Sometimes, on the rare occasion when Ronan both slept and dreamed, he dreamt of an angel. Usually, he dreamt of the angel after consuming large amounts of alcohol, but that wasn't an issue. Not for Ronan, at least. The angel was true to all the stories and myths and legends: absolutely beautiful. He was well-built and sun-tanned, with sandy blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes that both unnerved Ronan with the sense of pure otherness they radiated and gave Ronan a feeling of safety and reassurance. Freckles were splashed over the angel's high cheekbones, and when he smiled, tiny little dimples appeared in his cheeks. More often than not, the angel made his appearances in Ronan's dreams without his wings, but when he did have wings, they were just as breathtaking as the rest of him; huge and tawny and Ronan didn't think they could have been more blindingly beautiful if they'd been pure white like an angel's wings were always depicted.

Ronan's angel wasn't perfect, though, not like the ones he heard about at church. Ronan's angel was bruised, sometimes, and the sight of the discolored patches made Ronan's blood boil. The angel didn't say anything about the apparent injuries, though, and Ronan didn't either. It was a sort of mutual, understanding brooding that both understood but neither ever mentioned.

Sometimes, the angel was angrier than Ronan, growling and throwing things and punching things and screaming. Ronan stood and watched, in those dreams, longing to go hold the angel, to reassure the beautiful boy as he'd reassured Ronan so many times, but Ronan always found that he was unable to move or speak. Sometimes, the angel was soft and gentle; during those dreams he'd wrap Ronan in his wings like a blanket and Ronan always remembered the feeling of the light feathers brushing against his bare shoulders. Sometimes, the angel was sad, and Ronan sat and helped wipe away tears. And then, during Ronan's favorite dreams, the angel was happy. The angel would smile and nudge Ronan playfully, eyes bright and unburdened. It was only during those dreams that the angel ever spoke to Ronan, and it was always the same five words said in that lilting, almost Southern accent. Nice to see you again.

Ronan craved those dreams more than anything else in life.

Ronan's angel was broken and bruised and his emotions had just as wide a range as any human, but that was fine. Ronan didn't want a perfect, all-knowing angel, because he had his broken, bruised, emotional one. After a while, Ronan had decided that his angel's name was Adam. It was fitting: the angel seemed to have gotten the short end of the stick in so many things, if the bruises were anything to go by, and yet he was still someone Ronan respected and regarded with what was as close to fondness as Ronan could be capable of.

Ronan's confession priest said that the angel in his dreams was there to guide him down the right path of life. Ronan had always fancied the idea that the angel was a figment of his imagination to represent his own emotional turmoil, but he didn't see why both theories couldn't be right.

When Ronan was nineteen, his angel disappeared. Soon after, he took a turn for the worse. Everything seemed darker when all that met him during a heavy alcohol-induced stupor was blackness. By the time Ronan was twenty three, he was done. He was too alone, and he needed his angel. If nothing else, Ronan mused, Ronan would go to Adam instead of the other way around. So that's what Ronan did.

When Ronan woke next, he was back at the his childhood home. It was somehow realer than it ever had been when Ronan had been alive. Ronan knew he was dead, and a part of him was somehow glad for it.

"Nice to see you again."

Ronan sat up so fast that his head spun but he didn't care. Adam was standing in front of him, smiling sadly. His wings rustled behind him as he sighed a little.

"Took you long enough." Ronan's voice was rough with emotion, but there was no venom to it. Adam knew him well enough to have been able to see through any pretenses of lashing out Ronan might have been able to put up, so Ronan didn't even bother trying.

The angel shrugged softly. He was wearing a pale grey tank top and his thumbs were hooked into the front pockets of his faded blue jeans. "Sorry. I didn't want to leave, if that helps any."

Ronan shrugged back and stood, dusting off his pants. "It's not too big a deal. I mean, you're here now, yeah?"

Adam smiled softly, eyes sad. "I guess. This wasn't how this was supposed to happen, though."

"I'm telling you, don't apologize. Jesus, you're more annoying when you talk."

At that, Adam laughed, and Ronan could have sworn that all he needed was that noise to be in heaven. Dying was just a boring magic trick at a child's birthday party, when Adam was laughing like that.

Adam held a hand out, his comfortingly unsettling eyes sparkling with mischief and unsolved mysteries that Ronan wanted to peel apart layer by layer until he knew Adam as well as Adam knew him. "Well, are you coming or not? It's not like I can ditch you now."

Ronan didn't even hesitate to take Adam's hand. It was warm and a little calloused and it felt more solid and real than anything in life had. Ronan closed his eyes as white light enveloped him, knowing that whatever would happen next would be fine with him, because he had Adam again.

Decades later, two teenagers lay in an old bed in a dingy apartment. It wasn't much, but it was theirs, and that was all they needed. The boy with the blonde hair and cornflower eyes had his back to the wall, a bruise still healing along the curve of his cheek bone. There wouldn't be any more bruises, though, and he knew it, so he was more than content. His legs tangled lazily with those of the shirtless boy with the shaven head and the spidery tattoo on his back and scars on his arms and his mind. Adam traced Ronan's tattoo gently with the tips of the fingers of one of his hands, the other freckled hand clasped warmly in Ronan's. It was lazy and peaceful and gentle and every moment screamed those three words that they'd said too many times to count but the phrase still hadn't lost its meaning. I love you.

They were both a little broken and a little bruised and too emotional for their own goods, in the words of their friend Richard Campbell Gansey III, but they didn't care. They had each other, and their jagged edges fit well enough for them to know that they'd heal. They didn't care that what Ronan had seen and what Adam had been through was shitty enough for what seemed like a million lives, because Adam was Ronan's broken angel and Ronan was Adam's scarred one.

They knew they'd be fine no matter what happened, as long as they had each other.