• 1.5k+, ronan lynch/adam parrish, angst/pining
• warnings for language and internalized homophobia
• spoilers through dream thieves (aka as far as i’ve read shhhh)
• read on ao3
I’ve dreamt about you nearly every night this week;
how many secrets can you keep?
- Arctic Monkeys, Do I Wanna Know
The unvarnished truth is that you're haunted.
You'd think living with Noah you'd be used to it, but that's not the problem. The real problem is you're haunted by Adam fucking Parrish.
Adam flits in and out of the edges of your life, because he's stupidly proud and won't move into Monmouth no matter how much Gansey begs him, and Gansey does beg, because Gansey is fucking enamored with Parrish.
You try not to weigh in on their discussions. You know both how much better and how much harder life would be if Adam moved in. The fact remains that a statue might change its stance sooner than Parrish would. Moot point.
Adam Parrish remains a reoccurring guest star in your routine. You see him by day, unless he's working one of the three jobs he works to be able to pay rent on that closet he calls his room (what a fucking tool, you think with longing). You don't see him by night, unless you're dreaming about him, which you do, quite often (you don't ever think about that).
You see him in the morning, biking to school with a nonchalance that you simultaneously envy and know is completely fake. You know his bike will be the only one in the parking lot amidst a sea of Mercedes and Chevrolet logos. You don't care; he pretends not to. You dangle a hand out from the window of your BMW, waving sullenly in the offer of a lift.
He doesn't see you (of course he doesn't). His cheeks are flushed pink with effort, earbuds wedged firmly in his ears as his legs piston on the bike pedals. He passes close enough to the gas station that you can see his thighs move with the effort of it, all lean, graceful muscle.
Whatever, you think. You vow never to offer him a lift again. (You will).
When you see him next in school, he's still partly flushed, light brown hair windblown and falling in his face. You mess it up with your hand, pretending it's to annoy him. He's annoyed. You laugh. You don't tell anyone that for weeks now, you've wanted a chance to run your fingers through his hair, to see if it's as soft as it is in your dreams. (It is.)
Adam flits in and out of your life, but more in than out, drawn to Gansey and Glendower like you and the rest of your little motley crew; and that's dangerous. You get called snake and raven boy and creature, but you don't think you're anywhere as lethal as that surprised laugh Adam has when he's pleased.
It frightens you, and that makes you angry. It makes you angry because surely the others will be able to tell at some point, and then it will all be over. You try to hide it under venom and flint, hurling barbs at him when you feel your defenses go down. It's not his fault, but it doesn't matter. You can live with being an asshole. It's not like you can aspire to anything better.
It's a complicated balance, this one you're trying to strike: friendly enough to keep him in your line of sight, because you can't imagine him ever not being there (and God knows what Gansey would do); hostile enough to cover the evidence of your nighttime crimes, your dream transgressions. It's a tightrope walk, and it's only a matter of time before you fall.
He spends the afternoon helping you, Noah and Gansey move broken furniture out of Monmouth (Noah's mostly there for moral support). It's an unforgiving summer afternoon, and you all gasp for breath in the sweltering Virginia heat.
Adam puts down the end of the table he's holding, his red Coca-Cola shirt striped dark where it clings to his sweaty skin. He's lost weight again, you think; he's thinner, though not any less lovely.
Lovely, you think, and gag at the word, feeling sick to your stomach, sick to your heart.
Adam pulls the t-shirt over his head, drying his face off with it before letting it fall to the table, and you feel the core of you knocked loose by the suddenly revealed expanse of pale skin, your heart beating off-kilter.
Adam's graceful neck slopes into a slender, freckle-dusted back (danger) and you can see his hipbone where it peeks out of his jeans (he has lost weight) and Adam's chest is not muscular but it's compact, all nervous, sinewy strength (danger) and his dark-rose nipples stand out in stark contrast with the light-gold rest of him and you can't take this, you can't take this, your heart betraying your secret to the world by its tempest hammering.
“Hey, Trailer Trash,” you call out, because you're an asshole and you're one step away from hyperventilating with the weight of everything you can't have. “Put your shirt back on, will you? You're trailing Goodwill all over the table.”
Adam looks at you, his eyes narrowed and burning but the rest of him so hatefully calm. Adam Parrish is always calm, and it makes you feel about three inches tall.
“Fuck you, Ronan,” he says, but it's flat, no heat behind it, as if he didn't expect anything else from you (you've never given him reason to expect anything else). He puts his shirt back on, though, and your traitorous heart eases back into a less thundering rhythm.
When he turns to walk away – elegant, always elegant, and you hate that he can be so collected and graceful when you're the one who's dealt the blow – you see the tips of his ears are pink, and regret is a rusty spike through your chest. You know how proud he is. You know how this hurts him. But you'll probably do it again, because you're a coward, the worst kind of coward: a coward with a secret. A secret you're trying your hardest to forget you know.
Later that night, at Nino's, you both act like nothing happened, which is fine with you. You sit in the corner of the booth, absently toying with your glass of iced tea. Blue comes by to refill your drinks, exchanging a friendly jab or two with Gansey, and you see Adam's posture shift, leaning towards her imperceptibly. He probably doesn't even notice it, but you do, because you know exactly what it means. It's the same thing you do, when you're sure no one can see you. You do it to him.
Adam's blue eyes are naked in his wanting for her, the way he's captured by everything she says and does; when she leaves, his eyes follow her, an almost-pained frown creasing his forehead. And you understand, because you know that feeling, and you know how it hurts. You hurt for him and you hate him and you hate yourself for not being able to reach out and touch his hand like he did with Blue moments ago.
You go to bed and you drink yourself stupid, because you don't want to dream tonight, not even with the tantalizing promise of pulling some arcane object from your mind. The only thing you really want – truly, burningly, heart-shatteringly want – is not something you can pick out of your dreams.
You dream of him anyway, because your life fucking sucks. You dream of him as he was the night he finally left home, the night his piece of shit father robbed him of half his hearing, the night you beat the shit out of his piece of shit father. You dream him swaying dazedly on the dirt patch in front of his trailer. You dream his bruises, stark and violently purple on his delicate face; he had no bruises that night, but you remember all the ones he's ever sported, burned into your memory forever.
On your more wretched nights, you dream about plucking them off him with the touch of your fingers, your lips. That's how you know it's a dream. Your hands are not for healing; your hands are for destroying, because you're a sharp thing, all edges and claws.
Kerah, calls Chainsaw, a moment before leaving her perch to come sit on your shoulder. You stroke her head gently, gently; trying not to hurt her, at least.
Noah's standing near the perch, where there was nothing a moment ago, and you almost jump right out of bed, startled.
“Fucking hell,” you spit. “Would it kill you to cough or something?”
Noah coughs, pointedly.
“Whatever.”
“You could try talking to him,” Noah says, without further specification, because you both know who he's talking about.
“Who the fuck are you talking about?” you ask, because you both know who he's talking about.
“I'm just saying,” he comments meekly, raising his hands. “You'll never know for sure until you ask.”
But you do know for sure, because you're haunted by him, even when he's not actually there. You know for sure that Adam Parrish's easy, gentle smile is not for the likes of you. You know for sure that his hands are for sheltering someone small and delicate like Blue, not for tracing your back tattoo. You know for sure that no one at Aglionby, no matter how expensive their cars or how rich and sophisticated their family, could ever hope to hold a candle to Parrish's innate, uncomplicated elegance, to his quiet courage or his determination to be his own man.
His own, but never yours.
“Quit that,” you say, “or I'll throw you out the window again.”
Noah disappears with an offended noise, and you're left alone with Chainsaw, which is just as well. Putting your headphones on, you lie back against the pillows and stroke her wings slowly, gently, butterfly-soft; though you'll never admit it, you're trying to teach your clumsy hands how to heal.
hopeful wanderer || a playlist for being on the road with no fixed destination
for ethicalmadness: may the road rise up to meet you, my darling ♥
listen on 8tracks
the nights avicii; he said, “go venture far beyond these shores, don’t forsake this life of yours: i’ll guide you home no matter where you are.” // livin' on a prayer bon jovi; oh, we’re halfway there, woah, livin’ on a prayer: take my hand and we’ll make it, i swear // get home bastille; we are the last people standing at the end of the night // i will survive gloria gaynor; i’ve got all my life to live, i’ve got all my love to give // prima di partire per un lungo viaggio irene grandi; prima di partire per un lungo viaggio, porta con te la voglia di non tornare più // light of day joan jett & the blackhearts; well i’m a little tired out but i’m feeling okay -- and i got a little lost along the way -- but i’m just around the corner ‘til the light of day // hopeless wanderer mumford & sons; and i will learn, i will learn to love the skies i’m under // runaway the national; throw your arms in the air tonight: we don’t bleed when we don’t fight // last of the wilds nightwish; instrumental // long black road electric light orchestra; you gotta get up in the morning, take your heavy load, and you gotta keep goin’ down the long black road // run delta rae; i wanna run to feel again, to be no one -- to run under the stars of orion; and all my life i’ve been burning by the dreams i’ve had // soul meets body death cab for cutie; and i do believe it’s true, that there are roads left in both of our shoes // here i go again whitesnake; i don’t know where i’m going, but i sure know where i’ve been // kinda outta luck lana del rey; femme fatale, always on the run // el mismo sol alvaro soler; no hay fronteras: sera lo que tu quieras // the king is dead but the queen is alive p!nk; a revolution and now i am in charge, my evolution is to shoot for the stars // carry on wayward son kansas; tossed about, i’m like a ship on the ocean: i set a course for winds of fortune // august tim janis; instrumental // ramble on led zeppelin; leaves are falling all around, it’s time i was on my way // riva (restart the game) klingande; down this road you’ll find answers to your pain: just walk to make it end // famous last words my chemical romance; i am not afraid to keep on living; i am not afraid to walk this world alone.
AND PLACEBO I CAN'T BELIEVE IT TOOK ME THIS LONG TO MENTION PLACEBO WHUT IS WRONG WITH U YAS. /greedy as per
okay shit I am so late with this answer and also how the HELL do you expect me to pick no more than 3 songs, I’m just.... placebo!!! what the frick???
[deep breathing]
if these end up all being dean-related u only have yourself to blame ಠ_ಠ
original post
Song To Say Goodbye
you are one of God’s mistakes, you crying, tragic waste of skinI’m well aware of how it aches, and you still won’t let me innow I’m breaking down your door, to try and save your swollen facethough I don’t like you anymore, you lying, trying waste of space
(before our innocence was lost, you were always one of thoseblessed with lucky sevens, and the voice that made me cry)
okay, this one might be a little convoluted, but I kind of see it as Dean talking to himself. it’s a scenario we’ve seen before, in 3x10, where subconscious!Dean mercilessly berated conscious!Dean with surprising cruelty:
“I know how dead you are inside. How worthless you feel. I know how you look into a mirror... and hate what you see. [...] I mean, after all, you’ve got nothing outside of Sam. You are nothing. You’re as mindless and obedient as an attack dog. [...] Do you even have an original thought? [...] Dad knew who you really were. A good soldier and nothing else. Daddy’s blunt little instrument. Your own father didn’t care whether you lived or died. Why should you?”
...well, touché. Dean -- season 3 Dean, but also later Dean -- doesn’t really care much for his own life. And yet, survival instinct is a powerful thing, and one that hunters as trained to cultivate to the max. Dean faces a daily struggle with alcoholism, guilt, self-loathing, depression, PTSD-- not to mention monsters who actively try to kill him -- but he somehow bounces back and soldiers on, through sheer battle training and survival instinct. The lyrics above make me think of that part of Dean -- the part that hates himself, despises himself, and yet the part that clings to life with ferocious tenacity -- sort of trying to kickstart Dean’s softer, more fragile side into reacting, fighting, surviving.
And the last two lines just make me emotional about Dean as a child: a sweet, generous, smart, curious child with a loving mother, who had all the right cards to lead a perfectly happy and successful life, until tragedy struck and burnt down his innocence. (As for “the voice that made me cry”... can I be super rude and headcanon that’s because Dean’s voice and speaking cadence, before it broke with adolescence, was reminiscent of Mary’s?)
Speak In Tongues
every single sense in me is heightenedthere’s nothing left inside to rearrange.like a slave to history and science,I long, I burn to touch you just the sameso we both can speak in tongues, ohso we both can speak in tonguesuntil the universe is done, and the course of time has runoh, so we both can speak in tonguesdon’t let them have their waydon’t let them have their wayyou’re beautiful and so blasé,so please don’t let them have their waydon’t fall back into the decay, there is no law we must obeyso please don’t let them have their waydon’t give in to yesterdaywe can build a new tomorrowtoday
okay, so they’re not ALL about Dean, because this one screams Cas to me.
Specifically, freshly fallen (for the final time) Cas, because in the end, he chose humanity; he chose sensation; he chose meaning and fullness in a brief mortal life rather than an unfeeling eternity. And of course he did: there’s nothing left inside to rearrange, because whatever he had been - wavelength of energy or intent in motion - completely shifted and transformed into a being of flesh and bone and desperate longing, someone with hands to touch, take, and hold. All because Dean saw something he loved in him, and Castiel remade himself in that image. It’s kind of ridiculous that with a love that monumental they still managed to fumble around their feelings for so long (oh, we both can speak in tongues).
The second part, I see as a beautifully sweet counterpoint to Dean’s self loathing. It brims with hope and devotion. See, Dean’s indomitable will is what drew Cas to him in the first place: the realization that he had to follow no rules beyond doing what was right and good and humane, that nobody owned him, that he was allowed to want and choose and love. And since then Cas has ever been a strenuous defender of Dean’s potential, seeing strength, courange and goodness in him when Dean himself never could, because the world has been trying to break him since he was 4. So yeah, there’s hope in here, and there is love, and the certainty that they can fix each other given enough time and patience. ♥
Kings of Medicine
(Y’all knew this one was coming, okay.)
they’re picking up pieces of mewhile they’re picking up pieces of youlying on ice you will be, before the day is overit’s a case in point, baby, that you never thought it throughstupid me, to believe I could depend on stupid youand on the tip of my tongue were words that always came out wrong‘cause they were drowned in Southern Comfortand left to dry out in the sun, the noonday sundon’t leave me here to pass through timewithout a map or road signdon’t leave me here, my guiding light‘cause I, I wouldn’t know where to beginI asked the kings of medicinebut it seems they’ve lost their powersnow all I’m left with is the hours.
Okay, here’s the thing about Cas. Cas is brave, devoted and selfless. He is also a giant, ridiculously immense flight risk. And here’s the thing about Dean: Dean has abandoment issues. Like, fucktons.
So for every time that Cas took off, literally took off with those wings of his, and his stubborn determination that he was “doing the right thing”, Dean crumpled inside a little more. For every mistake and every angel blade wound that Cas came back with, it was like another weight on Dean’s heart, another gash on his skin. See, what it comes down to is, Dean won’t ask Cas to stay, because he simply doesn’t trust the answer to be “yes”. Because Cas is the one who leaves, even though he always comes back. And when he does come back, it’s much easier for Dean to drown the relief in a fifth of bourbon than it is to actually put it into words. So “I thought you were gone forever” becomes “We don’t need your help”. And “please, for once, just stay with me” becomes “you can take your apology and cram it up your ass”. Dean’s not much for going gentle-- into the night or anywhere.
Because Dean’s been hurt so many times, and abandoned so many times by the people close to his heart, and like a wounded animal, he’s wary, and resentful; he medicates, we know he does, with alcohol and whatever other substance he can find, but it’s not really enough to cover up the wounds. Deep down he’s still waiting; still hoping that someone -- that Cas -- will, eventually, stay. And yes, he’ll take him back, every time, every single time, because Dean may be wounded and wary-- but he still forgives so readily, and he still loves so fully, it’s heartbreaking. I wish he could see what everyone else sees: that Cas would light himself on fire to light the way for him.
ethicalmadness replied to your post “ethicalmadness replied to your post “☾ , ❁, ☯, ☪”Love this <3 and I...”
I'm wayyyyy too embarrassed because I most likely did an even more horrible job than the original translator (I mean I'm nowhere near fluent in Italian?? Just using my romance languages + Latin here) but my translation suited my needs better!
I would not want to be a translator of extremely nuanced languages like Italian or French into English...so much is lost!! Which is why I'd like to be fluent in everything but alas...
Ahh, no don’t be embarrassed‼<3 I’m sure it was perfectly fine, or at least more serviceable than the one you discarded? You are language win‼ :D But I understand if you don’t feel like sharing. I’m still interested in knowing what lines they were and what you needed them for, though! :)
