Archive of Our Own ^beta

Declan knew Ronan was transgender before either of them had ever heard the word. 

The realization started in pieces: the nickname “Ro” and the hysterical tears when the full Róisín slipped the tongue; the obsession with the heroes—the princes and the pirates—in their father’s stories; the dreams of little brothers; the long blond curls tugged at in distress; the foot stomped when Declan said no to playing catch with Ro the way Dad played with him. And then the realization came to Declan all at once: 

It was a Sunday morning, and Sunday mornings at the Barns meant rushing to get ready for Mass. Ro was tantruming; Matty was wailing. Knowing them now, it would be fair to assume it was typical for Ro to tantrum and atypical for Matthew to wail. But really, Ro was a happy kid before the bubble of the Barns burst, and Matty— Matty was a nightmare. He was a fussy, tetchy, clingy thing who would scream until lungs burst and glass windows shattered if he wasn’t being held. Aurora scooped Matthew into her arms, rocking him to a gentle coo of Irish lilting. Between syllables she said, “Declan, check on Ro.” 

Seven year old Declan marched down the hall to five year old Ro’s room. He found it destroyed. Books were upended across the floor, stuffed animals were missing their stuffing, dresses were shoved under the bed, hangers were still being thrown at walls, purple curtains had been tugged askew. Ro’s was a largely quiet anger—face screwed up to keep it all inside. Ro stopped throwing things when Declan walked in. 

“I don’t want to go,” Ro said. 

Ro had never had a problem with church before. 

“Why not?” asked Declan. 

Ro didn’t answer, at least not right away. Declan watched as tears rose in his then sister, always brother’s eyes. Silent crystal storms cascaded over pale cheeks, running like an angry child ran from home—temporary, temporary, this was only temporary. Declan didn’t understand what was wrong. He did understand, though, that Aurora was busy and Niall was away on business and Ro was in pain. As he had been doing since the day Ro was born, and as he would continue to do until the day Ro died, Declan swooped in to help whether he was asked to or not. He cleared the floor of fuzz and ripped pages, and he knelt before Ro in Sunday’s best suit. 

Memories flashed. A younger Ro crawling into a younger Declan’s bed. It used to happen all the time: Ro would get lonely, and Declan would be there with comfort and arms to sleep in. It hadn’t happened since the day Matthew showed up.

Declan hadn’t yet forgotten how to comfort, though. 

“Ro,” he said. Declan wiped tears from Ro’s cheeks and fumbled his way through the same lilt Aurora had been singing in the kitchen. Die-ra-doh diethin diddly ithin doothin deethin dom. Ro went still. That was the magic of the Barns: a song or a story was all it took to soothe the deepest aches. “Ro,” Declan repeated. He, carefully, tucked a knot of curls behind Ro’s ears. “Tell me?” 

Ro told him, “I think I’m bad.” 

“What?” 

“I don’t think God likes me.” 

“What?” 

“Stop saying what.” 

“Sorry.” 

Declan shifted, sitting cross legged on the floor. He patted the spot in front of him, and Ro sat too. They stared at each other, the only neat things in the roar that had blown through Ro’s bedroom. “I just want to understand. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.” 

Ro huffed. “I’m trying.” 

“Okay,” said Declan. He tried to borrow Aurora’s calming voice the way he had borrowed her song; it didn’t work. “It’s okay. Keep trying.”

“In church, they say God made us in his image,” said Ro, too young for such huge, all consuming words, “but I don’t like God’s image. I hate the way He made me. I think I’m—” more tears spilled forth, the cup runneth over “—like the devil.” 

Declan tutted. “You’re not like the devil.” 

Ro knocked their knees together, almost painfully. 

This was more than Declan knew how to help with. Ro looked pitiful and scared, and Declan was only seven. So, he did the only thing he could think of doing, the one thing he was forbidden from doing: he put words to the dreams. “Is this about your dreaming?” 

“No,” said Ro. “Yes,” said Ro. 

“Which is it?” 

“No.” 

“Then, what do you mean? Why do you hate the way He made you?” 

“I don’t want to wear a dress to church,” said Ro, no longer looking at Declan’s eyes and instead staring hateful daggers into the top button of his suit jacket. “I want to play catch with you and Dad. I want to be like the heroes in Dad’s stories. I want to be like you. I want— I want—” 

The pieces came together then: the nickname “Ro,” the obsession with princes and pirates, Matthew, blond curls like their mother’s, playing catch, dresses shoved under the bed, I hate the way He made me. 

I want to be like you, Ro said. 

“Ro,” said Declan. “Do you want to be a boy?” 

“Yes.” 

Declan didn’t really know what it meant, back then. He didn’t know the word transgender, and he didn’t know about hormones and surgery, and he didn’t know that people would hate his brother just for existing. If Declan knew those things, maybe he would have played it differently—more cautious and less all-in. As it was, Declan didn’t know what it meant for Ro to be a boy in the wrong body, but he knew he loved Ro. He knew he wanted to chase away the hurt. 

“Look at me,” Declan said. 

Ro looked at him. 

Declan slipped off his suit jacket, and he tucked it around Ro’s shoulders. 

“Ronan,” Declan said. 

Ronan looked at him. Ronan threw his, his, his arms around his, his, his brother. He didn’t wear a dress to church that Sunday, or any Sunday that followed. 

The party spilled through the neighborhood of hollow houses and abandoned grandeur—an infestation was what it looked like, really. Like nocturnal pests had consumed daylight living, and this was all that was left. This was the aftermath: car radios blared music and car headlights lit up the dark and drunk, high teenagers danced with other drunk, high teenagers. Adam Parrish tugged his jean jacket tighter around his shoulders. 

He didn’t belong here, stuck out like a desperate hitchhiker’s thumb. He knew that, he wasn’t stupid. But this was where people came to find Joseph Kavinsky, and Adam Parrish was looking for Joseph Kavinsky. 

A girl tripped into Adam. Instinctively, he caught her around the waist. She laughed, and her breath wafted over Adam, and the scent of alcohol got its hooks in him. The bruise under his cheek throbbed. “Heh, hi, thanks,” the girl said, voice slurred. “You’re kinda pretty.” 

Adam pushed her away. He wasn’t interested in being called pretty. 

“Do you know where Kavinsky is?” he asked her. 

She rolled her eyes. “No.” 

They parted ways without another word. Smoke was drifting from somewhere, swirling in the air like a disembodied soul, so Adam decided to follow it. Kavinsky had a reputation: he could forge well enough to fool any cop, he was obsessed with blowing things up, and he could get you any drug you needed. It was the third reason that brought Adam to the party. It was the second that lead him to a burning car and a pack of cronies and—

“Who’re you?” Kavinsky asked. He was sloshed, too, though the powder under his nose suggested it was less alcohol and more cocaine. Kavinsky had a reputation but he also had rumors: his mother was an addict, and she had raised an addict, and his father was an asshole, and he had raised an asshole. 

“Adam,” said Adam. His voice didn’t sound the way someone named Adam’s was supposed to. 

Kavinsky raised an eyebrow—a cruel gesture. To the pair making out next to him and the second pair sharing shots beside him, Kavinsky said, “Scram.” 

The cronies went without protest. 

Kavinsky leaned against the burning car. Somehow, he managed to make the slant of his body look like a come-on—maybe it was how unfazed he was by the fire lapping at leather and threatening to lap at skin next. Whatever it was, Adam wasn’t interested. Adam didn’t like Kavinsky. He didn’t like people who could order others around with just a word. Their arrogance made them dangerous. 

“What can I do ya for, Adam?” 

He knew. He already knew. 

Anger pulsed in Adam’s gut, a slimy ball of darkness that grew darker everyday. Anger whispered in Adam’s ear: punch him. 

Adam did not punch Kavinsky. Instead, he said, “Testosterone.” 

“Hmm.” Kavinsky picked dirt from under his nails and scratched at his patchy beard. He spat on the ground. He was disgusting, but he was the only person in this godforsaken town who might actually be able to help Adam. So, here Adam was. Sticking his neck out and groveling at the feet of Henrietta’s criminal king. Kavinsky said, “And what substance did you bring?” 

“I didn’t,” said Adam. 

“Sweetheart,” Kavinsky complained. Adam really wanted to punch him now; he balled his hands into fists instead. Even tucked into his pockets, he was certain Kavinsky noticed. Sadistic glee lit in his eyes, a reflection of the flame shifting behind him. “This is a substance party, did you know that? Give a substance, get a substance.” 

Adam hadn’t known that, but he wasn’t going to make himself look stupid. He ignored Kavinsky and asked, “How much?” 

“Cash?” 

Adam didn’t answer; he didn’t need to answer. Kavinsky already knew, and yeah, Adam needed Kavinsky, but he wasn’t going to play his stupid power games. 

“Mmm.” Kavinsky stepped away from the burning car just as the engine caught. The explosion was small, but it was still an explosion. Heat bloomed in Adam’s face and he stumbled back a step. Kavinsky laughed at him—mean, harsh. “Two hundred a pop,” Kavinsky said. “If you were nicer, maybe less. But for you? Two hundred.” 

Maybe Robert Parrish was right. Maybe Adam’s attitude would always get him into trouble. He would never be able to afford two hundred. 

“Fuck you,” he said. He turned to walk away, Kavinsky reached out to grab his arm, and then Adam punched him. He ripped free—easier than he thought it would be, easier than when it was Robert Parrish’s drunken grip—and he swung. He clocked Kavinsky in the jaw, and Kavinsky laughed at him again. Less mean, more bloody. Less harsh, more delighted. 

“That’s more like it,” said Kavinsky. He spat again. 

This time, when Adam tried to walk away, Kavinsky let him go. He regretted the punch before he’d even thrown it. His knuckles smarted and tomorrow they’d be the dusk blue beginnings of a bruise to match the mottled green under his eye. Adam hated his father, and he hated himself for being just like him. 

Angry now, angry always, Adam weaved through the crowd of partygoers. He wanted to lay his hands on them and shove, but he’d inflicted enough violence tonight. He kept his hands in his pockets and he mumbled a ‘scuse me that went unheard. Adam didn’t belong here. Couples grinded against each other, music crooned dirty words, rich kids threw bricks at windows. Glass shattered across the pavement and littered their hair like stardust, and there was no shame. There was no fear. There was just laughter—mean, harsh, bloody, delighted. Adam didn’t belong here. 

It was at the edge of the neighborhood, almost home free, that Adam saw him. 

Blond curls, eyes blue-dark like the night sky, muscles bulging. His throat bobbed as he took a sip of beer, and his nails—painted black—picked idly at the bottle’s label. His throat stretched as he threw his head back laughing. That laugh wasn’t like the others. It was sharp, yes, but it did no harm. It was the wings of a raven flapping overhead, too far away to ever be touched or held or hurt by. 

Please, Adam thought. 

But he didn’t know if he was asking to have him, this boy with skin so embodied, so owned, or if he was asking to be him. It didn’t matter, neither would ever be true for someone like Adam Parrish.

“He doesn’t want any visitors,” the nurse said. 

“Do I look like I fucking care?” Ronan asked. “His dad just knocked the hearing out of his ear and broke his rib. If you think I’m gonna let him be alone after that, you’re fucking mental.” 

The hospital carried on around them: phones rang, pagers beeped, children screamed. Ronan hadn’t been in a hospital in almost a year. They still made him as uncomfortable as they always had, but he wasn’t going anywhere. At least not until Gansey showed up, and maybe not even then. 

“I didn’t say you couldn’t see him,” the nurse said, looking at him with more kindness than any adult had since his father’s death. Her name tag said Candy but Ronan refused to believe that was real. “I’m preparing you for the fact that he might be combative.” 

Ronan laughed. “Adam’s always combative.” 

The nurse—Candy?—the nurse led Ronan through the hospital. The bustle didn’t calm when they left the waiting room. In fact, the chaos only grew as nurses darted from room to room, and doctors stood useless with clipboards, and parents demanded updates. There should’ve been a parent here for Adam—they were in the pediatric ER, after all—but there wasn’t. Ronan’s knuckles were still rosy from breaking Robert Parrish’s nose; he wanted to break it again. 

There were no silent corners for Adam to hide in, but with his room’s door closed behind Ronan, most of the noise fell to a numbed out blur. He looked like shit; Ronan had to bite his teeth together to keep from gasping. Wires criss-crossed between Adam and monitors, an IV line tugged at the back of his hand. He was so pale, skin dripping off the bone and lips nearly as blue as his eyes, like he was cold. The blanket rucked up to his chin seemed to say the same thing. 

“I said—” 

“No visitors, I know,” Ronan said. He pulled up a chair on Adam’s right side, flipping it so his legs straddled the back. If he was any shorter, he could’ve ducked his head to hide behind the backrest. He would’ve, too, if it meant he didn’t have to see Adam like this. Broken, was the word that came to mind. Broken, was the word Ronan would never say. 

“Shoulda known you wouldn’t listen.” 

“Yeah, you should’ve. How’re you feeling?” 

Ronan expected anger in Adam—at Ronan for getting involved, at Ronan for treading all over his boundaries, at his father for what he had done. But Adam just seemed tired, and that was so much worse. His voice was scratchy yet steady when he said, “Like I just broke a rib.” 

“Y’know, it’s kinda fitting.” 

“What the hell does that mean, Lynch?” 

“‘So the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam, and he slept; then he took one of his ribs and closed up its place with flesh. And the rib that the LORD God had taken from the man he made into a woman and brought her to the man,’” Ronan quoted. He wasn’t embarrassed for having scripture memorized. “Genesis 2:21 and 22.” 

Adam laughed. It was Adam Parrish’s most truthful laugh: the one that shocked even him, the one that was pulled from his lips as if by force. But it must have hurt because just as quickly he stopped— he grabbed his own side and he sucked in a shallow, frustrated breath. “Ow,” he murmured. “Fuck you, Lynch.” 

“What did I do? It’s not my fault you find the Word of God amusing.” 

“Did Candy tell you how I broke my rib?” 

“How you—? I didn’t need to be told, I was there. I watched your dad push you down the stairs.” 

“No,” said Adam. He shook his head. “I mean, yes, but no.” He pointed across the room where his personal items were tangled in a pile: his dirt stained clothes, his shoes, and a ribbon of ACE bandages. Ronan’s blood ran cold. “I was, y’know, binding.” 

“Shit.” 

“If you’re going to be an ignorant, bigoted—” 

“You fucker,” Ronan interrupted. “Are you insane? You were binding with ACE bandages? Do you know how unsafe that is? You’re lucky you only broke one. Jesus Christ, let me see.” 

Adam spluttered, not embarrassed and not tired anymore and most definitely angry. “You wanna see my tits, Lynch?” 

“Fuck, no.” (yes) “The bruising,” he explained. “Let me see how bad the—” 

“Fuck you, Lynch,” Adam repeated. “You don’t get to come in here, when I specifically said I didn’t want any visitors, for this exact reason, by the way, and act like you know better than me. I get to decide how I—”  

Ronan pulled his own shirt over his head. The scars on his chest were a ruddy pink, and they shut Adam up quickly. In fact, he balked a little. Ronan hadn’t been told Adam was trans, not until now, but he had suspected. He had fully functioning eyes and ears, and he paid just a little too much attention to Adam Parrish, and Adam Parrish could only pass so well when he didn’t have the resources to transition medically. But Adam hadn’t suspected Ronan. How could he when Ronan had been receiving gender affirming care for years?

“You—” Adam blinked. “You’re trans?” 

“As the devil.” 

“The devil isn’t trans,” Adam argued. Because he could never not argue.

“Used to be an angel, didn’t he?” Ronan fired back. Because he could never not fire back. “That’s gotta be one hell of a transition.” 

Adam scoffed. “When did you,” he hesitated, “have the surgery?” 

“Four days after my dad died,” said Ronan. Tire iron, concave skull, blood. Bandages, tubes, blood. “Murderer had terrible timing. Gansey had to drag me to DC by my ears. I don’t regret it.” 

Envy burned green in blue eyes, and Ronan wanted it gone. He wanted to say something about how surgery wasn’t necessary, wasn’t the only way to be trans, but he knew better. Knew Adam would call him a hypocrite, and knew he’d probably be right.

“Fuck,” said Adam. 

“Fuck indeed,” said Ronan. “So, are you gonna let me see, or not?” 

“No,” said Adam. Pointedly, he tugged the blanket up higher, so it kissed at his pale lips. 

“Asshole,” said Ronan. “You can’t do that ACE shit anymore, I’m serious.” 

“Oh, are you? Not all of us are rich douche—” 

“Adam.” 

Not Parrish, just Adam. 

“Ronan.” 

Not Lynch, just Ronan. 

Neither said anything else after that, not right away. The room was filled with the rhythm of Adam’s heart still beeping, beeping and the IV pump still whirring, whirring. One day, they would have that fight: Ronan’s privilege and Adam’s lack thereof. But not now, not when Adam’s face was screwed up with pain. 

Ronan asked, “Are they giving you morphine or something?” 

Adam held up a pump. “I can press the button every eight minutes.” 

“And how long has it been since you did?” 

“Probably twenty.” 

“Jesus Christ. Press the damn button.” 

“Makes me tired.” 

“Then sleep.” 

Adam was too stubborn to voice his agreement, but Ronan heard the soft click of the button, and then Adam’s eyes closed. And the LORD God caused a deep sleep to fall upon Adam. Like his very own angel, Ronan perched at his side and watched over him. 

Standing on the hill, Adam watched the dreamt plane leave Ronan’s hand. It shouldn’t have been able to fly, but it did. It shouldn’t have been able to exist, but it did because Ronan willed it so. Ronan created it. 

Adam had always been fascinated by creation myths. 

There was the story of the divine twins, Manu and Yemo, from Proto-Indo-European mythology. Manu sacrificed Yemo to create the world. From his twin’s remains, Manu created the sky and the earth and humans, too. Adam used to like this story, thought it understood something that most creation myths didn’t: creation cost something. He didn’t like it as much now. Now, sacrifice was something he knew too well. His hands, his eyes, his ear, his rib. There were no pieces of Adam’s that were only his. He was Yemo, broken and shared. 

There were, also, many creation stories that featured ravens. One came from the Cahto, a group of Native Americans indigenous to California, which said that Raven was taught by his father to create the world, but was unsatisfied by the darkened results. Unable to give the world light, Raven took to stealing it instead. Another, from the Haida people, mythologized Raven as the one who freed the first people from a clam shell. In most, if not all, raven myths, the raven was a creature of mischief, chaos, tricks. That was Ronan Lynch: the creator at the beginning of it all. 

And then, there was, of course, the story of Adam. The first man made of the dust of the ground of the Garden of Eden. The rib taken to make Eve. That was Adam Parrish: the fruit of creation and the sliced fruit used to create. It was no coincidence they shared a name. As he clawed his way out of the dirt of the trailer park and strapped down his chest till it ached, he named himself Adam. The first man. He stole back his stolen ribs. He reminded himself that, though he had no choice in being made, he had a choice in making himself more. He wanted more, more than he was given. And he would take it, earn it, no matter the consequences. 

Adam Parrish was all about autonomy. 

The plastic plane hit Gansey’s shoulder and toppled to the grass. Noah, the pilot, laughed with unbidden joy. “Again!” he said, but Gansey scooped the plane up from the ground and held onto it even as Noah wiggled the buttons on the controller. The plane jerked and slipped in Gansey’s grip. 

“Czerny,” Ronan complained. 

“Told you not to call me that,” Noah pouted. He stopped playing with the remote. 

The plane went still. Gansey turned it in his hands, around and around and around, like if he looked at it long enough, the object would confess its secrets to him. Probably most people, objects, secrets did spill themselves to Gansey, but the plane didn’t. It stayed impossible. Gansey didn’t mind. He grinned at Ronan, said, “You incredible creature.” 

Ronan scoffed; Adam caught his eye. 

It would’ve been a shock, that one of Adam’s friends could pull objects from their dreams, if that friend wasn’t Ronan Lynch. As Adam saw it, dreamers were creators, just as trans people were. The trans experience, of the rich and the wealthy, could not be explained without death and resurrection, without destruction and reinvention. Ronan Lynch was the fire and the phoenix. Ronan Lynch had made the world, and then he had made himself, and then he had made his raven, and then he had made planes that flew without batteries. 

He was such an asshole. 

“Something wrong, Parrish?” Ronan asked, and all eyes fell on Adam—concerned and worried and suspicious all at once. Ronan Lynch was such an asshole. 

“Fine,” said Adam. “What’s the hatch on the bottom for?” 

“In my dream it was little missiles. Guess they didn’t come with.” 

Adam pulled grass seeds from the ground, and he handed them to Gansey, and Gansey shoved them into the base of the thin, weightless, impossibly weightless toy plane. 

“Go ahead, Noah,” said Ronan. 

The plane shot out of Gansey’s hand. It flew one foot forward, then two feet up, then Ronan instructed Noah to press the big blue button. He pressed the button and grass seeds rained over them all. They caught in Adam’s hair and stuck to Ronan’s shorn skull. Blue, somehow, got one in her mouth and spat it at Ronan, who swore at her. Noah was laughing again, giddy as ever. Gansey was saying again, “You’re incredible.” 

Ronan Lynch was a dreamer, a creator. 

But, for trans people like Adam Parrish, there was no creation. He was too poor for T, too poor for a binder, too broken for ACE bandages. Summer sweat clung to Adam’s still, still, probably forever bruised chest under two sports bras, a tank top, a t-shirt, and his Aglionby sweater. The padding did little to hide the body given to him of dirt and clay, the one he never chose or asked for. The one that was wrong, always wrong. 

For trans people like Adam, there was just want and sacrifice. 

I will be your hands, Adam thought, I will be your eyes. 

“I hear you’re losing your mind,” Ronan said when Adam opened the door of his St Agnes apartment. 

“I hear you crashed the Pig,” Adam fired back. 

“Replaced it, though,” said Ronan. That was the first thing Ronan dreamt when he figured it out—when he realized it wasn’t about creating but about remembering; when he realized it wasn’t about stealing but asking. The second thing he dreamt was a binder. He held it and a pair of clippers up to Adam. “Let me in.” 

Adam let him in. But he was quick to say, “I’m not taking that.” 

“I thought you’d say that, which is why I brought the clippers,” said Ronan. He ducked his head against the sloped ceilings and threw himself down on Adam’s bed; Adam rolled his eyes. “Did you know the average binder costs between thirty and fifty dollars? Guess how much a haircut costs.” 

“You act like I don’t know Gansey cuts your hair for free.” 

“Not after I wrecked the Pig he won’t.” 

Adam squinted. “Thought you replaced it.” 

“Still,” said Ronan. “Has he forgiven you for taking it?” 

“Fuck you,” said Adam. “I’m not letting you spend more money on me. Don’t think I haven’t figured out it was you who messed with my rent.” 

“Damn,” said Ronan, all fake disappointment. He was being a dick, but he couldn’t really help himself. Adam got all pouty when he was annoyed. “Good thing I didn’t spend any money on this then.”

“An old one of yours?” Adam asked. 

As much as Ronan said he didn’t lie, he thought about it, then. It would be so easy to say yes, Adam to say look, Adam, I don’t need this anymore to say it’s going to waste, Adam. But Ronan didn’t lie. Besides, his chest was broader than Adam’s. His binders wouldn’t fit him—it was the only reason Ronan hadn’t offered already. “No. A dream.” 

He didn’t mention that dreaming the binder had cost the ley line energy, that Kavinsky and Ronan and the dreams were why Cabeswater had disappeared. He could tell Adam that in a few days, after he took the binder. That wasn’t a lie—just an omission. It was for Adam’s own good, anyway. 

“I can’t cut your hair here,” said Adam. “I don’t have any outlets.” 

Ronan grinned, victorious, and said, “Let’s go downstairs, then.” 

“Can I—? First, can I—?” Adam reached a hand out. Ronan gave him the binder, and Adam disappeared into his cubby of a bathroom. He could barely get the door closed around his own shoulders. 

Ronan remembered his first binder. He couldn’t remember exactly how old he was, just that Declan got his driver’s license, drove to DC, and bought one with cash. Ronan remembered putting it on, looking down at his flat chest, and crying. One day, Ronan would be brave enough to tell Adam that even though Ronan’s parents loved him and accepted him and called him Ronan, the T and the binders and the top surgery were all accredited to Declan. Hell, even his name was accredited to Declan. From the age of five, their parents—Niall, in particular—had refused to help Ronan medically transition. Ronan didn’t understand why (and he wouldn’t for a long time more) but it was the one thing that Ronan hated their father for; these days Declan used that as a weapon. 

The door to the bathroom opened. Adam was grinning with both rows of teeth. 

“How’re the ribs?” asked Ronan. 

“Fine,” said Adam. He looked down at himself. There wasn’t a mirror in his tiny apartment, no room for it, so he probably couldn’t appreciate the full effect. Ronan could, though. He looked like himself; he looked happy. “Thank you.” 

“Fuck off, Parrish.” 

“Sure, Lynch.” 

They went downstairs. Adam suggested the bathroom, but Ronan took him to Pastor Gary’s office. Pastor Gary had always been kind of a jerk to Ronan—one of those Catholics. He deserved to have some blond hair stuck in his carpet for a few centuries. 

“I’m not shaving your head in here,” Adam complained. 

“Yes, you are,” said Ronan. He plugged the clippers in, put them in Adam’s hand, and sat down on the floor. 

“You’re such a dick,” said Adam. 

“You know it,” said Ronan. 

He waited for the familiar buzz of the clippers, but it didn’t come. Adam hovered behind him, breathing quiet and not doing anything. “Uh,” he said. “I don’t know how to do this.” 

Ronan laughed. “It’s easy. The guard’s already on, just turn the clippers on and don’t cut off my ears.” 

“And how do I not do that?” 

“Jesus Christ.” 

“Shouldn’t you, like, not say that? We’re in a church.” 

“We’re in the back of a church. Besides, Jesus doesn’t care. Jesus loves me.” 

“Isn’t he— kinda transphobic? Or at least homophobic?” 

“What?” 

“I don’t know!” 

“Dude, no. Jesus was kissing men in the Bible.” 

It was Adam’s turn to laugh. He turned the clippers on, and he didn’t hesitate anymore. When Gansey did this, Ronan closed his eyes and felt nothing but a gentle buzz. When Adam did this, Ronan’s hands clenched in his lap and he felt tingles all down his spine. He kept his eyes open only because he was scared of what would happen if he closed them—he’d fucking die or something, he was pretty sure. Jesus Christ. 

“How long have you been shaving your head?” 

“Dunno. Few years.” 

“When you decided you were too cool to have cherubic blond curls like Matthew?” 

“Cherubic,” Ronan mimicked, smiling because Adam couldn’t see that he was. “But, yeah, fuck— kinda that.” 

Adam laughed again; it was a stupid fucking sound. He kept shaving Ronan’s head. Instead of telling Ronan to tilt his head like Gansey would, he pushed on the back of Ronan’s skull until his chin hit his chest. He kept his hand there to steady Ronan, or maybe to steady himself. This wasn’t a funny little rebellion anymore, doing this in Pastor Gary’s office; Ronan felt genuinely sick. 

“I’m done,” said Adam. 

Relief choked out the guilt in Ronan’s throat. He stood, and he looked at Adam with his home cut choppy bangs. 

“I could cut your hair, too, y’know,” said Ronan. 

“That wasn’t the deal,” said Adam. 

Ronan shrugged. 

“I like my hair,” said Adam. 

Ronan shrugged again, and then he leaned up to ruffle Adam’s hair. It wasn’t particularly soft—cheaply rationed cheap conditioner wouldn’t allow for particularly soft—but brown strands caught in the light like dandelion puffs in the sun. Adam shoved Ronan away with more force than was strictly necessary. 

“Go away now,” said Adam. 

Ronan scoffed. “Have fun losing your mind.” 

Adam scowled. “Have fun groveling to Dick.” 

Ronan left St Agnes. Later, he had to get Gansey to fix his haircut. Adam had missed entire sections around his ears—the fucking loser. Gansey helped without complaint.

Adam should’ve left. Should’ve gone when Ronan told him to go. But he stayed where he was, staring at the corpse of the Ronan copy. Adam thought the thrashing, the choking on blood, the whimpers of pain should have been the worst, but instead it was the stillness. Ronan’s double wasn’t moving, just lying on the floor of St Agnes, concave features lit by the shadows of warm sconce lighting. It was something Adam could never forget—what Ronan Lynch looked like when all the noise inside him hushed. 

“What are you going to do with it?” asked Adam. 

He looked at the living Ronan. His shoulders were set, his eyes were daggers. If Adam were a better person, he would find a way to comfort Ronan. But he wasn’t, so he just watched as Ronan’s hands clenched in fists at his sides—not shaking, but not unfazed either. “Bury it, I guess.” 

“Couldn’t you dream a solution?” 

Ronan’s eyes dragged from the corpse to Adam’s. His irises reflected the church’s light, their own stained glass beauty. “No,” he said. “I already took too much.” 

“But—” 

“It’s fine,” said Ronan. Sharp. “I’ve killed many versions of myself. You have, too. Honestly, I thought this would be therapeutic for you.” 

Adam winced. “Not when it’s you.” 

Ronan winced, too. He kept staring at Adam, though. Blue eyes on blue eyes—the air between them was heavy with tension. It was the argument that still hadn’t passed. It was the body neither could forget. It was all that went unsaid. 

“You could dream a younger me,” said Adam. “Kill her. I’d probably like that.” 

“Him,” Ronan said, like a correction. 

Adam shrugged. “Sure.” 

“You’re fucked up,” Ronan said. 

“Only just realizing that?” Adam asked. “C’mon, we’ve got a body to bury.” 

Moving the body was slow work. Ronan slipped his hands under his doppelganger’s shoulders and Adam grabbed his feet. They carried him down the nave, fingers slipping on blood and clammy hands. Adam complained that Ronan was heavy; Ronan told him to piss up a rope. Navigating the door was the hardest part: Adam reached behind himself, he fumbled the door handle, Ronan swore at him, Adam got his grip, the door opened. They carried the body into the night and dumped it in the back of the shark-nosed BMW. 

Adam wiped his hands on his jeans. “You know this is insane, right?” 

“You don’t have to help, Parrish,” Ronan bit. Venom leaked from his tongue, but Adam was immune. He knew Ronan well enough to know when he was deflecting—hurting others to pretend he wasn’t hurting, too. 

“Don’t be a bitch, Lynch,” Adam said. “This is the second body I’ve helped you bury. Saying thank you wouldn’t kill you.” 

“It might,” said Ronan, and then he slammed into the driver’s seat of his dead father’s car. He started the engine, and Adam barely had time to climb in after him before he peeled out of St Agnes’ parking lot, tires squealing on the pavement. 

There was no surprise when Ronan drove them to the Barns. Part of Adam wanted to ask how many bodies were buried on the property; the larger part of him knew Ronan wouldn’t know. Too many, Adam guessed. He tried not to think about it as his feet crunched on the gravel drive where Niall’s middle son found his body. He tried even harder when his feet padded on the soft ground of soft soil. 

They dropped the body. Adam wouldn’t forget that either—the sound of Ronan Lynch’s lifeless body hitting the ground. 

“Shovels,” he said. 

“Yeah,” said Ronan. 

They were lucky it wasn’t cold. The ground was as soft, if not softer, under the shovel as it felt under Adam’s feet—no frozen over ice chill to break through. They were less lucky that it was warm. It was hard work to bury a body, it took longer than one might think. Dirt was smeared on cheekbones and sweat dripped down Adam’s neck. Quiet trickled through the fading night, only the stars above twinkled their amused chatter. Adam and Ronan didn’t say a word until the dreamt Ronan was out of sight, concealed under five feet of dirt. 

“Juice,” Ronan said. 

“Yeah,” said Adam. 

Inside the farmhouse, Ronan and Adam fought over the kitchen sink. They jostled each other with shoulders knocking shoulders and elbows knocking ribs—though the latter was more Adam’s doing than Ronan’s. They bickered, too, sharing words like: it was my dead body and yeah, exactly, it’s your fucking germs and my germs??? do you think I have cooties? and go to hell, Lynch. 

When their hands were clean—the dirt on their faces stayed where it was—Ronan opened the fridge and Adam slipped his tarot cards from his pocket. He shuffled once, twice. He looked at Ronan’s hunched back, the way his shirt clung and exposed tendrils of black ink. He shuffled again, and he pulled a card from the middle of the stack—it was warm, fuzzy. It hit the counter with a small smack, and Adam laughed. 

Empress, reversed. 

“Are you doing your witchy shit in my kitchen?” Ronan asked. 

“Yeah,” said Adam. “Card just outed us, I think.” 

Ronan put a glass of orange juice in front of Adam, meanwhile taking a swig directly from the carton. “Pull another one.” 

Adam closed his eyes. The image of the gory envelope and the shattered spine of a dying Ronan flickered in his subconscious, but he pushed both away. He cleared his mind of intention. Ronan gargled his orange juice like the disgusting teenage boy he was. Adam shuffled again, only once this time. A card nudged at his fingertips, and he set it down beside the Empress, and Ronan laughed. 

The Devil, also reversed. 

“Told you he was trans,” Ronan said. 

Adam rolled his eyes. “That’s not what that means.” 

The two cards side by side meant the necessity to break free of detrimental, self destructive patterns. It meant overcoming barriers and regaining control. It meant the defeat of exhaustion and the return of creation. Ronan didn’t ask what it meant, just said, “Drink your juice, Parrish.” Adam drank his juice. 

“Get in there,” Ronan said, pointing at the shopping cart. 

When they were kids, Ronan and Matthew used to ride on the sides of the shopping cart, hanging on for dear life while Niall pretended to take corners too sharp, brushing his sons against produce and boxes of cereal. It always made Ronan suck in his breath, stomach hollowed out to limit the damage. Matthew would only roar with laughter. Declan would walk beside the cart complaining, “Dad, be careful.” 

“Fuck off,” said Adam. He’d been frowning ever since they pulled Gwenllian out of the tomb, fair eyebrows slack and mouth contorted. She’d called him a mongrel; Ronan made several dog jokes in retaliation. “I’ve already broken one rib. I’m not planning on breaking another.” 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Ronan said. He jostled the shopping cart. “You’ll be fine. C’mon, Parrish, I know you’re not a coward.” 

Adam flipped him off, but took the bait. He climbed into the cart alongside toothpaste and shaving cream. Ronan watched him pull his knees up to his chest, making himself small—mirroring the same instinct Ronan had bowed to in contracting his lungs. “This is stupid,” Adam said. His hands gripped the sides of the cart, but he seemed to think better of it as they quickly went back to his legs, hugging himself. “If I die—” 

“You’re not gonna die,” Ronan interrupted. He didn’t let Adam protest any further, just took off running through the parking lot. One, two, three paces and then Ronan was leaping onto the back of the shopping cart, feet planted on the bars and hands white-knuckling the handle. A joyous whoop! fled from Ronan’s lips like a bird taking flight. They soared through the lot, uneven pavement rattling under them. Ronan’s bones were vibrating, his skeleton getting ready to hatch. Maybe when his skin broke, his bones would take flight, too. 

The LORD will fight for you, and you have only to keep still (Exodus 14:14). 

But Ronan Lynch did not want to be still. What he wanted was the thrill of speed. Like this, Ronan wasn’t a boy burdened by being born. Ronan wasn’t Ronan at all. The lines of his body blurred so much they hardly existed at all. He was a cosmic thing tearing through space and time, untethered from the anchor tug of reality. Speeding was a bit like dreaming, in that way. In dreams, Ronan was everything and nothing, himself and a stranger. In motion, there was no clarity for definitions, there was just adrenaline. 

It was even better with Adam here. They were barreling towards a crash and Ronan wasn’t going to stop them, even if it was sure to end in scabs. He was going to keep his feet off the ground for as long as he could, and he had a feeling Adam knew that. He cringed against their momentum, body compressed so tight and eyes squeezed shut. Ronan almost felt sorry for him—almost. Except that it was better with him here, made Ronan’s heart beat even faster. 

They hit a pothole, and everything toppled. The cart went sideways and Ronan went limp against gravity and his back hit the pavement hard. Breath was knocked out of him, stolen by the sky and carried away by the wind. He sucked in a gasp, and then he gave that air away too. Like Matthew in youth, Ronan laughed. With a tube of toothpaste on his chest and road rash on his forearms, Ronan laughed like a maniac. His limbs tingled down to the tips of his toes and his fingers. 

Adam groaned a quiet sound. 

He was sprawled on the pavement, same as Ronan was, a little bloodied and sure to be bruised soon. He was already picking at the raw skin of his elbow, mouth slack and eyebrows furrowed. No more of that frown, Ronan thought, like he’d won something in wiping it away. That was sort of how it felt. Adam groaned another quiet sound. 

“Any broken ribs?” Ronan asked. He was just close enough to nudge the toe of his boot against Adam’s chest. Predictably, Adam swatted him away with a vicious hand. 

“I don’t know,” he said. His voice was tight as he moved to sit up, wiping pebbles from his skin and wincing at the shift in his weight. Ronan Lynch was such an asshole. “Ow,” Adam said. 

“You’re fine,” Ronan said, decisive. A little sore, Ronan stood. He stretched his arms above his head—reaching, always reaching. “Should probably take your binder off, though.” 

“We’re in the middle of a parking lot,” Adam protested, “in case you forgot.” 

Ronan looked down at him. He looked pathetic, clutching his side and complaining. Ronan didn’t have any words for Adam, so he just sort of— flicked his hands at him. It was a stupid gesture, and that, for some reason, knocked Adam out of his shit mood. He laughed, and then winced about laughing, and then laughed some more.

“Oh, Jesus,” he said. “You’re the fucking worst, Lynch.” 

“Whatever you say, Parrish,” Ronan answered. He put the stupid shopping cart back where it belonged, and then he collected the supplies the cart had puked up, and then he dumped them in the back seat of the BMW, and then he came back to collect Adam, too. He extended a hand, saying, “Come on. Up and at ‘em.” Palm against palm, knuckle against knuckle, Ronan dragged Adam to his feet. Adam’s hand found his own chest when he stood; Ronan watched him take a slow breath. 

In the car, Adam said, “Close your eyes.” 

Ronan did, and he covered them with two hands like a child. 

Two minutes and some rustling later, Adam said, “Alright.” 

The dreamt binder sat on his lap, but Ronan didn’t pay it any mind. He didn’t look at Adam, just started the BMW’s engine and tore out of the grocery store parking lot. He treated the speed limit as a suggestion as he ripped through Henrietta, heading back to 300 Fox Way. 

They finally had the fight—the big one, the one that had been building since that day in the hospital—a few hours after Maura was rescued. It was an idiotic time to be arguing. They’d descended into the cave of ravens, they’d woken sleeping bones, they’d been separated, Adam and Gansey had paced holes through the floor, Ronan had sat alone in the dark while Blue almost died, Blue almost died, Jesse Diddly did die, and Perspehone was still dead. All this to say: it had been a long night. 

It had been a long night, and they were all exhausted, and Adam didn’t really understand how they had gotten here. One minute, Ronan was following Adam home to St Agnes, and the next, they were shouting. Well, Adam was shouting. And because Adam was shouting, Ronan wasn’t. 

“You’ll let me find you an apartment, you’ll let me lower your rent, you’ll let me dream you a binder, but you won’t let me make you an appointment with my doctor?” Ronan asked, volume level but voice incredulous. “That’s where you draw the line? How does that make any sense, Parrish?” 

“I shouldn’t have let you do any of those things,” Adam yelled. “That’s what you don’t understand. I have to— I don’t have anything. I have to at least be able to own my own body.” 

“Oh, really? Is that why you sacrificed yourself to Cabeswater?” 

“That was my choice,” Adam said, “and I’m sick and tired of defending it to y’all. It was the right thing to do.” 

“I fucking know that,” Ronan said, “but you’re doing some pretty impressive cherry picking right now, Parrish. Tell me you don’t want HRT or— or top surgery.” 

“Fuck you!” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Of course I want that,” Adam shouted. His throat was raw. He and Gansey had spent a good five minutes pounding on the closed wall of the cave and screaming for Blue and Ronan, to no success. “But that’s not how this works for me. It’s not about want, it’s about what I can afford, and I can’t afford to go to some fancy DC doctor. I don’t have health insurance, Ronan.” 

“I fucking know that. Why do you think I’m offering to pay for it?”

“Offering to own me, more like.”

“Why do you always have to make things so difficult for yourself?” Ronan asked. “I have no interest in owning you, I’m just trying to help.” 

“Well, stop,” Adam said. “If I let you do this, I would owe you for the rest of my life.” 

“You think I don’t know how that feels? You think I’m not going to owe Gansey until the end of time? Or what about Declan? Think I don’t owe him too?” 

“That’s not the same.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because you’re you,” Adam shouted. The vowels ricocheted off the walls, scattered through the cramped room like stray bullets. One was bound to make a fatal hit. “You’ve been out since you were five to a loving, supportive family. You’ve been on hormones since before I even knew that was an option. You’ve had top surgery. Have you looked in the mirror recently? Not a single person would look at you and think you’re anything other than cis. You could pay Gansey or Declan back tomorrow and it would be easy. It’s all been fucking easy for you and that’s inf—” 

“Fuck you, Parrish,” Ronan said. “No, seriously, fuck you. I get it, okay? I have money, my parents were good people before the fucking dreaming destroyed them. I get it. But this—” Ronan choked a little. “This isn’t easy for me. I still avoid mirrors, y’know? Like I’m terrified of what I’ll see. I still go to confession every Sunday and beg God to forgive me for hating His image. This isn’t fucking easy for any of us. That’s why I want to help you. Because yeah, yeah, whatever I’m privileged and you’re not, but I get it. I get what it’s like. It hurts. Every fucking day it hurts, and it hurts a little less for me now, and that— I want that for you because I—” 

Ronan stopped speaking. He sat down on the floor, right where he stood, and put his head in his hands. It was probably the most genuine display of emotion Adam had ever seen from Ronan, and it made him freeze. Anger still boiled within him, but it was dying down to a simmer. 

Adam was an idiot. 

He sat down next to Ronan. Into his hands, Ronan said, “I know it’s worse for you than it is—” 

“No,” Adam said. “I’m being a dick. It shouldn’t be a competition.” 

“You’re always a dick,” Ronan said. He looked up at Adam, eyes a little damp, but neither acknowledged the fact. 

“Yeah,” Adam said. He sighed. “Look, I know you’re just trying to help. But I can’t do it this way. I just— I have to do it on my own.” 

“Fuck that.” 

“Excuse me?” 

The anger rippled to bubbling once more. 

“You can do it your way,” Ronan said, “with all your million jobs and savings. But you’re not doing it on your own.” 

“I don’t have a million jobs,” Adam complained. But really, he was touched by the sentiment. It was rare for Ronan to be like this: openly emotive, openly showing care with words instead of actions. Maybe Adam had seen it a few times with Matthew or maybe with Gansey after a stint of panic or maybe with Noah, but this Ronan had never been pointed at him before. Adam’s heart gave a traitorous squeeze; he showed his gratitude with action, a knock of his arm against Ronan’s. 

Ronan slept on the floor of St Agnes that night. He was too exhausted to make the drive home to Monmouth, and really, Adam didn’t mind. It wasn’t the first or the last time he fell asleep to the quiet sound of Ronan’s breath. 

Ronan hadn’t meant to take Orphan Girl out of his dreams. But he had, and now, the little runt wailed as Ronan tried to leave her in Cabeswater, clinging to his leg the way Ronan used to cling to Niall’s. He wanted to kick her off, but instead slipped fingers under her skullcap to parse through blond curls. His fingers caught on knots, and he didn’t pull. 

“You need to stay,” he said. “You’re the one that wanted to come with me.”

“Kerah.” 

“No,” Ronan said. “Ronan.” 

She did not call him Ronan. She just wailed a little more. 

Ronan could feel his friends’ eyes on him—Adam’s especially. He was a creepy bastard with a hundred pound stare. The weight of it tickled goosebumps at the back of Ronan’s neck, a prickling heat like an invisible fly in need of swatting. Ronan ignored all of them—Adam especially. 

“Ro.” 

Ronan took pity on her, and he pried her off his leg enough to kneel before her. “Don’t be a shit,” he said. “You’re here now, and things are different. Be nice to Mom.” 

“Ro,” she cried. 

“Yeah,” he said. 

Her grubby fingers played at Adam’s watch wrapped around her wrist; Ronan pulled her skullcap down to cover her eyes. By the time she pulled it back up again, Ronan had stood and walked away, ushering his friends quickly back through the twisting of time. 

Adam was still looking at him. 

Ronan wasn’t going to be able to get away with this one. 

When Gansey dropped Adam at St Agnes, Ronan got out with him. He stomped into the church, letting the door slam closed behind him, an echo ringing off the walls. Sliding into a pew, Ronan ducked his head low enough his neck muscles strained and he thought: It was an accident. He prayed: I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m like this. He begged: Why am I like this? 

The doors opened again, though gently this time, and Adam stood at the threshold. He looked awkward, and Ronan wondered if he was remembering the last time they were here together: gore and dead bodies and more gore. 

“She’s you, isn’t she?” 

“I never had goat legs, Parrish.” 

Adam sat in the pew opposite Ronan, across the nave. Where Ronan had ducked his head in reverent worship, Adam tipped his back in unfettered curiosity. Freckles dotted his face and lingered down the long, long line of his throat. You shall have no other gods before me, Ronan reminded himself, Exodus 20:3. He didn’t apologize for this sin. 

“But she’s still you,” Adam said. “You know I was kidding when I asked you to dream up an inner child. It wasn’t an actual suggestion.” 

“She’s been in my dreams for years. She wasn’t supposed to come with me.” 

“I thought you had control?” 

“Not all of us can be perfect all the time, Parrish.” 

“You think I’m perfect?” 

Yes. “Fuck off.” 

“She called you Ro,” Adam said. He finally looked at Ronan, eyes as inquisitive as they always were. 

“It’s a nickname,” Ronan said. He wasn’t a liar, so he didn’t add the just that begged for release behind his teeth. No one living, real, not in his head had called him that in years. Hearing it from Orphan Girl wasn’t that weird; hearing it from Adam made his stomach muscles clench, bracing for— something. 

“It’s what you were called before you were Ronan, isn’t it?” 

Ronan didn’t say anything. 

“Shouldn’t you be calling her Ro, then?” 

“She’s not me.” 

“Really? Because she looks just like you.” 

“She’s not me,” Ronan repeated. His voice dripped with glass shards. “At least, not really. A version of me maybe, but—” 

“But?” 

“She’s not me,” Ronan said. “And I’m not calling her Ro.” 

“But you really shouldn’t call her Orphan Girl.” 

“Why not?” 

“It’s not very nice, is it?” 

“I’m not very nice, Parrish.” 

“You were nice to her,” said Adam. “I saw you. You care about her.” 

“Like I said,” Ronan said, “she’s been in my dreams for years.” 

“If I dreamt about my younger self,” Adam said, “it would be a nightmare. Is she a nightmare?” 

“No.” 

Adam pushed himself up and out of the pew. He stood over Ronan, hair haloed by afternoon light, all angels and the divine. Ronan thought: Little children, keep yourselves from idols (1 John 5:21). But then a second later he thought: what did God know about Adam Parrish? Surely Ronan could be forgiven for bending to Adam Parrish. Who wouldn’t? Surely Ronan couldn’t be blamed for being tempted by Adam Parrish. Who would be able to resist? 

“You were a cute kid,” Adam said. 

“Fuck off, fuckface,” Ronan said. 

“Can I call you Ro?” Adam asked. 

Yes, Ronan thought, but he didn’t answer. He ducked his head again, and Adam left him to his prayers.  

Adam Parrish didn’t believe in God. If he did, then his God would have to be one of vengeance and punishment and cruelty, and Adam didn’t want that. He already had one father figure with a preference for pain. Instead, Adam’s religion was science: the big bang theory, evolution, time as a linear, measurable thing. For years, Adam thought them unchallengeable beliefs. 

And then he met Gansey. 

Gansey told of magic—ley lines, dead kings, resurrections—and Adam brushed it aside with the excuse of coincidences and folly. 

And then Blue came along. 

Blue told of psychics—time as a rope to be skipped with—and Adam couldn’t brush this aside. But being a psychic himself, it didn’t feel like magic. It felt like an old art form forgotten by most and remembered by few; it felt like waking up. 

And then there was Noah. 

Noah was dead, and yet he still lingered. That one was harder to explain, but it was all just energy and sacrifice and echoes, and that had a home in science, probably. 

But then there was Ronan. 

Ronan, who could pull dreams from his head, out of sleep and into wake. Ronan, who had dreamt his pet raven. Ronan, who had dreamt night horrors and nightmares. Ronan, who had dreamt his inner child. Ronan, who had dreamt Cabeswater, the magical forest Adam had bartered with. Ronan, who dreamt cars and binders and the concept of a dream made into a physical object. 

Ronan, who had dreamt his younger brother. 

“Matthew’s you too, isn’t he?” 

They were supposed to be working on a dreamt wasp-proof suit of armor for Gansey—Ronan’s latest obsession—but it had been several long minutes since Ronan last slept. Adam sat cross legged on the floor of the white-roofed barn, toying with strands of hay, and Ronan stretched out in a recliner. He looked oddly peaceful for the task at hand. Adam could give him urgency, could tell him about the death list and Gansey’s name on it, but he didn’t. 

“He was supposed to be,” Ronan said. “Clearly didn’t work, and now I’m stuck with the little shit.” 

Adam laughed. He straightened his legs, letting the prickle of the earth scratch at the vulnerable backs of his knees. “You love him.” 

“Whatever,” Ronan said. “I was only three when I dreamt him. I didn’t know what I was doing, not consciously, but yeah. Pretty sure he was supposed to be me—the lovable little brother. As if.” 

Adam laughed again. “Yeah, that doesn’t sound like you, Lynch,” and then, “Are you gonna try the armor again, or are we just fucking around?” 

Ronan threw up a middle finger, but Adam could see his eyes drift closed. It was impressive, how quickly he slipped between the realms of wake and sleep. It was enchanting, how his chest rose and fell but everything else went still. Wind rustled outside and Adam cleared his throat and Chainsaw squawked from where she was doing laps above the barn, but nothing woke Ronan. He stayed deeply submerged in the waters of sleep, only surfacing when he chose to, and even then it wasn’t with a gasp or with panic. 

His eyes opened, so calm Adam wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t watching so closely, and a miniature sun spun just above his chest. 

While Ronan was paralyzed, Adam approached. He sat beside the armchair, looking up at the glowing orb of light. It was hard to look right at it—not in the way the word, book, dream had been uncomfortably unreal: it was simply too bright. The light burned at Adam’s retinas, so he squinted at it. As slowly as the orb spun, it slowly rose, rose, rose. When the sun was nearly out of reach, Adam reached out. Ronan grabbed his wrist, “Careful, Icarus.” 

“What does it do?” asked Adam. 

“Nothing,” said Ronan. “It’s just the sun.” 

“It’s pretty.” Adam watched as the miniature sun lifted higher, drifting towards the ceiling. It burned a hole right through the roof; Adam wondered how far it would go. Passed the clouds? Passed the moon? Maybe Adam was Icarus because he wanted to follow it. 

“Saepe creat molles aspera spina rosas,” Ronan quoted. Often the prickly thorn produces tender roses. 

“Fuck,” Adam whispered back. His eyes dropped to Ronan’s. “Is that Ovid?” 

Ronan huffed a breath, nearly a laugh. “Yeah.” Then, he said, voice tired and a little sad, “It’s getting worse, whatever’s eating the dreams.” 

“I could scry,” Adam offered, “if you wanted to try again.” 

“Nah,” Ronan said, “gotta make sure Chainsaw doesn’t eat the sun.” 

He stood from his chair then, hinges squeaking as the footrest was shoved back into place, and he stomped out of the white-roofed barn. Adam looked up, once more, at the hole in the roof. Probably they could patch it today. He followed Ronan. 

“Bird!” he yelled. 

Chainsaw was chasing the sun. 

Adam laughed. 

“Don’t laugh,” Ronan said, finger pointed at Adam’s chest. “She could die.” 

“Offer her a treat,” said Adam. He’d never had a pet before, but the neighborhood dogs liked him because he always ripped them little pieces from his lunch or snacks. It was stupid, really. Adam couldn’t afford to give away food, but he would happily go hungry for a scrap of affection. 

“Chainsaw,” Ronan shouted. “Crackers! Soda! Ham!” He sighed. “Trash.” 

Chainsaw stopped chasing the sun. Ronan kicked over a trash can, and Chainsaw screamed with victory, beak pecking at banana peels and dented cans. It couldn’t be good for her, but it was better than the molten hot surface of the sun. 10,000 degrees Fahrenheit, science suggested. 

Adam looked up. The miniature sun got easier to look at the farther away it flew. Bobbing like a balloon, it drifted in the wind and swam closer to its starry peers. Steadily, it rose until it broke the clouds and disappeared entirely. 

“It’s not gonna, like, hit a plane or anything, right?” 

“Doubt it. Unless— Helen’s not coming to town, is she?” 

Adam kicked him in the shin. “That’s not funny.” 

“Loser,” Ronan said. 

Ronan, who dreamt his very own sun. Ronan, who could not be explained by science. He had dismantled every belief Adam had ever had; he wasn’t as bothered by it as he probably should’ve been. If there was a God worth believing in, Adam was pretty sure it would be Ronan Lynch. 

Adam was sitting on the floor of Ronan’s bedroom playing with a toy car. It was a dream object, as most things in this room were, but it was a nuisance more than anything special. The wheels played four different, simultaneous Irish lilts when it rolled across the ground—or, in this case, Adam’s palm. Ronan’s favorite of the four was “The Magic Potion.” 

Ronan didn’t remember the dream that the car came from, but he remembered the night before he woke up with it in his hand. Niall and Declan had left on one of their super secret field trips, the wheels of the BMW grinding over the gravel of the driveway, and Ronan had stomped his foot with tears in his eyes for being left behind. He had begged to come along, but Niall had said no. Aurora soothed Ronan with a lilt, accent stumbling over nonsensical syllables meant to mimic the sounds of percussion instruments. Ronan had fallen asleep with his mother’s hand in his hair, missing his father’s bedtime stories, and woke with a toy car that sang. 

It wasn’t a very creative dream, Ronan thought, but then again, sometimes the most special things were the most obvious.

Like Adam Parrish—he didn’t creep up on Ronan. He didn’t slowly, slowly climb into Ronan’s heart, prying the organ open with bitten blunt nails. No, Adam just showed up. The LORD God called to Adam, and said to him, “Where are you?” (Genesis 3:9). And there he was. He was dragging a rusty bike on the side of the road, and oh, there you are, Ronan’s heart said. Though it had been years since Ronan saw Adam Parrish for the first time, not much had changed. His heart still saw him and said please. There was only Before Adam and After Adam. It was obvious, always had been. 

Ronan sat beside him, leaning back against the bed. 

“I didn’t find the aluminum foil,” Adam said. He put the toy car down, flushed a little pink like he was embarrassed to be caught playing with it. Ronan pushed the toy away so it sang a clashing rhythm of dissonant harmonies. 

“I can see that,” Ronan said. He looked at Adam. It was the kind of look he didn’t usually allow himself, one where he noticed everything: the slope of his nose, the fairness of his brows, the speckling freckles on his cheeks, the hollow of his temple, the different shades of his eyes. They were blue mostly, but if you got close enough, you could see the golden brown ring around the pupil and the flecks across the iris, matching his freckles. He was fucking beautiful. 

And then Adam looked at Ronan. 

And then Ronan kissed him.

Ronan had three best days in his life. One: the day of his top surgery, when he woke up to Gansey holding his hand and offering him vanilla pudding before Ronan could even say hi. Two: the day Declan gave him his name and his suit jacket and played catch with him after church. Three: the day he dreamt the replacement Camaro. Ronan was currently deciding which of these three would have to be abandoned to make room for this. 

This kiss. 

Ronan’s first kiss. 

Adam’s lips were chapped from the cold of November, but his hands were soft where they cradled Ronan’s face. Ronan’s lips were tingling, and his hands slid into Adam’s hair. He didn’t know how to do this, but it didn’t matter when Adam did. Ronan bit a little at Adam’s lower lip, and he tugged a little at brown hair, and Adam whispered, “easy.” Breathed it right into Ronan’s mouth, and Ronan listened. He eased up. He kissed Adam soft, gentle, tender. He touched him soft, gentle, tender. He gave Adam only what he deserved: kindness. 

Adam gave Ronan something he could never deserve. This, this kiss, this first kiss of Ronan’s. It was too good to be true, the way Adam’s fingers scraped at the back of Ronan’s neck and the way his tongue pulled secret sounds from behind Ronan’s teeth and the way he tasted. Like nothing, but also like everything. Like Adam, Adam, Adam. Ronan melted into him, candles dripping wax, he could die like this. He could burn at Adam’s touch, and never care. He could drown in this kiss, and never want for air. It was too good to be real. 

“Ronan.” 

Ronan pulled away. He panted against Adam’s mouth. 

“Are you sure I didn’t dream you?” he asked, eyes still closed. He couldn’t look at Adam and not dive back into him. 

Adam laughed, a quiet amused sound. “Would you have dreamt me wrong?” 

Ronan knocked their foreheads together, a little rougher than he meant to be. There, he whispered, softer than he had maybe ever spoken, “You’re not wrong.” 

“You didn’t dream me.” Cupping the back of his head, thumb circling idle patterns over the soft buzz of Ronan’s blond hair, Adam said, “I’m all clay and dust and dirt.” 

“And to dust you shall return?” 

“Mm.” 

Ronan opened his eyes, pulled away to look at Adam. His pupils were blown enough to almost eat the brown that surrounded them; his lips were red and swollen; his expression crinkled in a tiny smile. Fuck. Ronan wanted to scream or curse or both, but all he could really say was: 

“Adam.” 

They kissed again. Sweet as summer honey, Adam’s lips dripped over Ronan’s. Slow as homemade molasses, Ronan’s lips caught every drop of him. He wanted to devour him whole, every piece of Ronan wanted to consume every perfect piece of Adam. He was too good to be true, but he was. He wasn’t real, but he was. Because Adam Parrish had made himself. Because Ronan Lynch was made for this. 

This God, this worship. 

Ronan’s first love. 

Adam moved down Ronan’s jaw, his neck, and made a home of his throat. He breathed on his pulse point, damp kisses even without lips to leave their mark. It was there that Adam murmured, for the first time since he had asked permission, “Ro.” 

So out of the ground the LORD God formed every animal of the field and every bird of the air, and brought them to Adam to see what he would call them; and whatever the man called every living creature, that was its name (Genesis 2:19).

“Ro.” He kissed the beast’s jugular, and the beast got its name back. “Ro.” 

It was the worst sound Adam had ever heard. Worse than the dreamt copy of Ronan choking on his own blood, worse than the dreamt body hitting the ground. Because this wasn’t a copy of Ronan, this was Ronan, and he was being unmade. It sounded like this: a long stretch of silence, and then a gasping breath, a dying whimper, and then another long stretch of silence, and then a gasping breath, a dying whimper. Round and round they went as Ronan fought his way out of sleep only to be dragged back into it. 

It was hell. 

This was hell. 

Adam’s hands were bound, his eyes were covered, he could only hear out of one ear. He was barely a person right now. There was nothing he could do to help; he couldn’t fix this. All he could do was thrash against the restraints he had requested. All he could do was listen as Ronan was unmade. 

It wasn’t fair. 

This wasn’t fair. 

Ronan was being unmade. But he was the only one allowed to unmake himself. Ronan had spent years tearing down his old self and building a new self in its place. HRT, surgery, shaved head, tattoos, muscles. It was all being taken from him now, unraveled by a demon who was the opposite of creation. This demon that was so weak its only weapon was destruction, and yet it was working so well. And yet, Adam could hear a gasping breath and then a dying whimper. 

Silence. 

A gasping breath. 

A dying whimper. 

Silence. 

A gasping breath. 

A dying whimper. 

It was the worst sound Adam had ever heard. It was the worst moment of his life. Worse than his father fracturing his rib and his ossicles, worse than putting his hands around Ronan’s neck and squeezing.

It got even worse: 

Gansey said, it has to be now. (Silence.) Blue kissed Gansey. (A gasping breath.) Gansey died. (A dying whimper.) Gansey died. (Silence.) Gansey died. (A gasping breath.)

before it got better: 

Ronan woke up. Ronan sobbed. Henry said, be magicians. Cabeswater died. Gansey woke up. 

It didn’t happen right away—there was a lot of fussing over Gansey first, checking pulse points and asking questions and allowing themselves to believe that he was okay, he was okay, he was alive—but it did happen. Adam’s hand reached for Ronan’s and Ronan’s reached for his. For a moment, they were two hands suspended in extension, and then— Adam caught Ronan’s wrist. They hugged, hard. Their ribs slotted together, as if Adam’s had been broken only to make this perfect alignment. 

“Ronan,” Adam whispered. He kissed the pink line of Ronan’s throat, where a bruise would form in the days that followed, blue melting to green melting to yellow. Adam’s hands had done that. Adam had done that. “Ronan.” 

“I’m okay,” Ronan said, lips brushing the shell of his hearing ear. “It wasn’t you. It was the devil.” 

Adam laughed a little. He couldn’t help it—he still wasn’t used to the sincerity in Ronan’s voice and, really, the whole thing was ridiculous. The devil, he said, and he wasn’t even wrong. What was the difference between the devil and the demon? Did they teach Ronan that in Sunday school, or did they just teach him to hate himself? 

“Why do you find the devil funny, Parrish?” Ronan asked. He pulled back, just enough to dislodge Adam from the crook of his neck, just enough to look up at him through pale lashes. 

“I don’t,” Adam said.

“You do,” Ronan argued. “It’s a tragic story, really.” 

“Uh huh,” Adam said. He reached up to touch Ronan’s face, wiping away the inky black lines that trailed from his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his ears. The liquid decay seeped into the spiral swirls of Adam’s finger pads, but he didn’t mind. He thought only of Theseus to Herakles: Stain them, I don’t care. “You’re a wreck,” he said. 

“So are you,” Ronan said. He touched two fingers to Adam’s wrists where rope burn turned tan skin to roses. Then, he touched the same two fingers to Adam’s knuckles where dried blood still lingered. 

“I don’t think it’s mine,” said Adam. He shrugged, like it didn’t bother him, though they both knew it did. It could bother him later. Right now, Adam needed the relief of Ronan alive, Gansey alive, Opal alive, everyone alive. He needed to hold Ronan close, so he did. Pulled him into another embrace and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, where skin met spikes of blond hair. Reminding himself, more than anyone else, he said, “We’re okay.” 

“Sure are, Parrish.” 

When they kissed, shiny shadow sap passed between them. It didn’t taste like anything. 

The day before Adam’s nineteenth birthday, Ronan drove him to see his doctor in DC. On Adam’s nineteenth birthday, the two of them stood in the Barns’ only full bathroom, prepping for Adam’s first injection of testosterone. 

“You gonna let me do yours?” Ronan asked. 

“No,” said Adam. 

Ronan washed his hands anyway, flicking soap at Adam as some form of payback. Adam told him to stop behaving like a child. He washed his hands and put on gloves, too; Ronan fought not to roll his eyes. He never wore gloves for this, but whatever. 

“Watch and learn, Parrish,” Ronan said. He opened a sterile syringe, cleaned the top of the medicine bottle with an alcohol wipe, and withdrew his dosage. “You can change to a smaller needle after this part,” Ronan told Adam, “it’ll hurt less that way.” Ronan didn’t though. He held the skin of his thigh, cleaned it with a second alcohol wipe, checked the syringe for air bubbles, injected the needle into his muscle, checked for blood and saw none, and injected the testosterone. He didn’t wince at all. “Easy peasy.” 

“Okay,” said Adam. He nodded, as if steeling himself, and pulled his gloves further down his wrists. He picked up his own sterile syringe, struggling just a little to open the packaging. His hands were shaking; Ronan would have grabbed them, steady in his hold, if not for the importance of cleanliness. He did, however, open the alcohol wipe for Adam, careful not to touch the wipe inside. 

“Thanks,” Adam said. 

“Mhm,” said Ronan. “Now just clean your bottle.” 

Adam did. 

“Put air in the syringe,” said Ronan. “Same amount as your dose.” 

Adam did. 

“Now tip the bottle upside down,” said Ronan, “and inject the needle and the air.” 

Adam did. 

“Draw out the dose,” said Ronan, “push out any air bubbles, and you’re good to go.” 

Adam did. He stared, for a moment, at the nearly-clear yellowish liquid inside the syringe. It was such a small amount and such a simple procedure, but Ronan knew how big and complicated this actually was. Adam’s eyes were a little glossy. 

“C’mon, dipshit,” Ronan said. “Injection now, tears later.” 

Again, carefully, Ronan opened a thinner needle, and Adam wiggled it from the package, replacing the 18-gauge with a 23-gauge. He cleaned his leg with an alcohol wipe, too, and sat on the closed toilet seat. He hesitated. 

“I just—?” 

“Yeah, you just.” 

Adam stabbed the needle into his thigh—with probably a little too much force, the overeager bastard—and pulled back on the plunger. When no blood swirled with the honey gold, he pressed down. The testosterone disappeared under his skin. Adam winced, sucking air between his teeth. “Fuck,” he said, “you didn’t tell me it would sting.” 

“Pussy,” said Ronan. 

Adam flipped him off and disposed of the needle in their, now shared, sharps container. A small dot of blood rose to the surface of his leg. Ronan knelt in front of him, pressing a bandaid to the injection sight. While he was there, he kissed Adam’s knee, just because he could. You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I the LORD your God am a jealous God (Exodus 20:5). And yet, Ronan knelt anyway. 

“See?” Ronan said. “Easy.” 

“Yeah,” Adam agreed. His voice was a little thick. 

“You can cry if you want,” Ronan said. “I won’t make fun of you.” 

Adam laughed. “I’m okay.” 

He pulled Ronan up to standing though, and Ronan settled between his thighs. Adam rested his head against his stomach, probably listening to it complain for lunch, and Ronan’s hand cradled him there. He scratched gentle fingers at Adam’s scalp. There was something of a promise fulfilled in this moment: You won’t do it on your own. There was something of a promise made here, too: I’m gonna hold on to you. 

The bathroom was warm with the summer heat—the Barns didn’t really have air conditioning—too warm, really, to be pressed together like this. But Ronan didn’t pull away and Adam didn’t either. For a moment, there was just the quiet whir of the lights and the gentle hum of their synced up breaths. Ronan was thinking about staying here forever. 

Adam was, apparently, not thinking the same. Quiet, he said, “I only said yes because I don’t want to bring this with me to Harvard.” 

Way to ruin the mood, Ronan thought, but didn’t say. Subconsciously, Ronan’s hold on Adam grew a little tighter. He didn’t want Adam to leave; he knew he had to. “I know,” Ronan said because he did. When Adam asked if Ronan could call his doctor in DC, it wasn’t because he decided he could accept help without being in debt. It was because he would rather owe Ronan—Ronan, who he trusted—than start his new life in Cambridge without being able to pass. That felt, at least a little, like progress. “I know you.” 

Adam tilted his chin up, pressing it into Ronan’s solar plexus and staring, staring up at him. Ronan looked down at him. Though their first kiss had been months and months ago, on Ronan’s birthday, this thing between them still felt delicate—fragile, almost. Ronan wanted to hold it in his palms the same as he had held a fledgling Chainsaw. 

“How much are you planning to leave behind?” asked Ronan. 

Honest, more honest with Ronan than he was with anyone else, Adam answered, “As much as I can.” 

“Me?” Ronan asked. 

Adam tutted. His hands slipped under Ronan’s shirt, pushing it up and holding his waist. His palms were rough from years of work; shivers trailed up Ronan’s skin. Adam kissed Ronan’s stomach, his sternum, the harsh pink lines of his scars. He kissed each of his ribs, one side and then the other. Ronan would rip out each one, giving them all to Adam, if he asked. Ronan’s heart was doing backflips in his chest. 

“No,” Adam whispered. His mouth brushed Ronan’s skin—a more permanent tattoo than the swirling ink down Ronan’s spine. “Not you,” he promised. Their eyes met, once more, pure blue on muddy blue. Ronan wanted to memorize each freckle in Adam’s irises and each freckle on his face like constellations guiding him home. “Never you.” 

Ronan broke the toilet climbing into Adam’s lap to kiss him, hard. They laughed with new bruises on their hips and knees and matching bandaids on their thighs. 

The Barns hadn’t changed much since childhood. The BMW still sat crooked in the driveway, the porch swing still rocked idly with the wind, the windows were still cracked to let a breeze roll through the house. The absence of Niall and Aurora Lynch hung over everything, though, a storm cloud that refused to burst or thunder. 

Declan left his shoes at the door, just as he was raised to do, even as it made him look ridiculous in a pressed suit and sock clad feet. 

Another thing that hadn’t changed: the farmhouse wasn’t quiet. Die-ra-doh diethin diddly ithin doothin deethin dom, Ronan sang from somewhere in the house; Declan smiled, faintly. Laughter followed the echoes of the lilt, two halves joined in the harmony of happiness. A pair of feet bounded down the hallway, though the sound was tilted sideways—wrong in ways Declan couldn’t place.

It wasn’t Ronan that greeted Declan at the door. 

Ro, five year old Ro, stood in front of Declan Lynch. She—he?—Ro stared up at him with those big blue eyes, vast as the sky or the ocean. And the hooves. Ro had hooves, which explained the sound of clopping footsteps. On her head, a hat was hiding what Declan knew to be a tangle of golden curls. Hell under earth and heaven, Declan thought. 

“Ronan!” he yelled. 

Ro flinched. The strap of a grubby watch came up to Ro’s mouth to be chewed on absently, soothingly. Yeah, yeah, that was Declan’s fuckhead sibling. Jesus fucking Christ. 

“Ronan!” he yelled again. 

It wasn’t Ronan that came down the stairs, but Adam Parrish who joined him. The young Ro ran over to him at once, tugging at the hem of his jeans and hiding behind the crook of his knees. Declan didn’t know Adam Parrish very well, but he knew him to be a threat—a little too keen, a little too mean. But he wasn’t mean, now. He slipped his hand under the edge of the hat, and then he pushed it off entirely, and then he combed his fingers, so gently and fruitlessly, through the matted mess of curls. 

“Ronan’s in the shower,” Adam said. “He’ll be down in a minute. What are you doing here?” 

“I think I’m allowed to visit my brother,” Declan said. This was the part where he was supposed to make eye contact with Adam, let him size him up and realize Declan wasn’t going anywhere, that he would do anything for Ronan. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the stranger—his sibling—the stranger—his sibling. Declan’s curiosity ran him through like a broad sword. One foot in this Goddamn house and Declan was back in it. “Who is…?” Declan trailed off. “She?” 

It was a double edged question. 

Adam nodded in answer to the second, and to the first he said, “Opal.” 

The little girl—Opal—tugged again on Adam’s pant leg. In one swift, practiced, routine movement, Adam leaned down and picked her up. Just scooped her up into his arms and propped her on his hip. Instantly, she tucked her face into his neck. There were memories there: Ro snoring in Declan’s neck on nights when fear and loneliness brought them together. 

“She,” Declan shook his head. “She looks just like him.” 

She looked exactly like Declan’s younger sibling. The one he named Ronan, the one he drove to doctors’ appointments, the one he bought binders for, the one he injected with testosterone. The one Declan tried so hard to protect from the world and from the impossible, reasonless, partial rejection of their father. The one he had failed to protect at all. 

Declan didn’t understand. 

“Yeah, Opal’s like,” Adam paused, “his inner child.” 

“Right,” said Declan. He supposed it’s not the first of those Ronan has dreamt. “Sure. Why not?” 

Adam offered him the smallest bit of grace in the form of a sympathetic smile. Declan didn’t think he realized he was doing it, but Adam was gently rocking Opal in his arms. That reminded Declan of Aurora, and the grief of her memory turned bleaker overhead—still no lightning, though, still no rain. 

The shower upstairs went quiet. Declan didn’t realize that was part of the noise of the house until it stopped. It was only a moment more before Ronan came barreling down the stairs, shirtless with scars on his chest and too-long sweatpants nearly tripping him. He had to roll the waistband up once, twice. 

“Sup, fucker,” Ronan said, voice fire. He said the words with bite, like he so often did. Declan remembered when Ronan’s teeth were coming in; he kept a steady rotation of spoons in the freezer for him. It was something Niall should have done, if he was ever around. It was something Aurora should have done, too, if she had ever thought to soothe with anything other than touch and melodies. She was so good at love and comfort, but she wasn’t often good at solutions. She accepted things as they were, and she tutted when Declan toddled around to fix them, make them better. Declan put spoons in the freezer, and he didn't blame Ronan for using his teeth now that he had them. 

“Hello to you too, Ronan,” Declan said, voice ice. He didn’t remember when his own teeth grew in, and neither parent was alive to ask about it, but it couldn’t have been a dramatic affair. Couldn’t possibly be when he never learned to appreciate the weapons between his gums. Declan took for granted everything he had that Ronan worked so hard for. Declan didn’t bite or snap, just spoke like a man who never felt the pain of true creation. 

Declan watched, now, as Ronan approached Adam and Opal. Opal scrambled to jump out of Adam’s arms, not seeming to care that she hit the floor hard, and made a tiny nonsense noise that reminded Declan of Ronan’s horrible nonsense bird. She slammed into Ronan’s legs harder than seemed necessary, but he was prepared for her, just touched the crown of her skull the same way he did Matthew. 

Jesus Mary. 

“Ro,” the little girl said, and Declan’s thoughts clamored to a screeching halt. His ears rang with the sudden silence. The part of him he tried not to show thought she was a threat to Ronan’s sanity and should be disposed of accordingly; the other part he tried not to show wanted to keep looking at her, remembering the contented childhood he pretended he didn’t miss. “Rooooo,” the little girl sang, and Ronan smirked, ruffling her hair. He sang back to her: Die-ra-doh diethin diddly ithin doothin deethin dom. 

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, too. 

“You let her call you Ro?” Declan asked. 

Ronan looked at him, all casual, like this wasn’t a revelation. “Yeah. Adam, too.” 

Declan looked at Ronan, and then he looked at Opal. Ronan picked her up the same as Adam had, and then Declan couldn’t look at one without looking at the other. The sister Declan had helped destroy; the brother he had let destroy himself. It was a terrible thing to have failed them both, but it was another thing to see this: 

Ronan grinning at Opal, Opal grinning at Ronan. 

It was the beginning and the end side by side, and neither, really, looked that bad.