Work Text:
Ronan's days were filled with static. Whether it was the droning hum of cicadas in the Virginia heat, or the fuzz of his car’s radio, the sound followed him round. It perforated walls and floors and ceilings, the sound sunk into his bed and into his dreams.
It was like someone had plucked a string in him, one that was taught and tense, and it kept ringing and reverberating through him, echoing out of him in waves. It lingered forever in the back of his mind, buzzing like flies on a windowsill.
Sometimes he thought it was this invisible tension in him that kept people at bay, that frightened them. It shot like rays from his headlights as he sped down roads, it radiated from his piercing glare. On some nights, the static felt like anger; it felt like the roar of his engine street-racing Kavinsky, like getting drunk in his room in Monmouth and blasting shitty electronica through his headphones, like sitting through the drone of school and then never-ending dinner with Declan, bored out of his skull, aching for danger.
But tonight it was none of these. Tonight it was the soft hum of his father’s dream-radio in the Barns, the rumbling of the Hondayota outside his window, the soft ruffle of feathers as Chainsaw perched on his shoulder, the jangling of keys, creaking of the front door, and familiar footsteps.
Tonight, Adam was here.
It made all the difference, really. Adam could make almost any shitty situation lighter, soften the edge that endlessly needled him.
“What’re you thinkin’ ‘bout?” his Appalachian accent peeking through, making Ronan smile slightly.
“Nothing. You.”
“You’re feeling awful cheesy tonight. What’s gotten into you?”
Ronan rolled his eyes, but couldn’t stop the corners of his lips once again tugging upwards. “I don't know. Just thinking.”
Adam's sympathetic smile was still something that caught in Ronan’s chest, the pounding of his heart joining the chorus of static that surrounded him.
A pause.
“Y’know, I don’t always mean to be such a dick.” Ronan said, finally.
“Yes you do.” Adam replied without hesitation, and Ronan knew he was right.
Sucking in a deep breath, “Yeah- okay, but I don’t always mean it.”
“I know, it's okay.”
“No- no it's not. You don’t deserve this shit-“
“Ronan, stop. I want you, okay? I love you, all of you.”
Ronan inhaled sharply and nodded. “Okay.”
They didn’t need to say anything else. Ronan liked that about Adam; when there was nothing to say, he didn’t try to force some bland conversation. He wasn’t scared of the silence that sat between them.
The humming continued through the gap in their talking, and Ronan shut his eyes, tipped his head back, and just breathed for a moment. The radio continued to blather out some nonsense, Ronan didn't care, all that mattered was him and Adam and the space between.
The sun had set a long while ago, and both boys were curled up on the cushiony sofa at the Barns. The air was warm, despite the chill of the November evening, and the glowing lamplight dotted around the room provided a homey quality to the evening that both boys basked in, the orange hues illuminating the outlines of their faces. Empty plates sat on the coffee table in front of them, neither of them having summoned the will to break their tangle of limbs in order to take them out.
Ronan had cooked when he found Adam was coming. The first time he had done it, many months ago now, the look on Adam’s face had been one of pure fondness and affection (with a tinge of surprise). Ronan held on to that memory like it kept his heart beating; the thought that someone, that Adam, could want something of his, made his whole body thrum with delight. It wasn’t some complicated, mind-bending dream-thing either, nothing revolutionary. It was dinner. And it had made Adam look like that .
After that day, Ronan vowed to always cook for Adam when he stayed. He would never let himself miss out on the opportunity to see that look. A part of him thought that maybe it was selfish, doing something nice for Adam and finding some secret personal enjoyment in it, but seeing Adam wolf down a meal of his own creation quelled that thought.
Spending time with Adam made that string in him sound a melody he had never felt before. The noise in his brain turned from static to symphony and he revelled in it. Never before had someone had this effect on him, no one has ever met his sharpness with such tender touch, and Adam did it all without wanting to ‘fix’ him, never trying to dull that blade within him, not trying to turn him into someone he wasn’t.
Chainsaw came and perched on the sofa cushion next to his head, cawing croakily as she landed, ruffling her feathers. Ronan always had a certain fondness for the bird as his first proper dream-creation, and was glad to have her around, no matter how irritating she became. The noise was louder near Chainsaw too, becoming some kind of tangible, almost other-worldly drone. Being around his dream creatures reminded him of his power, reminded him he was ‘the Greywaren’, and he could do anything, and the impossible objects reverberated and echoed that energy like ripples in a pool. He needed that sometimes, the reminder that he meant something, that he was more than the late nights and scars of his youth.
The bird pecked at him, and he swatted her away in an all-too-familiar gesture. Having had enough of him, Chainsaw hopped over to Adam, where she croaked out a twisted variation of his name.
Seeing Adam interact with his dream creations felt almost surreal to Ronan. It served as a reminder that Adam was real. He wasn’t some supernatural being he had dreamt up in some strange night of longing or loneliness, he was human, he was real, and he wanted Ronan. Loved him. That was perhaps the most inconceivable part, but Ronan had learnt not to question it.
The raven came and settled next to Adam, who smiled up at her softly, and Ronan felt his chest tighten. He wished he could capture this moment and live in it forever, perhaps store it in Cabeswater to dream in every night. Anyone who saw Ronan, and didn’t know him, would not have guess the way he yearned for this domesticity, for this stability. His grungy exterior juxtaposed the life he wished to live; raising the cattle in the fields during the day, then going home to Adam when dusk fell. None of the supernatural nonsense knocking at his door, only his friends.
Ronan was pulled from his train of thought at the sound of Adam’s hushed voice,
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Spacing out.”
“It's not spacing out. It’s called thinking.”
“Ah, sorry. Didn’t think that was your thing,” his accent lilted as he joked, and Ronan took mock-offence,
“I invite you to my house, cook you a lovely meal, and all you do is insult my intelligence.”
Adam laughed softly, and Ronan wished he could bottle that too.
“Still thinking about me then?” Adam’s voice lost some of its teasing, but kept the tone light. He knew how to navigate Ronan like it was nothing, gliding through the conversation easily when most other people would be floundering.
“I always think about you.”
“You’ll lose your ‘big bad reputation’ if you carry on like that.”
“As if.”
They both laughed now, and Ronan thought that perhaps this was the happiest he had ever been.
“For the record, I think about you all the time too, in case you ever doubted that.”
“Really? Didn’t think there was much room for me in that Harvard brain.”
“There’s always room for you, sometimes it's more you than anything else.”
Ronan took a moment to respond, stunned by the sentiment of Adam’s words, and was surprised to find his eyes welling up slightly. So many of his years had been spent bottling things up and burying things deep down, it felt unnatural for it to all come to light. The sudden overwhelming sensation startled him, he had never been one to cry like this, and he found himself creeping into self-consciousness. He knew he could trust Adam, of course he could, Adam would never judge him, but he still turned his head away sharply, despite the guilt gnawing at him.
“It’s okay, Ronan.”
The only sound Ronan could make was a stifled sort of sob. Still not looking back up at Adam, he let himself sit in the near-silence, grasping at words to say, but he just came back with that ceaseless static. He cursed his lack of articulation, and Adam’s frighteningly natural capacity for his outbursts, alongside his aptitude for knowing exactly what he needed to hear.
Feeling the sofa shift, he looked down to see Adam reaching across, and tentatively taking one of Ronan’s hands in his. The glow of the room cast light on the peaks of his face, and made his eyes shine, and that traction in Ronan, the incessant thrum that lived in him, called out to Adam. Ronan squeezed his hand hard, and Adam squeezed back, and with that- Ronan had said what he needed to say.
The night trundled on much the same, and Ronan wished it would never end. That static that stuck with him didn’t seem so bad when Adam was around, it felt less sinister, less damning. For the first time in years, Ronan could think about something other than tragedy, other than misery and rage and chaos. All he needed to think about was Adam’s hand in his, Adam’s chest beneath his head. He wasn’t worried about Matthew, or dreading a call from Declan, wasn’t stressing about some strange magical threat to his friends. It was good, finally he had something good.
Nothing had been this comfortable since before his father died. He was so used to living in the anger which followed, the relentless chaos, that anything else felt preternatural. The angry drone had become his shadow, his second skin. Adam, as well as his friends, grounded him in the fact he was allowed to be happy, that he was allowed to live.
Nights like these made Ronan like living. A lot.
They would both probably fall asleep on the sofa, tangled in a heap, and wake up the next morning with sore backs and pins-and-needles in their legs, but neither would care. Ronan would recount his dreams to Adam, who would sit and listen and question and laugh. He would cook Adam breakfast before he left for work, and Adam would relentlessly insist on doing the washing up. Chainsaw would peck at him until he gave her something to eat too, and Gansey would probably try to text him, and he would probably try to ignore it for as long as he could get away with.
The noise in him would ring out in effervescence, and he would let it.