helplessly, Ronan looked. It was just a small group of twenty-something girls. Ronan sighed in disappointment for maybe the thirtieth time of the evening.
“Who are you looking for?”
Ronan stilled. How did he keep giving himself away? And more importantly, why was everyone in this bar incapable of minding their fucking business? He turned back to the guy and snapped, “What?”
“You keep looking at the door. You expecting someone?”
“Friend of mine."
“Well, I hope you find them.” The guy held up his glass in a little salute. “I think mine stood me up.”
“Can’t imagine why.”
The guy’s blue eyes narrowed, his pink mouth parted in offense. “You’re awfully rude for a customer service professional, you know.”
Ronan had to work to subdue a grin before it took over his face. “I know.”
As he was making a tequila sunrise for some sweater-wearing local, Hennessy inserted herself into his personal space and stage whispered in his ear, “Is that him?”
“Is who him?”
“Your loverboy. Over there.”
She pointed to the pretty Harvard douche. Ronan scoffed. “No.”
“You’re staring.”
Ronan’s face was very hot. It was so easy to overheat crammed in a bar with a couple dozen people. He said, “No, I’m not.”
He wasn’t. And he wasn’t listening, either, to the guy's phone conversation. Not until he said, “It’s all right, Gansey. See you tomorrow. Have a good night.”
Ronan’s heart kicked into double time. He barely waited for the guy to hang up before he interrupted, “Did you say Gansey? You know Gansey?”
The guy narrowed his eyes at Ronan. “He’s my best friend. You know Gansey?”
He put a lot of emphasis on the you, making the question skeptical and a little accusatory. As if someone like Ronan couldn’t possibly know someone like Gansey. And maybe he had a point, but he didn’t need to be such a dick about it.
Ronan said, “Yeah, I know Gansey.”
“That’s weird. I thought you said you just moved here.”
“I did.” He sighed, annoyed at having to explain himself. “We knew each other when we were kids. I ran into him last week.”
“Last week. In Boston?”
“Yep.”
“And now you’re here?”
Fuck. “Yep.”
Adam traced his fingertip in the condensation his glass was leaving on the bartop. “Why did you move here, again?
Ronan grit his teeth. “Felt like it.”
“What are you, some kind of stalker?”
Ronan hadn’t actually considered what other people would think about him moving halfway down the east coast for a guy, but he'd been an idiot not to. What else would it look like, to someone who didn’t know? He said, “No, I’m not a fucking stalker. Just seemed like a nice place, that’s all.”
“So you moved here? Here?”
“You live here.”
“Yeah, but I—“
“What? Your reasons were so much better than mine? What was it? Your shitty job moved you out here?”
“Something like that.”
Ronan sneered, “Cryptic.”
“Does Gansey know? That you’re here? He hasn’t mentioned you.”
“No, I haven’t told him yet.”
“Why not?”
“I’m—“ Ronan tore the rag from his shoulder and slapped it on the counter to start clearing some of the condensation away. So he could avoid the piercing eyes of this pretty stranger. “I’m working my way up to it, fuck off.”
“Oh,” the guy said, deflating.
“What.”
“You like him.” The guy huffed a humorless laugh. “Figures.”
“Look man, it’s none of your fucking business.”
“I think it is, actually. What was your name again?”
Ronan wanted to not tell him, to be contrary, to buy himself some time, but it would be easy enough to find out. And if this guy really was Gansey’s best friend, he imagined they would be seeing more of each other, anyway. He said, “Ronan Lynch.”
“Ronan Lynch,” he said, thoughtfully. “I know that name.”
“Do you?”
“You’re his ex, aren’t you?”
“I guess,” Ronan said, irritably.
Adam ran a hand through his burnished gold hair. “All right. At least I know you’re probably not here to murder him. It’s almost sweet,” he said, in a way that implied he didn’t much care for sweet things. He took a sip of his drink. “Still creepy though.”
Creepy? Ronan leaned closer than he’d dated up until now, hands on the bar and face close. “Don’t fucking tell him.” The guy didn’t retreat. He just stared, unimpressed, so Ronan added, “Please.”
The guy closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “I won’t. For now. But he’s going to know as soon as he sees you. You’re not exactly being subtle. And I reserve the right to tell him if I think you’re being extra creepy.”
“Fine.”
“Oh, and you should probably know. He has a girlfriend.”
Ronan’s heart stopped. “What?”
The guy rolled his eyes. “He’s bi, not gay.”
“I know that but what the fuck? That’s not what Facebook says.”
The guy’s face creased with barely restrained judgment. “Well, Facebook officiality notwithstanding, he’s pretty serious about her, so don’t be an asshole.”
Ronan snapped, “Thanks for the heads up.”
Ronan was sulking, and he knew it. He was even more terse than usual, and if he weren’t so damn handsome, his tips would have been in the shitter. His phone was in his hand, the fucking Facebook app open on the link to Adam Parrish’s locked profile.
He’d been easy enough to find. Adam Parrish was tagged in most of Gansey’s photos. It was difficult to imagine how Ronan could have possibly not noticed him, even consumed as he was by Gansey. He threw his phone into the sink and hoped it drowned.
While he mixed some dickhead's martini, Hennessy sidled up to him, and before she could open her mouth to pry even more, he said, “He has a Goddamn girlfriend.”
“Who, that random guy?”
“Gansey.”
“Ah. The ex-lover, I presume?”
Ronan slammed the martini glass onto the bar and didn’t give a fuck that it splashed the person who ordered it.
Hennessy didn’t seem to give a fuck, either. She leaned her elbows back on the bar and said, “Ooh, the plot thickens. Is that what your little friend said to upset you so?”
“He’s Gansey’s best friend, apparently.”
“Small world.”
“Small fucking town.”
“Well, them’s the breaks, sailor. Don’t you dare quit before Friday, though. Remember, I’ve got plans.”
“Why would I quit?”
“Because your obsession with your ex is doomed to failure due to him being otherwise involved?”
“Fuck you.”
Hennessy raised both middle fingers and gave him two-handed salute.
Ronan stood at the kitchen island, shoveling furious bite after furious bite of cold, leftover Chinese takeout into his mouth.
Adam Parrish. That asshole. His words played in Ronan’s mind on a continuous loop. Who the hell did he think he was? He might know Gansey, but he didn’t know Ronan at-fucking-all. Creepy.
Gansey wouldn’t think he was creepy, would he?
Ronan snapped his chopstick in half and threw the splinters into the last dregs of his chow mein. His fingers ached, so he stretched them out and then he found himself reaching across the island for a lonely ballpoint pen, and then he was sketching on a brown paper napkin.
It had been awhile since he’d drawn anything. Months. No, years. More, since he’d drawn anything good. This wasn’t good. It was just a sketch—an elegant, bony hand with knobby knuckles and raised veins.
He drew it again, wrapped around a glass, before he realized what he was doing.
“Fuck,” he said, to the empty room. He crumpled up the napkin, threw it across the kitchen, and stomped upstairs to his empty off-white bedroom. He collapsed onto the mattress on the floor and he stared at the ceiling for hours, watching the sun streak pink light across it before finally succumbing to sleep.
***
He was behind the bar at Nino’s, wiping the same glass dry over and over, but he wasn’t looking at it. He was looking at Gansey, handsome and tan, sitting across from an amorphosly beautiful woman. A caricature of a beautiful woman. Gansey was enraptured by her, hearts bursting from his eyes. This was the way he’d once looked at Ronan, so long ago.
He fed his date a bite from the plate of chocolate covered strawberries that sat between them and smiled as if she was the most perfect being on earth. They were bathed in pink light and bracketed by billowing red velvet curtains, like a stage play.
“Ronan,” Gansey said. Ronan was embarrassed at the way he lit up at the sound of Gansey’s voice wrapping around his name, his bid for Ronan’s attention. But even as he spoke, Gansey didn’t take his eyes off of his girlfriend. “Would you please bring us a bottle of your finest champagne? We’re celebrating, after all.”
The girlfriend giggled and flashed a gaudy, sparkling diamond ring. No, a claddagh set with a red ruby.
Ronan seethed. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. But they didn’t seem to care that he wasn’t bringing them a bottle of their finest champagne, as if this dump had any champagne to speak of. They were too absorbed in each-other.
Hennessy said, “Them’s the breaks.”
Another voice said, “I told you.”
It was Adam Parrish, sitting further down the bar, alone, nursing a gin and tonic.
Ronan still couldn’t speak. He couldn't breathe past the pressure in his chest.
Adam said, “Just let it go, Ronan. It was never going to be you.”
@sleepy-skittles told me I owed her Adam/Henry and my brain decided they should be spies while they're at it
-
"It's need-to-know, Cheng."
"I need to know everything."
"You want to know everything," his handler corrects him. "You need to learn the difference between need and want."
"That sounds painfully boring. I pass."
"Then learn to live with disappointment."
"Also pass." Henry drums his fingers. "I bet you I can figure it out on my own."
"You can't."
"What, because us field agents aren't as smart as you precious analysts?"
"Because I know every piece of information you have, and it isn't enough for a full picture," Adam says. Damn. He has a good sense of what Henry's capable of, and he wouldn't lie about that sort of thing. He doesn't lie to Henry about the job. That's how agents get killed, he'd said, blunt, the one time Henry had accused him of it. You do what I tell you, I tell you the truth, and we all make it home alive. Accept that or put in for a transfer.
is it cheating to request #7 for a little extra in the like constellations verse??? only if you're feeling it! otherwise #32 is screaming pynch to me
Thrilled that you asked for this!! There's not much space or magic in this prompt fill, but there was loads in Like Constellations so I feel like I can get away with it! Hope you enjoy!
Adam’s room is just how he left it when they moved from the Glendower to the HAB. All his things are packed into neat boxes: his clean clothes, his spare toiletries, his books, all just how he’d left them. Untouched. On top of the box of books is an old Earth copy of a sci-fi novel about colonising Mars. His bookmark is halfway through.
He drops the backpack he’d brought off Cabeswater on the floor next to the rows of boxes, sinks down on his bunk and puts his head in his hands.
The shower Henry had forced him into cleaned most of the dirt and the build up of sweat off him, but Adam still feels grimy. He’s about to go and get in the shower again when there’s a tentative knock on the door.
“It’s open,” he says, voice hoarse.
It’s Ronan. “Hey. I wanted to just see if you…” He stands awkwardly in Adam’s doorway, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “We dreamt the fix, for the hyperspace engine. Hennessy and Sargent are fitting it now and I just wanted to—”
Adam gets it. He’s almost afraid to go to sleep as well, like he might wake up back on the planet. “I was about to get some sleep.”
“Fuck. Yeah. Course. I’ll just—” Ronan turns to leave.
“Stay. Please. I don’t think I want to be on my own,” Adam says.
Ronan crosses the room to him. Adam stands off the bed to meet him halfway. He thinks they might kiss again, but Ronan catches his face in his hands, holds Adam’s jaw, fingers sliding across his neck, into his hair. The burning blue of his eyes reminds Adam of the sky on Cabeswater, the intensity of the colour, the depth. It doesn’t make Adam feel lonely, in the way that vast, empty sky had. Instead, he feels seen, wanted, loved.
“I need to sleep,” Adam says. “Stay with me?”
Ronan nods, and he follows when Adam takes him by the hand, and leads him onto his bunk. Adam curls up against Ronan, slots their knees together and pushes his face into Ronan’s chest. Ronan’s arms come up, holding him, and Adam falls asleep to the rush of Ronan’s breathing and the steady thud of his heart.
I have a specific question related to weird bug kid...what kind of weird kid was ronan? 🐞
but also any other director's cut factoids from that story!!
Aaaaah WBKAP, my beloved 💕
Personally? I feel like Ronan was that kid obsessed with a new animal every month. But he spent a good deal of time very obsessed with wolves, learned all about their (real) dynamics, pretended to be one with Matthew around the Barns, bit Declan once...Also he read The Sight by David Clement-Davies and talked about it nonstop for 6 months straight. So....Weird Wolf Kid, Ronan Lynch?
Other director's cut factoids:
1. I also used to be a weird bug kid. However, I am now a very bug-averse adult, and would like absolutely nothing to do with them other than fireflies.
2. This fic came about because of the way Adam handles those bugs in MI like it's not a big deal at all. Even if they are dream beetles, like, wtf??? Only a weird bug kid would be so nonchalant about handling bugs that way, okay?
3. I tried hard to find native species to the areas, because I feel like Adam would be more interested in learning about bugs he could actually walk outside and find.
4. He absolutely tried making friends at the trailer park by showing cool bugs to other kids and got shunned for it. Which is why he's cagey about it until Ronan seems to show legitimate interest.
5. Love really is, in some way, about indulging in your loved one's interests, isn't it? I think it's obvious I am a hyperfixator (this isn't a word, I guess), as well as a person with a tendency to develop special interests. So writing a soft story about how Ronan shows his love for Adam by respecting and taking part in his weirder interests felt very nice, and I love knowing that it's comforted other people like me in similar ways.
ooh this is interesting! I love niall/aurora discourse! my take on it is that it's a little creepy by default, since niall did dream her and she looks identical to his ex/the mother of his firstborn. we don't know the specifics behind it but we do know that niall was a bit of a bastard, so I'm not sure I'd give him the benefit of the doubt. hope book three gives us the deets though 👀
BUT there's also canon evidence that aurora was a fully functional human being before niall died! how she was post-dreamer death is not the same as how she was pre. and I hate the assumption that dreams are somehow "less" as people - the whole dreamer trilogy is turning that on its head, anyways! so I also hate the assumption that niall dreamed her just to be a passive stepford wife.
in conclusion, give aurora lynch rights and autonomy!!
I mean, yes, Niall was not a good guy, and I for sure wouldn't put it past him to have creepy intentions. But like, she could have been an accident as @arachnaesghost said, like a Wandavision-type expression of his grief that we haven't yet seen. Or maybe (one of my spicier theories 😏) Mór was fully aware of (agreed to, even!) Niall dreaming a copy because Declan had been born "normal" and they wanted to have a dreamer baby, and something about the genetics of Dreamer + Dream could make that happen. (Mór was weirdly unsurprised to see Ronan in the elevator... it was only Declan that shocked her...)
Regardless, you're so right that one of the central themes of TDT is the agency and autonomy of dreams, and you'd think the fandom would be more open to exploring Aurora's autonomy just as they've explored Matthew's. And as we've seen with Hennessy and Jordan, people are both nature and nurture. Aurora lived at least 18ish years—that's a long time to become her own person even if she had been dreamed passive!
saturday and ancient if you're doing the fic ask game!!
saturday: what gets you excited whilst writing?
Not always, but normally when I come up with a story idea, I come up with like a key sentence/set of dialogue/pivotal scene (or two or three) and I get most excited when I get to write those scenes or fit in that key sentence.
Like with Transubstantiation, writing the first scene where Adam finds a body or writing the TEETH scene or the first phone call he gets from the killer. Those were the scenes I was most excited about (so far lol) and building up to them to make it all fit together? Chef's kiss lol
ancient: the first fic you ever posted online?
A Teen Titans Raven/Beast Boy fic that I posted in 2004. It was a romance/adventure fic where an OC from Raven's past came back and was the catalyst for exploring Raven's backstory. And of course, BB got jealous. I was 13, omg. Also, apparently, it was my first time doing basic html coding because that was back before fic posting was done with rich editing. Wow.
My first fics ever were Harry Potter fics in 2001. I have them on a flashdrive somewhere, but it does not seem to have made it online, which is probably a relief.
I secretly assume you're the mom friend! but like the chill mom, just lending a hand/ear and making sure that all the other disaster friends have things they need to keep them stress free and happy.
Yeah this is probably at least half true. I do spend a lot of time trying to help friends feel stress free and happy, although my guidance is usually "accept and accommodate your own disaster tendencies," since that's how I take care of myself too lol
