Chapter Text
Friday, September 12th
Ronan knew it from the moment he'd set foot home again and watched the halo of Opal's head bop against the green horizon. Knew that it had changed, that he had changed, that it didn't mean he loved it any less. The relief was unbound and immediate; so was the smell of home. Grass and sap and turpentine. He could love it differently.
Though it was hard to believe he could, waking up to those pristine white walls. Dreams of summer escaping grasp. Sparked upright by anger, Ronan tore himself out of bed and stood in the morning light.
At least the view hadn't changed, except for the late September burnish in the trees, and Opal's slight figure in the pasture. She was dancing.
Ronan buttoned his jeans in the staircase. The kitchen was upside-down. A month of living with Opal had taught him that she was a sloppy cook, but a gifted one; anyone who could make a meal out of two ingredients had to be. Ronan hooked a bacon strip between his teeth, slipped into his shoes, then into his father's leather jacket. Under the lapel, his heart lurched to life.
Out on the porch, crisp air slapped him awake. Opal looked a lot like an exorcised scarecrow, with her fists jabbing at the dawn. At the sight of his shadow, she swerved around mid-lyric.
"AAAH!" she shrieked. Her ruddy face split into a wide grin. "Morning!"
Hard not to smile back. "What the fuck did you do to my kitchen?"
"Breakfast," she said, panting in small, sharp gasps. The B-52's blared from her dangling headphones; a Hennessy signature.
Hands pinned to her hips, Opal swung from left to right, stretching. Her new clothes weren't exactly new but they fit her better than his. She rolled the sleeves of her bright orange sweater, then gave up entirely.
"Look! A raven!"
Ronan followed her gaze. "Dude, that's a crow." Twigs snapped under his footsteps. "Ravens are twice the size."
He crouched in the grass, a piece of bacon pinched between his fingers. A waiting game. Still panting, Opal knelt next to him. The crow didn't move, simply gazed from hand to wrist, gauging. It would take a minute. Ronan had nowhere to be.
"Did you sleep okay?" he whispered, eyes still on the bird. "It's a big house."
"Mh. It's a safe one, too."
Ronan turned to her. Grinning, Opal leaned her head on her folded knees, sleep-tousled locks draping over her face. Easy, so easy to love.
A hop in the grass. In a gust of black silk, the crow fell gently onto Ronan's wrist.
The weight was familiar, comforting. Ronan watched the bird snatch meat from his palm with a sharp, mean stab. In the same gracious motion, the crow vaulted higher to perch on his shoulder.
Opal gasped. "How did you do that?"
"Gotta build trust," he said quietly, inspecting the living weight beside his ear. Its claws dug in the already-scarred leather. "They're smart creatures."
Opal held up her phone for a picture. She giggled. "I'll send it to Adam."
The bird shoved off leaving a trailing scent of damp feathers. Ronan rose to his feet. "Since when do you text Adam?"
"Since you break your phone every week." Opal tossed her phone on the ground. Then she tossed herself back against the morning dew, arms and legs wide. "He's a bad texter, though."
Ronan snorted. He was, but God was he good on the phone.
"Can you teach me how to weld?" Opal squinted at him through the sunlight. "For the exhibition."
He inhaled slowly and looked around himself. So still, so quiet. If you listened, you could hear the water in the trees.
Make it yours. He would love it differently. He would leave it again.
Ronan glanced down at Opal's hair, cherubic and sprawled in the weeds.
"Sure." He nudged her ankle with the tip of his boot. "Coffee first."
Interesting choice of wardrobe on Jamie's part. "Thank you," Adam nodded at the waiter topping off his coffee. Not that he had anything against the English professor look—he was once fond of it too—but this was a step beyond the usual cashmere cardigan.
Jamie kept his head down as he talked, eyes glued to his notepad. "So—no need to aim for the stars here. He got caught on camera, the victim spent two days in the infirmary." Leg bouncing underneath the table. Clink clink clink. "If we can keep the sentencing intact, that would be a win, right?"
"Right," Adam said, bringing the coffee to his mouth. "Velvet, huh?"
"What?" Jamie glanced down at himself. A turtleneck and a velvet blazer, for some reason. "Oh. Yeah. I figured—I've never been to jail. I wanted to appear friendly."
Adam's snort feathered into a good-hearted laugh. Oh, Jamie. "Stevie Bustelli's been in nineteen jails. He's met more counselors than you have."
A knuckle push of his glasses, eyes drifting to the window. Adam leaned over the table to gently push the spoon away from his cup.
"He's pretty decent, actually," he continued. "If you look past the soccer monologues and the casual homophobia."
That got him a smile; reluctant, boyishly lopsided. Delicately, Jamie tore a piece of his morning bun and brought it to his mouth. The table stopped quivering.
"Is it true?" his intern asked. "That he fired Powells for you?"
A flicker of delight twitched at Adam's mouth. Deontology forbade gloating, but the temptation was there. "He did," he said. "I got a friend of his out on parole. Inmates talk. Do good work, your name gets around."
Jamie kept quiet, wiping the crumbs he'd dropped on his notepad carefully into a pile. Adam glanced at his watch. Five more minutes before the disciplinary hearing; could he fit another refill?
"There's something I need to ask you."
Adam glanced up. It was fascinating, watching Jamie metamorphose. He squirmed upright in his seat, shoulders rolling back, as he gathered the nerve he’d walked in without.
"I've been—" Jamie cleared his throat, hands knitting over the table. "I've been reflecting on the last few months. You know, since my internship is coming to an end."
Adam narrowed his eyes. A raise, maybe.
"I've been on the fence about the bar, as you know." His tone was even, even if he'd started fidgeting with his thumbs. "My prior internships didn't exactly provide… role-models." Smooth understatement, an Ellis trademark. "It's hard sometimes. To remember that there are people who still respect the vocation the way you do."
Too early for the intern handjob. "Okay, get to it."
"No, Adam, really," Jamie said; gentle, but firm. "I really look up to you. And it's hard to imagine working for someone else."
Adam frowned, not exactly sure why. Earnestness felt alien, self-serving at best.
"I'd like to become your associate," Jamie said. "Or at least, I'd like you to consider me. If you ever expand."
Lighter workload, branching out—Adam had considered it for the first time this year. He hadn’t expected his future to shift, but there it was: the outline of a different life coming into focus. A taste of life beyond ambition.
Jamie wasn't fidgeting anymore. Never understimate youth.
"Look at you," Adam huffed. "Pitching me before I've finished my coffee." His phone buzzed in his breast pocket. "Hold on."
Opal
9:17 a.m.
new friend!!!!!!!!
[Image Attached]
His heart stalled; kicked. Not at Ronan’s rosy flush under the morning light, nor the ghost of his smile—but his eyes. Sleep-soft. Adam knew, just by looking at them, exactly how his voice sounded from miles away.
Adam pocketed his phone.
"Pass the bar first," he told Jamie. "Then we'll talk."
Jamie threw a dismissive hand in the air. Smile ablaze. "Child's play."
Thursday, September 19th
Ronan
2:46 p.m
spotted a sexy restored paimio in newport
for ur new apartment?
[Image Attached]
5:31 p.m
Outgoing call: Ronan (23:01)
Friday, September 25th
Bless your heart, Sargent, Ronan thought fondly, when Adam called him asking for advice on vegan lasagna.
"I can't believe I promised I would cook." Adam tossed his phone down to undo his tie. That jawline, and the stubble on it. God, give me strength.
Humiliating need, driving Ronan's hips deeper into his mattress. He'd been useless all afternoon. His very own, self-inflicted penance. Locked away from his insatiable boyfriend, by choice, because he was eager to atone while being relentlessly hungry for cock.
"Yes, Parrish, add more oil." Ronan could drive to D.C and have Adam on top of him by nightfall. Fucked face-first into the headboard, just for having the nerve to show up after two weeks. Or he could find the perfect incentive—angled just right, the curve of his ass—and let Adam do the driving.
"Look, Opal tattooed me." Ronan rolled up his t-shirt sleeve to unveil a scratchy, hand-poked crucifix on his arm. Adam stopped rummaging altogether. "Sick, right?" All it took was a flex of his arm and Adam's mind crosswired.
It was easy from there on; naked on the bed, his phone balanced precariously inside a sneaker, while Adam moaned straight into his earbuds. Still so gorgeously tanned under his half-buttoned shirt, he hadn't bothered taking his suit off all the way. It didn't matter. Ronan just needed his face: unrelentingly in charge, with that low-angle. The camera suddenly dipped—Adam's hard cock springing out of his briefs, pixel-bright glory. The hunger was blinding.
"Like that?" Ronan sat back on his heels, one hand leveraged behind him. He spread his thighs wider, tugging himself slow. Adam's groan was low, appreciative; heat pouring south, saturating his body back to life. Maybe Ronan liked the sight of himself too, offered up for him. Yeah, like that. Spit on it. Ronan leaned in and let spit drip slowly down, dragged it along with his fingers, thumb sliding over the slit. A breathy moan, crackling. Turn around and bend over. Cotton rustled against Ronan's searing cheek. He took a second to breathe; if he touched himself again he would come on the spot. Spread open for me. God, look at that tight little hole. Spine bending down, shivers skittered up his skin; Ronan grinned where Adam couldn't see him. The thrill of being wanted.
Ronan didn’t do sex in the conditional, never had. Funny, how he used to stumble asking a man inside him, and how effortlessly the words came now. "I want your whole hand inside me." Jesus, Ronan—what's gotten into you? Neither of them were going to last very long.
The whole hand? You think you can take it? It was a greedy, unfair kind of need—a breath away from twisting the knife. Ronan couldn't help himself: Adam's smirk dug into his cheek, taunting, as he showed his fingers sliding all the way up and down his cock. A pavlovian pulse between his thighs. Ronan nodded, whimpered. His hips lifted, rolling against absence, aching with the need to drive into a body. "Make it hurt. I can take it."
Adam liked it when Ronan talked; it made his moans velvet-soft, pliant to the untrained ear. Just like when he fucked himself on his cock—always holding the leash.
Gorgeous and his, even through a screen. Ronan stroked himself, again and again; spit-slick hand tight and restless over himself. "I want you to—God, Adam," Eyes swimming. "I want you to stretch me," he breathed. "Keep going—even if I can't take it anymore." Faster, slicker. Through heavy-lidded eyes, Adam gawked at his every move. "Fuck me as hard as you like." Volume all the way up, to catch Adam's breath shallowing and the frantic, wet slip of his hand on his skin. His abs clenching, sheened even from here; fuck—baby I'm close. Ronan whined higher than he'd wanted. “Come inside me. And use me again.” I'm gonna come—
Giving himself to Adam’s voice, riding the sound of his breath until it tore him open. “Jesus—fucking Christ,” Ronan groaned. Pleasure hit in brutal, pulsing waves—seizing, loosening, seizing again. Arching through it; Ronan spilled all over himself.
Bowed on his knees, lungs stuttering. Ronan held on to it; the rough, spent scrape of Adam’s voice in his ear.
"Lick it off."
Ronan’s ragged laugh broke out. Cheeks alight, tongue coated in brine; he crawled closer to the camera. Adam grinned—screenshot snap. Smug motherfucker.
"Perv." Ronan flopped onto his stomach and watched the rise and fall of Adam's chest through the screen. The air was already cold on his back, but Adam’s smile made it irrelevant.
Shapes moved through pixel. Real enough to imagine the feel of him under his fingertips: flushed face tipped back against the cushion of the bed, sun-stained hair sprawled on navy. This couldn’t be conjured, even in the clearest dream; that look in his eyes. He loved Ronan most after the fucking.
One second longer, just one, until he could witness the retreat in perfect, high-resolution clarity.
Ronan grinned into the crook of his elbow. “I bet your lasagna’s burning.”
“God fucking damn it—”
The silver spikes in Blue’s hair dug into Adam’s chest. "We didn't break up, you know."
Blue pulled back, just enough to run her hands up his arms. The expression on her face lingered somewhere between Maura’s concern and her own brand of skepticism. “We didn’t,” Adam insisted. “He’s just figuring things out. The way adults do.”
“Okay, Mr. Landlord," she snapped. "You’ve been an adult for three weeks."
Adam snorted and nudged the door shut behind her. Already barefoot, Blue dangled a tote bag in the air. “I got you that bougie orange wine you like.”
A Doordashed dinner—still vegan—its takeout boxes littered the coffee table. Sitting on the carpet, backs against the couch, they started eating only once they were halfway through the second bottle and could no longer tell if the noodles were lukewarm or cold.
"You know," Adam started, reaching for his wine. "I've never seen Ronan in a jacket."
Blue stilled, noodles dangling over her chin. "Mkay?"
“I mean—never,” Adam added. He took a sip, then another. Maybe orange wine was, as Blue had been saying for years, overrated. “Six months. I’ve seen him naked more times than I can count. I’ve seen him cry. I’ve seen him sick. But never in a jacket.”
Blue narrowed her eyes, her chewing slowing. Adam unlocked his phone and showed her Opal's picture.
She leaned closer and smiled. “Aw. Looking good.”
"It's just—" Adam tossed the phone on the table. "It shouldn’t mean anything. I know that. But I can't stop thinking about it. How I didn't even notice."
Half of her face in shadow, the other glowing under lamplight. He knew the pitch of her silence. Another Maura Sargent trait she was growing into, or perhaps a Gansey one—giving room, instead of demanding answers.
Adam tipped his head back against the couch, but kept his eyes on her. "What else don't I notice?"
Quietly, she shifted to face him, legs folded under her.
“A fever dream.” He swallowed, rubbing his palm over his denim-clad thigh. “Suddenly you blink and it's fall and your entire life has shifted without you realizing."
Around them, his furniture for the most part gone, stacked boxes neatly piled and lined against the wall, already packed for the movers.
"Don't like it much on the other side?" Blue asked softly.
Adam didn't answer. Years curating this life for himself, building it carefully, efficiently. Long hours for a solid reputation, a pretty balanced life, and the satisfaction of wanting nothing he couldn’t provide for himself.
Until there were small, ordinary shifts, so slight they were easy to miss. Coffee for two. Shoes by the door that weren’t his. Mornings that began with another body in the bed, another voice in the room, another presence folded so seamlessly into his day it barely registered as change at all. How none of it had felt like surrender.
Blue nudged his knee with her socked foot. “You’re allowed to want more than what used to be enough.”
Adam looked up, but the words didn't make it out of his throat. The both of them, so perfectly attuned; Blue leaned in to stroke the skin of his ankle, right under the hem of his jeans.
"To be fair," she said, stabbing her chopsticks into a piece of fried tofu. "Lynch's probably the kind of guy who spends the entire winter wearing the same fucking t-shirt and making it his whole personality."
Reluctant, but she still got the smile out of him. "He says 'he runs hot'."
"Exactly." She chuckled, and nudged his foot with hers again. "Eat up, honey."
Wednesday, October 9th
phillips
(7) Missed Calls
sargent
3:36 p.m
jewelry-making worshop?
[Link Attached]
dec
(3) Missed Calls
dick
(1) Missed Call
Voicenote: (0:50)
Hey Ronan, it's me. I'm calling just to… Oh! Hello Martin—sorry, I'm on the phone—Hi, Ronan. Just calling to hear what you've been up to. I hope you're doing well. Also, just to give you a heads-up, Declan might drive over to see you soon. Apparently he's had trouble reaching you? He has news for you. Nothing bad, don't worry. Anyway. I figured you'd like to know. Please call me back whenever you have the chance. Alright. Take care. And give my love to Opal. Alright.
parrish
7:36 a.m
Sorry, fell asleep early
Call you tonight
Gazing from the bed: Adam, his sight adjusting to navy dawn. Eyelids heavy, aperture-soft—light in, light gone, gold again. The curtains stayed open; a habit he inherited from Ronan, whose side of the bed lay in smooth, nautical absence.
Face buried in a pillow that no longer smelled like him, Adam wondered if time would ever stop feeling so warped.
He watched the tangle of his sheets in the full-length mirror, while his fingers worked at his tie. Ronan never made the bed, which Adam found both endearing and infuriating. When he did, he never made it crisp, one side always tugged higher than the other over the pillows. Never understood the point, he'd mumble. Gansey, fond and philosophical, would muse about the intimacy of it: the memory of a body left behind. And Ronan would laugh—that laugh, the easy, joyful bark he reserved for Matthew—now that's just bullshit, man. Adam understood what Gansey meant.
Lamplight skimming clean-shaven skin. Adam tightened the knot of his tie, fastened his watch, dusted his lapels. Too sharp for public defense, but the uniform sloughed off the inertia.
Every morning of the same: facing his impeccably groomed self, trying to conjure himself back to body.
Adam left the bed unmade, switched off the lamp to Ronan-blue, and left for work.
Saturday, October 11th
"Did you restore it?" Declan asked.
By the way he stood inside, you could forget he had grown up in this house. His spine was always so reluctant to bend. Hands tucked into the pockets of his dress pants, ambling, unperturbed, assessing a gallery of someone else's memories.
Ronan pushed himself off the doorframe. The carpet smoothed the sound of his footsteps on the hardwood floor.
Declan's voice came soft, reverent. "That's excellent work, Ronan."
The Horsemen, by Niall Lynch. One of his smallest pieces. Ronan could have entrusted the restoration to any museum—the offers had come—but he couldn't bear to imagine it out of the house. If he lacked his father’s fine-arts technique, he made up for it in love.
He turned to Declan. Their father’s eyes, unmistakably, tempered by a fonder kind of annoyance. “You kept the dents.”
Ronan grinned. “You remember?”
“Of course I do.” Declan let out a small laugh. “Pretty sure it was the first time Dad saw you walk.”
The marks were still there, if you knew where to look. Four small footprints in maroon paint, from which their father had shaped the horses. Ronan remembered it vividly—stumbling into the slick paint, then onto the canvas. His father’s pause, watching him track the stain across the fabric. His mother’s soft laugh, arms open on the other side. Declan’s face.
“You were so jealous.”
Declan scoffed. “No, I wasn’t.”
“It’s okay,” Ronan said lightly. “You can say it.”
Silence, except for Declan's steady breathing. Ronan watched it happen even from his profile; the minute tremor in his brow, the only betrayal Declan would allow himself. Ronan was surprised to find no satisfaction in it.
“I wasn’t jealous,” his brother said evenly. “I was afraid you’d pay for it.”
Ronan swallowed the hot rush in his throat, fingers curling at his sides. "Why are you here?"
Declan was already walking away. "I need to talk to you." His hand lingered on the doorjamb, fingers tracing the lingering marks in the wood. "Take a walk?"
Maples bleeding rust and gold. Ronan's boots crunched through a skin of fallen leaves, rotting into humus. October had come in quietly, as it always did here, like a dimming. Hands in his pockets, Ronan kept his head down the trail; the white cast of the sky hurt to look at. Most things did.
They took the path, and Declan's quiet was the careful, bloodless silence he usually used to tame Ronan's whims.
"Is this about the residency?" Ronan asked, eyes on his shoes.
“You disappeared.”
“I left.”
“Yes, Ronan. That would be the disappearing part.”
Ronan huffed. “Wasn’t exactly thinking straight.”
Declan waited patiently as Ronan untangled the ruined hem of his jeans from his heel. Then, he continued, "Heard you offered the centerpiece. You could've asked, you know. I would've negotiated the contract."
“It's for the best," Ronan mumbled. "I don't want it to rot in a vault because some asshole wants to beat inflation.”
Declan didn’t argue. Ronan froze dead in his tracks. "You're acting so weird."
"Why?" he asked. Eyes skyward. "Because I trust you?"
Eyes narrowed, Ronan searched his brother's face. Declan searched back. He should've answered the fucking texts.
Their bodies remembered the route. Ronan climbed up the muddy rise and held a branch up for Declan to pass through. Declan studied his shoes for a long second, then followed behind.
Uphill, deep in thick woods, branches knitted overhead. Sunlight filtered down in thin, slanted blades, catching on spiderwebs strung between saplings. Through the oaks, past the stone well, past the broken shed that always creeped them out. To the water.
Shoulder to shoulder, they gazed upon a view they knew by heart; the highest vantage point over the creek. Clear and shallow, water lapped over smooth rocks worn pale with age.
Declan cleared his throat. “Jordan’s pregnant.”
Ronan's heart stumbled. Light burst behind his eyelids.
"Shut up." His cheeks hurt.
And that smile on Declan's face, a rare thing: wide and endless. Like a collapse; every muscle in Ronan's body came loose. He crashed into his brother's arms. Unflinching under the force of it, Declan wrapped his arms around Ronan's shoulders, and didn't let go.
Shaking against his brother's shoulder, Ronan's laughter bounced across the creek. "Oh, you're gonna be so fucking annoying."
Later, Declan stood against his car while Ronan packed his Volvo's trunk with cases of freshly harvested vegetables. "Ronan, stop. That's enough to feed a village."
"Shut up," Ronan snarled. One more tomato case. "You don't want your kid to grow an extra head, do you?"
And the grin was back, even if Declan tried to stifle it in his fist. Ronan wiped his mouth on his sleeve and slammed the trunk shut. Before Declan slipped into the driver's seat, he leaned a hand on Ronan's shoulder and squeezed.
When Declan hugged him again, he murmured in his ear, "I want this for you."
Years ago, Ronan would've argued. I can have it. Just watch me. We were happy here, remember? And Declan would stab him with a dulled knife: were we? Now all that was left was the pain in his throat as he swallowed the words, because he couldn't bring himself to lie. Ronan tightened his arms around him.
As the car disappeared down the driveway, Opal emerged from the studio barn covered in soot. "What did he want?"
Warmth coiled underneath his ribs. A baby, a future.
"Nothing," he said, and followed her into the studio.
parrish
4:21 p.m
u free this weekend? wanna come over?
hennessy<3
4:36 p.m
did he tell you yet
does that make us cousins or
4:38 p.m
siblings dumbass
Incoming call: hennessy<3 (1:34:01)
7:01 p.m
luv u bruv
Friday, October 24th
D.C's low skyline through the window, a cast of grey lapping into grey. There were no shadows under that light; a city of muted distance.
A sentencing memo half-drafted on Adam's desktop, margins littered with neat edits. A statute pulled from Westlaw sat open on his second monitor, highlighted to exhaustion. Adam had planned to stay late. Finish tightening the argument, cut a paragraph, bolster another, because it needed doing, because it always did, because what else was there to do?
A knock sounded at the open door. "Adam?"
He swiveled in his chair. Gabi leaned in, folders tucked under her arm. Scarf on, no coat yet—an elegant signal of her departure. "These need signing."
"Of course, come on in."
She set them down and flipped them open. One hand braced flat on the desktop, she leaned lightly against it, gaze drifting to the dimming skyline.
“It’s so quiet now,” Gabi added, glancing toward the hall. "Without the kids."
Adam hummed. Quiet everywhere, actually. "Not for long. New applications coming in." Signature. Initials. Another page. Signature, initials. The practiced choreography of it. "I could use your opinion."
“Sure thing.” Gabi didn’t move, her attention on him instead of the papers. Too poised to ask, and he was grateful for it.
Eyes skimming a motion to suppress, Adam said, “Any weekend plans?”
Her silence made him look up. Gabi’s smile was small, surprised. “That’s new.”
"Is it?" He searched his memory, found nothing. Heat crawled up his neck. "Huh."
She studied him for a moment, then shrugged. “I booked a suite at the Willard. Some room service, a bottle of Dom.” Unapologetic grin. “Phone off.”
Adam whistled softly. “Well earned.”
“I like nice things.” She tilted her head. “You?”
His phone sat dark on the desk, Ronan’s text still unopened. The image rose unbidden: a fire in the hearth, the sharp cut of Virginia air, Ronan a warm line against his chest. Driving into the night. Adjusting his life to make a Monday work. Making room. Then leaving again, back to this lonesome quiet.
“Nothing set,” he said evenly, sliding the signed pages back toward her. “Champagne in a bathtub sounds tempting, though.”
Chuckling, she gathered the folders back into her arms. “Don’t stay too late.”
“No m'am.” Eyes back on his monitor. "Have fun."
The door clicked softly shut. Adam stared at the view until his reflection flickered into an electric self.
Snapped out of reverie: the grind of his phone on the desk, notifications spilling across the screen.
Henry Cheng
7:01 p.m
Cocktails @ vue tonight
No jail 4 Cheng BABYYYYYYYY
u in?
Ppl I want u to meet
An invitation tailored just for him. Adam reached for his coat.
"I didn't think you'd like it," Ronan said quietly.
Bathed in red light, a sanctuary in coppery shadows. Developer hissed as the first sheet sank beneath Opal's fingers. Black bled across paper, softening edges. A warm and metallic tang rose from the trays. Ronan watched her through the glow.
Opal didn't speak, nor did she look up. She hadn't spoken a word all day. Earlier, Ronan found her crouched in the ferns with bloodshot eyes and wordlessly dragged her to the basement.
Tilt, lift, dip. Water lapped quietly, shimmering under the red glow. Another sheet followed. His guidance came soft, although the place was not meant for words. Breathing shallow, hands steady; Opal executed each motion without falter. She had stopped shaking a few minutes ago.
Under her fingers: all the faces he loved, one by one. Hennessy smoking in the night. Gansey and Blue framed in a doorway. Adam through sunlight. Not so long ago, his own hands had been morphed into the ritual; the tilt, the tilt again. A patient epiphany.
When she finished, Ronan moved to the other enlarger. White light, harsh, sudden. Ronan lifted a print into the glare. Streets folded into faces; laughter into shadow; movement into stasis. D.C. condensed, fragile under his hands. Luminous asphalt, laughter, Adam—his Adam—another life distilled into impermanence.
"Can I try again?" Opal asked quietly.
Ronan looked up and saw the future in her eyes. Not unlike what he saw in the light streaming over dust in the house above them. Sanctuary; making a place yours by giving it away.
"Sure," he said, barely a whisper. "Double exposure."
parrish
4:21 p.m
u free this weekend? wanna come over?
Read: 7:21p.m
National Mall attraction view, Upscale Casual dress code and deep house mix on the speakers. That fig-infused Campari was too good to be chugged down.
Adam was courted by means of eggshell-white business cards. Lobbyists, consultants, the occasional journalist. Henry brought the flock straight to his side; every interaction came with a tonic-soaked murmur in his ear. Remember Katie Reeves? She's on the Hill now. Loves your work. Adam had allotted exactly forty-five minutes.
Once the latest contender drifted away, Henry snapped right back into place.
“M.J.’s got the inside track on the budget committee,” he said. “And he’s single.”
Back against the railing, the city backdrop an afterimage. “Then go suck him off,” Adam muttered through an ice crunch. “I’m not interested.”
Henry inhaled sharply, a wet cocaine snort. “Then why are you here?”
Bitter bite on his tongue, and a slightly-salted gin over the fruit. Cheap thrills. Adam didn't answer.
"I know you think about it."
Adam chuckled. Less than forty-five minutes. "You don't even know who I vote for."
"Doesn't matter."
"I really like my job, Cheng. And I'm very good at it."
“Exactly. Which is why you should be in rooms where power gets made." Henry leaned in, shoulder brushing his. "I can get you there.”
“God, why is everyone pitching me lately?”
“Because you’re wasting yourself.”
Adam whipped to him. A flare gushing in his lungs—the bright wrongness of it. Not humiliation anymore, but the quiet, intolerable fact of being so thoroughly misread.
“Is this the life you dreamed about?" Henry continued, mistaking his silence for traction. "9‑to‑5 with a house full of kids and a trophy husband waiting for you at home? Divorce cases all day long? Come on." His eyes were fiercely honest; that was the worst part. "You’re so much more than that.”
Studying Henry’s face under the rooftop’s soft light—transparent eyes, eager smile—Adam let it wash over him. How easy it had become to recognize exactly what he would never envy.
"The thing is, Henry," Adam said without any heat. "You don't know anything about me."
The elevator’s glow fell onto neon-wet asphalt. Unknowable, slipping alone through the city's glare. On his way home, Adam called Gansey.
In the attic, Ronan packed his mother's notebooks into a box, phone wedged between shoulder and ear.
Callum's cough tumbled in before his words. "Haven't heard your voice in a while."
"I don't do phone calls," Ronan said. "Did you get my email?"
"I tried setting this to my phone… Hold on, now…"
Leatherbound, with watercolor drawings—the only medium his father never used, or the only one she'd been allowed. Ronan brought a notebook to his nose and inhaled through the ache.
"Ah!" Ronan startled. Callum continued, "Yes. The exhibition in D.C. Oh, the Phillips. Old-fashioned cunts."
Ronan chuckled and rolled his father's unframed canvas along the floorboards. "There's someone I want you to meet."
"Oh? Friend? Lover?"
Sibling. "Student," he said, wading on his knees to grab some tape. "She's very gifted. I was wondering if you'd take her in for a few weeks."
"The stray's adopting strays? Ronan," Callum said fondly. "Is she as stubborn as you are?"
"Worse, even."
"Stunning. All I need as I crumble to dust."
Ronan laughed. "Stop it, you stud." He got to his feet, box tucked under his arm. He turned off the light, then climbed down the staircase cautiously. "Heard you're doing a film?"
"Yes, well—sort of. Los Angeles people are dreadful to work with. How is D.C? And how's that gorgeous friend of yours, the English photographer?"
"Hennessy. Yeah she's fine. I think. Ow, fuck—" Ronan gritted his teeth, rubbing his toe against his socked foot. He put the box down and opened Declan's room. "I'm at the Barns right now, actually."
Ronan closed the shutters and grabbed a flat sheet from the built-in cupboard. Callum was quiet on the line. "Still here?"
"Why are you there, Ronan?"
His fingers stilled around fabric. Ronan wasn't sure what did him in—the question itself, or the parental disapproval.
"I had some things to figure out. Pieces to finish."
"Ronan." Callum's sigh rattled through the speaker. "You know, when I was your age, I was shagging my way through New York, not raising crops in the arse end of nowhere."
"Yes, we know. Your arse's been heavily documented, actually." Ronan lay the sheet flat over the mattress, over the pillow. He switched off the light and carried the box back under his arm. "The shagging's not exactly the problem."
"Ah! So there is a lover. Or lovers?"
"Lover," Ronan spat petulantly. "Maybe."
"Do I get to meet him?"
"Yeah, I think so." Ronan unstuck the phone from his cheek and checked for new messages, knowing there would be none. Quietly, he added, "Not sure, actually."
"That's the only reason I would come."
Ronan grinned. "I'll tell him." Down the staircase to the first floor. Ronan made a beeline to the living room and found Opal curled on the sofa, drawing. He mouthed pasta? Two thumbs up.
"So? Come on. Tell me more. Give me something to dream about. He's not an artist, is he?"
"God, no, I fucking hate artists." He flicked the light switch; the basement bulb buzzed to life. "He's a lawyer."
"Ah. What specialty?"
"Does it matter?"
"Of course it does."
"Criminal defense," Ronan chuckled. Down the staircase, through the dusty halls. "Smartest guy I know. His name's Adam."
"You little Catholic deviant."
"And," Ronan ignored him. "He's very handsome."
"Is he home with you?"
"No. He's in D.C." Ronan tucked the box onto the highest metal shelf. Then he closed his eyes and prayed that the Lord would spare him a flood.
Eyes still closed, he leaned his forehead against the cool metal. "You're quiet again."
For a second, it was just this: the whistle of Callum's smoker's breath, then conjuring the late-night glow of his studio, and the feeling of being seen by someone else's language.
"Only you can know what's good for you, love."
Ronan swallowed and crouched against the dusty basement wall. "I don't have a good track record, actually."
"Yes," Callum said, velvet-fond. "But you're not twenty anymore."
Ronan yanked the phone away before the sob could escape. Fuck, he whispered, fingers quivering against his face. He pressed the phone back to his ear and worked his voice into obedience. "I have to go. I—thanks for calling. I'll see you in D.C?"
"Yes, you will. Ronan? Take care, all righ—" Ronan hung up.
Curled against the wall, in the basement where he once hid from God, Ronan finally shattered into himself.
By the time he got up, the air smelled of tomatoes in olive oil. In the kitchen, Opal had set two plates on the island, and waited patiently for him to start.
Ronan slid next to her. "Thanks." Opal didn't even glance over. They ate in silence.
Later, Opal played the DVD of Fast and Furious: Tokyo Drift—perhaps the most prized object in the house—and curled on the other end of the couch. Ronan stretched forward for her notebook, opened it to a blank page, and started drawing her.
"You're not even watching the movie."
"I'm pretty sure you weren't born when I saw it for the hundredth time."
"Am I going home alone?"
Hands struck still over charcoal, Ronan glanced up. Opal held his gaze, gentle and forgiving.
"No." Fingers grazing over the small shape of her silhouette. "But we're leaving."
Opal nodded. "Okay." She curled back onto the arm of the couch, and hid her smile in the leather.
Ronan flinched. "Get your fucking feet away from me. Dude, I swear to—"
8:47 p.m
(1) Missed Call: Ronan
10:43 a.m
(1) Missed Call: Ronan