"Fuck,'' said Hennessy, slamming the motel room door behind her, "our lives.''
Ronan couldn't help agreeing. He took a shaky breath, and slumped against the wall, utterly spent. His right hand clasped his left bicep as if that would dull the fire that pulsed through his arm.
Bryde shrugged his backpack to the floor, and turned his hawkish gaze to Hennessy. While the two of them discussed in low tones all the possible ways they could have been followed, Ronan glanced around the motel room. It looked like all the other motels the dreamers had crashed at over the past five weeks. Cheap, mundane. Two beds, a rickety sofa, one bathroom. No one would look twice at the ugly concrete building. It was the perfect place to lie low while being pursued by a swarm of Moderators with handguns and unresolved daddy issues. The motel, shabby though it was, still beat huddling under a bridge. Although, Ronan thought, shivering, it probably isn't much warmer. He couldn't tell if the heater was broken or if the air conditioner was exceptionally functional.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck,'' Hennessy chanted under her breath. Then, just for good measure, "Shit.''
"Possibility of being followed is high, then?" Ronan muttered.
"She's just venting,'' said Bryde. His head was tipped back, eyes studying a crack in the ceiling. "We're safe.'' For now. The unspoken words hung weightily in the air. We're safe for now.
The Moderators, convinced one of the dreamers would end the world, had tracked Ronan, Bryde, and Hennessy down in Philadelphia three days prior, and the dreamers had only just shaken them, hopping a bus from Camden to Trenton. The latest confrontation had been ugly, neither party remaining unscathed. The Moderators resorted to open-fire. Bryde had dreamt a gun (which no one was expecting), and he pulled it out and shot the closest Moderator in the leg. Most of the Moderators were too surprised to immediately react, but one wasted no time in shooting Ronan. At first, he'd been more shocked than anything else. Now though, several hours later, it really fucking hurt.
Hennessy, who seemed to have recovered a bit, turned to face Bryde and Ronan. "Okay.'' Then again, "Okay. Now what?"
Bryde nodded towards Ronan, and crouched down beside the backpack he'd dropped. He unzipped it and started rifling through the contents. Ronan watched him pull out a first-aid kit. We have one of those? Had Bryde dreamt it? Hennessy? It wasn't one of Ronan's dream things. Maybe one of his companions had bought it at a drugstore. He couldn't tell what they purchased and what they dreamt anymore. Since Bryde and Ronan could manifest pretty much anything, and Hennessy was learning quickly, the dreamers didn't have much need for money besides buying food or bus tickets. Their big problem was evading the Moderators, and keeping them away from the people the dreamers loved. Ronan spent nights laying awake, wondering if Declan and Matthew were safe. If Adam was safe. Or if he, Ronan, had damned them all by nature of his own existence. There was no way of knowing, of course. The dreamers couldn't keep their phones on them because the Moderators could track them. Ronan had briefly considered using a payphone, but had decided it wasn't worth the risk. Forgive me, he silently implored his family. It's for your own good. It was, and Ronan found peace in knowing he was doing the best he could to protect his brothers. And Adam. God, Adam.
"Ronan!"
Ronan was jerked back to reality. He blinked once, hard. "What?"
Hennessy was standing in front of him, looking a little concerned. She was holding the first-aid kit. "You still with us?"
With effort, Ronan managed a wry smile. "Afraid so.''
He'd meant it as a joke, but Hennessy's frown deepened. She jerked her head towards one of the beds. "Go sit down.''
Ronan's legs were shaking as he sat down on the end of the stiff mattress. Actually, his whole body was shaking from exhaustion or pain or both.
Hennessy perched beside him, eyeing him uncertainly for a moment before glancing at Bryde. Bryde, who often channeled an unsettling indifference, shrugged. Hennessy scowled. "Take your shirt off.''
Ronan raised his eyebrows. An interesting turn of events indeed. Hennessy caught Ronan's eye. "Not him,'' she snapped. "You, dumbass.''
"You were looking at him when you said it,'' said Ronan innocently.
"Lynch, I swear to God—"
Smirking, Ronan managed to shimmy halfway out of his black hoodie. Hennessy helped him tug the rest off. Ronan hissed through his teeth as pain shot up and down his arm. Hennessy rolled the short sleeve of his black t-shirt up to his shoulder. A bloodstained bandage clung to his bicep where it had been hastily wrapped in a public bathroom behind the bus station. Hennessy carefully began unwrapping the bandage, every slight movement sending needles of pain through Ronan's arm. Ronan steeled his expression against the discomfort. He wouldn't flinch.
As the bandage fell away, a bloody tear across Ronan's bicep became visible. It was more of a graze than a puncture wound, but it was a deep graze. Fortunately, that meant the bullet wasn't imbedded in his muscle or something, so Hennessy didn't have to go after it with tweezers. Unfortunately, it'd bled quite a lot, and it hurt like a motherfucking bitch.
Hennessy, who was flinching, tore open an antiseptic pad and began cleaning the wound. Ronan looked away, as if that would ease the brutal sting. His eyes began to water. He blinked until the tears vanished from sheer will power.
The antiseptic pad came away bright red, completely soaked through. Blood began running down Ronan's arm. Hennessy quickly moved his back sweatshirt under him so blood wouldn't stain the white sheets.
"He's going to need stitches.'' Bryde was standing by the bed now. His expression was deceptively blank. Even after traveling with him for five weeks, Ronan felt he barely knew Bryde at all. He was impossible to read. Ronan was usually fine with this. Sometimes though, it bothered him. It was hard to trust someone who revealed nothing about himself.
Hennessy looked dubious at the idea of giving Ronan stitches. Still, she looked through the first-aid kit for a moment, then withdrew a needle encased in flimsy plastic and a spool of clear thread. A dream thing, then.
Ronan watched Hennessy push the thin strand of thread through the needle's tiny eye.
"Will it hurt?" Ronan asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.
"I'm pulling your skin back together with a needle and thread,'' said Hennessy. "What do you fucking think?"
Ronan shrugged. He'd only gotten stitches once, and possessed no memory of the incident, as he'd been knocked out on painkillers and nearly died from exsanguination. "So that's a yes?"
"Yeah.'' Hennessy tone softened. "But it isn't terrible. And it'll help you heal, so that makes it almost a good pain, right?"
"Sure,'' said Ronan, who was beginning to feel a bit sick.
The needle in Hennessy's hand was hovering over the bleeding wound. Hennessy looked a little nervous.
"Have you ever done this before?" asked Bryde.
"No,'' Hennessy said. "Have you?"
Bryde fixed her with a withering glare. "I wasn't volunteering.''
"Jesus, Hennessy, just get it over with,'' said Ronan impatiently.
Hennessy took a deep breath, grasped Ronan's bicep and began sealing the wound.
Ronan looked away with a sharp inhale. If he'd thought that he wouldn't be able to feel the tiny needle pierce his throbbing arm, he'd been wrong. Hennessy had been wrong as well; it wasn't a good pain. Good pain was pulling a thorn from your foot. Good pain was missing Gansey, but knowing he was safe and happy and would never, ever abandon Ronan. It was having a father who was dead, but who'd loved Ronan with every reckless, frenetic beat of his heart while he'd lived. Good pain was the first time Ronan'd had sex with Adam, and it had been agonizing, but neither of them had wanted to stop. Good pain was a proof of existence and a promise of a future.
This was not good pain. This was bad pain. Very bad pain.
Ronan hissed.
"Okay, I'm done,'' said Hennessy after an impossibly long time. She tied the thread, then snipped it with some tiny scissors.
"Fuck,'' said Ronan.
"Fuck,'' Hennessy agreed. She wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans. Then she bandaged the now-sealed wound. Ronan himself was sweating, although the motel room was freezing. He was hyper-aware of his shaking body. For a moment he thought he was going to throw up. Ronan swallowed hard, and willed the feeling away. Once he'd grounded himself, he stood up, only to sit back quickly again. He hunched over, racked with waves of dizziness and nausea.
"He's responded to this rather badly, don't you think?" Ronan was dimly aware of Hennessy speaking.
"He should sleep.'' This was Bryde.
"You should sleep, Ronan.'' This was Hennessy.
Ronan did not need to be told a second time. He sank down onto his right shoulder, brought his knees up to his chest, and promptly passed out.
When Matthew stumbled into the house looking simultaneously cheerful and flustered, and announced that Adam Parrish had just pulled into the driveway on a motorcycle, Declan knew it was going to be a bad day.
Jordan looked up from where she sat on the countertop, stirring a latte. "Adam Parrish,'' she echoed. "That's—?"
"Yes,'' said Declan, his tone clipped. He pushed himself off from where he'd been leaning on the countertop.
Declan met Adam at the door. They regarded each other warily. Adam was dressed in jeans and a gray v-neck with a dark leather jacket pulled over it. A backpack was slung over one shoulder. Adam's strange, wind-swept features were pulled into a grim expression. He inclined his head slightly by way of greeting. "Declan.''
"Adam.'' It was difficult for Declan to keep the frost out of his voice. It wasn't so much that he disliked Adam as it was he disliked being caught in sweatpants during his mid-morning coffee. Declan stood a bit taller, hoping it made him appear more dignified. Jordan appeared at his shoulder. She gently pried him away from the door, giving Adam enough room to step inside.
"You must be Adam,'' said Jordan. She held out her hand to him. "I'm Jordan.''
Adam shook her hand. "It's nice to meet you,'' he said, politely.
"You too,'' said Jordan, with the smile that made Declan's heart hurt. He sighed once, shortly. "You better come in, Parrish.''
Matthew, who'd been hanging back until then, gave Adam a half-hearted wave that was accompanied by a half-hearted smile. "Hey, Adam.''
Adam's mouth quirked. "Hey, Matthew.''
Jordan pushed the door shut, cutting off the chilly December breeze. "Can I get you anything?" She asked Adam.
He shook his head, but didn't meet her eyes. His gaze was drifting around the house. The fine muscles in his face tightened. He turned back to Declan. His gaze was sharp, uncanny. Declan held it without flinching. It was a skill the older two Lynch brothers had learned from their father.
Jordan glanced between the two of them. "I'm going to go make you a latte,'' she told Adam decidedly. She squeezed Declan's hand, and disappeared back into the kitchen.
"How's school?" Declan asked, because he couldn't think of anything better to say.
"It's good, thanks,'' said Adam. He still seemed to bit distracted by returning to the Barns. Declan thought this was unusual behavior for Adam, which was really saying something since Adam Parrish was the most unusual person he'd ever met. That in of itself was really saying something, because Declan had been raised in a household full of people who were anything but usual.
"You're on winter break? Adam."
Adam's gaze snapped back to Declan. "Yes?''
"Are you planning on staying here?" Declan wasn't sure Adam had anywhere else to go for the holidays. "It's fine,'' he added, a little too late, "if you are.''
Adam's mouth tightened. "No. Fletcher — my roommate — invited me to stay at his place. I told him I was coming back to Henrietta for a quick visit to my family first. I'm leaving tomorrow.''
"Ah,'' said Declan.
"So,'' said Matthew. Declan jumped. He'd forgotten his younger brother was there. "So,'' said Matthew again, shifting his weight from foot to foot, "not to be rude or . . . anything . . . butwhyareyouhere?'' The last part came out in a rush. Matthew was rarely self-conscious, but he seemed unusually agitated by Adam's presence.
Why indeed, Declan thought. Matthew's question, though perhaps untactful, was valid. Adam didn't have a family that wanted him home for the holidays. Declan didn't know the details of the Parrish family situation, but he knew it was bad enough that Adam had moved into a tiny room above St. Agnes Catholic Church when he was seventeen. Why would he return to Henrietta at all?
Adam lifted his chin slightly. "I want to find Ronan."
"No shit, Parrish," muttered Declan, because didn't they all? Ronan had been a pain in his ass since the moment he was born, but Declan couldn't help missing his brother.
"I mean right now. I want to scry."
Declan narrowed his eyes. "Scry," he repeated. Adam's psychic abilities were something Declan could usually ignore; he greatly resented having to confront them at the moment. Having been raised Catholic, it all made him deeply uncomfortable.
"That's why I came. I'm not supposed to do it alone."
Declan didn't think he wanted to know why Adam Parrish needed supervision while staring into a bowl of stagnant water. "You do know there is a house full of psychics half an hour away, right? Why don't you bother them with this?"
Adam's expression was guarded. "They wouldn't approve."
Declan didn't bother asking what this meant. He didn't care. He just wanted Adam Parrish to get whatever it was he needed to do over with so that he could leave. He sighed heavily to let Adam know that he was greatly inconvenienced by this all, and lead him into the kitchen. Matthew trailed behind them.
Jordan was waiting, latte for Adam in one hand, and Declan's unfinished drink in the other. Adam accepted the latte politely, thanking Jordan. Declan accepted his a little more begrudgingly. He sighed again. "Parrish here has decided he needs to scry, but apparently he can't do it alone, and apparently we're the only ones—''
"I'm going to look for Ronan,'' Adam briskly interrupted, something that struck Declan as very un-Adam-Parrish-like.
Jordan looked only mildly surprised. "Right,'' she said, glancing from Adam to Declan. "Scrying. That's when you stare at water and your soul leaves your body?"
Adam nodded. "Yeah, that's it. But it doesn't have to be water, sometimes— Ah, you know what, water's just fine.''
"Fantastic.'' Jordan immediately started going through the cabinets looking for a suitable bowl. She came up with a beautiful blue ceramic piece that had been Aurora's. Declan hadn't seen it for years. His chest ached unexpectedly at the memory of the lovely women — the lovely dream — who had raised him as if he were her own. My dauntless Declan.
"That's perfect,'' said Adam. "Thank you, Jordan.''
Declan watched Jordan fill the bowl with water. When she'd finished, Adam led them to the living room. Adam sat down in front of the fireplace. There was no fire going, but something about empty stone chasm behind Adam made Declan's blood run cold. Jordan set the bowl down carefully. Adam adjusted it slightly. He took a deep breath.
"Don't let me go any longer than eight minutes,'' said Adam.
Declan nodded. "Eight minutes.''
"If I'm not back by then, just shake me or something. Call me back.'' He spoke as if he were physically going somewhere, body included and not just his bare soul.
"Got it.''
"Thanks,'' Adam breathed. He closed his eyes for a second, relaxing his posture. Then his eyes opened, and he went completely still.
Declan, Jordan, and Matthew stood quietly for a few moments.
"Adam?" Matthew asked tentatively.
Adam was completely unresponsive.
"Shit,'' Matthew muttered.
Jordan exchanged an uneasy glance with Declan. Up until that point, Declan hadn't really believed that one could separate himself from his soul. And yet, here was Adam Parrish. Declan thought he understood Ronan and Adam's relationship a little better.
Declan tapped his wristwatch. "Seven minutes."
Ronan was dreaming.
Sunlight streamed through the trees, light distorted by leaves and branches leaving crystallized patterns on the ground. The light felt warm on Ronan's chilled skin. The pain in his arm felt distant, like a near-forgotten memory. He closed his eyes for a moment. His dreamspace was quite beautiful when it wasn't producing a monster to rip him to shreds. After moving around so much the last couple weeks, the forest felt habitual and welcoming. It was a place Ronan loved sometimes and hated other times, but right then he loved it.
Something crackled behind him.
Ronan's eyes snapped open and he whirled around, instantly alert. Then he stood completely still. He stopped breathing.
It was Adam.
Adam Parrish.
Psychic, scholar, magician, mechanic. Lover.
He was here, in the dream. Scrying? Or perhaps it was just a copy of Adam. Ronan couldn't be sure. He couldn't let himself hope. With effort, he began breathing again.
Ronan regarded Adam carefully. His features were fair and elegant, as familiar to Ronan as his own reflection. Ronan almost extended a hand to touch Adam, but didn't for fear that Adam was an apparition that would vanish if disturbed.
Adam's blue eyes scanned Ronan, verifying his identity or checking for injury. Dreams and scrying were both uncertain magics. Neither boy immediately trusted his eyes. Finally, Adam spoke. "Ronan.''
His voice was familiar in a way that caused Ronan physical pain. The rural Virginian accent had been lost at Cambridge, but it was still the voice of Adam, Adam, Adam. Heart running rampant, Ronan managed to finally find his own voice. "Is it really you?"
Yes. Adam's lips formed the word, but no sound came. He tried again. "Yes, Ronan. It's me. I'm here.''
Ronan's throat felt raw with relief. He wanted to throw himself at Adam, though he resisted. It could still be a strikingly realistic copy. Ronan had to be certain. "How?"
"I'm scrying,'' said Adam, then catching the look on Ronan's face, continued quickly, "at the Barns; I'm not alone or anything. Declan, Matthew, and Jordan are there.''
So his brothers were safe. For now. That was something, Ronan thought. Then there was that other thing — Adam. He was scrying into the dream. Okay. Okay, that made sense. They'd done that before. Which could only mean one thing, the third thing. He's real. He's real, he's here. Adam, Adam, Adam. When Ronan said it aloud, it was a tumultuous, trembling word. "Adam.''
Adam extended a hand. Ronan reached out and gripped Adam's thin fingers. They felt warm, almost feverish. Adam clasped Ronan's hand against his own. "You're freezing," he whispered.
"I missed you,'' Ronan replied.
Ronan wasn't sure who moved first. All he knew was that one moment he was clutching Adam's hand and the next he had the back of Adam's shirt bunched in his fists, Adam's warm body pressed against his cold one. Adam wrapped his arms tightly around Ronan. Ronan felt a steadying palm against his spine. Ronan buried his face in Adam's neck. He inhaled deeply, the scent of home nearly overwhelming him. He wanted to stay that way for an eternity, just the two of them, caught in an endless embrace.
Adam pulled gently away after a long minute, although he did not let go of Ronan. Their faces were close, perhaps a little too close, Adam's elegant features going in and out of focus for a moment.
"I don't have long,'' Adam murmured. "Just a few minutes more.''
A few minutes? There was so much Ronan wanted to tell Adam. So much he wanted Adam to tell him. They couldn't say it all in time. Ronan didn't say these thoughts aloud, but he didn't need to. Adam knew. He always did.
Adam cupped Ronan's face in his hands, pointer finger idly stroking Ronan's cheekbone. "Are you okay?" He asked.
"Yes. Are you?"
"Yes,'' said Adam. "What's going on? Where did you go? When are you coming home?"
"I don't know.'' It was vague and unspecific, but it was all Ronan could manage. "I don't know, Adam.''
"Hey,'' Adam whispered, "it's alright. Declan told me about the Moderators. I know . . . I know you had to do this.''
"I'm so sorry—" Ronan began, but Adam cut him off.
"You have nothing to be sorry for, Ronan. I just needed to know that you're okay.'' Adam spoke gently, trying to comfort Ronan despite probably needing to be comforted himself. God, Ronan loved him. He couldn't think of anything he could say to soothe Adam, so Ronan kissed him instead. It was long and slow, edged with sudden gasps and dripping with passion. Adam's lips felt the way they always did, soft and slightly dry. They worked against Ronan's mouth with careful precision because: Adam Parrish. After several glorious moments, Adam's lips parted and his tongue emerged to finish the job.
When they finally broke apart, desperate for air, Ronan no longer felt like he was on the verge of hypothermia. He and Adam were standing as closely together as possible; knee to knee, thigh to thigh, hip to hip, hands laced together, forehead pressed against cheek. Ronan shuddered slightly, and kissed Adam's neck. "How's school?"
"Ronan.'' Adam was still breathless, so his laugh was a single note of gusty summer breeze.
"Done with finals?"
"Well, yeah, actually.
"And?"
"They were great. School's great.'' Adam pulled back far enough so that they could meet each other's eyes.
"Good,'' said Ronan, with his usual my-boyfriend-goes-to-Harvard pride. The good feeling faded very quickly, however, replaced with guilt. "Are you . . . staying there for the holidays?"
To Ronan's great relief, Adam shook his head. "No, Fletcher invited me to stay with him. I just went back to Henrietta so someone could spot me while I scry.'' A shadow passed over Adam face. "Ronan . . . I told my friends — the Crying Club — that we broke up.''
Ronan nodded. "I'm glad.''
Adam looked surprised. "Really?"
"Yeah. If you hadn't then they would've assumed you were going to stay with me for the holidays, and then Fletcher wouldn't have invited you to stay with him, and then you would have been alone.'' He paused. Adam looked both relieved and touched. Had he thought it would have bothered Ronan that he lied about their relationship? It would've, a month ago. But now, Ronan was just happy Adam wasn't alone. "I know I said I'd be there for break—'' He began, but Adam kissed him.
"Don't,'' Adam murmured against Ronan's lips. "It's okay, Ronan. We're okay.''
They stood there, bathed in the gentle sunlight of the dreamspace, drinking each other in. Then, finally, Adam gently pulled away. "I have to go now.''
Ronan nodded. He knew it wasn't safe for Adam to stay any longer, but it still hurt to say goodbye. So he didn't.
"See you soon,'' Ronan said.
Adam smiled. "I'll be counting on it, Lynch.''
"Tell my brothers . . . " Ronan couldn't finish the sentence. He wasn't sure how to.
"I'll tell them,'' Adam promised. "Now, wake up! I don't want to leave you here by yourself.''
Ronan choked on his reply. He swallowed hard, and managed a weak smile, which Adam mirrored. They kissed once more, and hugged tightly. "Tamquam,'' Ronan whispered.
"Alter idem,'' Adam murmured back.
Ronan woke up.