Chapter Text
“This is the worst thing you’ve ever sent me.”
Ronan groaned, could already feel his thumb twitch to end call when Adam’s voice bit over the line. He sounded angry — or, at least, irritated. Irritated was more aligned with the tepid emotion Adam so often kept himself choked behind practiced in his restraint.
Waving Gansey’s raised eyebrow off, rolling his eyes as he answered, “Really? Thought you’d like this one, Parrish. I was going for a hit.”
“Swing and a miss.” Adam deadpanned, as Gansey tipped his head, pointing at Ronan’s laptop.
“Not your thing?” He drawled, “What pissed you off this time?”
“You know you can’t hit those notes. God, it’s like listening to a weasel.”
“Weasels are cute.” Ronan snorted, “Right, Gans?”
“Wildly agreed to be so.”
“All they do is screech for attention.” Adam hummed over the line. “Which, I guess, fits. At least you're thematically relevant. But it’s shit to listen to. Do better.”
“You have any suggestions?” Ronan asked, toeing one of his boots off, scraping toes against rough leather surface, material catching around the heel to twist skin. He needed thicker socks. “You’re the idea guy.”
“Yeah.” Adam said, scowl near audible, sitting in the periphery of Ronan’s fantasies — sullen and miserable and helplessly elegant when scribed across the etched melancholy of his cheekbones. “Learn to write in your vocal range.”
“Always a pleasure, Parrish.” Ronan dropped his voice, jerked his head towards the left, to the adjoining room door. Gansey gave a thumbs up, nose already buried in his notebook. It was mere formality, letting Gansey know, but the comfort of it soothed something deep in Ronan's bones.
“I don't know why you do this. You have the voice to hit those belts. But god. It's like you want to make it as difficult as possible.”
Ronan let him run on, traipsing across the hotel floor, where boxers and a half opened suitcase and Gansey's socks littered the jungle of moss-coloured carpeting. Kicked his door opening, only a few inches from Gansey's prying eyes, and leaned against it as it closed, sighed under his breath.
“Hope I'm not boring you.” Adam said, though hope was the last word to attribute his way, “This is just, you know, your entire career.”
“It's one song.”
“It's a criminal charge waiting to happen. I made an appointment with an otolaryngologist after the first verse.”
“What the fuck is that?” Ronan snorted, “Don't go making up words because you're bitter.”
“Bitter about what?” Adam drawled, accent picking up along his vowels, sending tidal waves through Ronan’s stomach. “Your sellout era? And you have google. Look it up.” He considered, Ronan would have put money on his tipping the back of the head, neck elongated where it stretched against his chair, curve of larynx protruding with a jagged edge that wore Ronan to bits, “Along with retirement plans. You'll need them.”
“Really, really putting that PR training to good use.”
“Not wasting it on you.” Adam hissed, “Rerecord that demo, send it back, and maybe I can do something with it.”
“The whole thing?” Ronan protested.
Adam paused, took five seconds to collect his thoughts where Ronan’s frustration cluttered the silence. His anger had always been a palpable thing, a warning signal, a thrum of basslines and clatters of drum beats; erratic guitar and grinding, abrasive vocals. That, among many things, was probably headline on the list of reasons Ronan was so rarely allowed free reign speech in public.
“Gansey’s parts are good.”
Ronan spit venom in a splutter, pushed off his door to pace into his room, kicking a wastebin on to stomp across, “Gansey plucked guitar-”
“I like the guitar.” Adam said. “Keep the guitar.”
Ronan scooped the wastebin upright, scowling like it had been the thing to call and disparage his work, “You just hate-”
“Vocals. Lyrics. Melody.”
“That’s the guitar-”
“No, that’s how you’re singing. It’s like you and Gansey weren’t even in the same room. Did you slap a prerecorded session under a vocal line? Seriously? Or are you that tone deaf?” Adam’s own disgruntlement filtered through the line, syllables elongating as he pushed forward. Like Ronan was plucking it out of him. “I like the instrumental melody. But the vocals are strained, the lyrics are corny, and the beat is clunky.”
“It’s trash.” Ronan said, sarcasm-weary, because he was blunt like that.
“It’s trash.” Adam confirmed, sincerely, because he was an ass like that.
“What’s wrong with the fucking lyrics, since you’re suddenly Bob Dylan.”
“Corny, like I said. Lay off the religious motif. Close the thesaurus.”
Ronan picked at a loose thread along his pocket, grinning, “Only you get the big words, now?”
“When I use big words, they make sense for the context.” Adam said, “When you use them, it’s like a child playing dress up in daddy’s oversized trousers. You’re a musical charlatan; your money isn’t anywhere near your mouth.”
“No, go on, keep talking about my mouth.”
“Ronan.” His sigh was a chokehold over the receiver, “Focus.”
“You don’t like the song.” Ronan managed. “Hard to focus. My feelings are hurt.”
“Aw. Cute. At least I know you have any.”
“You know I do.” Ronan said, swallowed to reign in what few scraps of sincerity laced over his words.
Adam’s silence was deafening. For all the charged air, he could have easily disconnected — Ronan had to pull back to confirm the call time was still ticking up.
“Redo it.” Adam said, after a moment. “Don’t call me until it’s done.”
“Great.” Ronan grumbled, turned to rest his forehead against the balcony doors, surveyed the evidence of population where citylights twinkled, where cars chugged along infrastructures, where sidewalks cast themselves in adjacent streetlights in preparation of dusk. Routines followed their circadian rhythm, year-by-year to the hourly wage, everyone was following the rotation of sun and moon to dictate their day.
Never one to watch for the sunset to start his day, Ronan had always sunk into sleepless nights, set his own schedule in defiance — there wasn’t a force of nature that told him what to do and where to go. No one, save maybe Gansey, could get Ronan to follow a deadline. A challenge to work with, he’d been told, the few moments he’d been allowed in meetings, in panels, in those hour long sessions where teams of snooty pricks outlined the next five years of his life — could say where he’d be in the next week, the next year, the next decade if they’d have their way. Ronan bucked against them every inch, every half step. He was a perpetual migraine. A chronic handful.
He was not easy to manage.
“I’ll… have it done by tomorrow.”
“Tonight.” Adam said.
“Tonight?” Ronan cracked a smile, caught the edge of it in the reflection nighttime painted over the glass, “Quick turnaround for something you hate, isn’t it?”
“I never said I hate it.” Adam breathed, and if Ronan closed his eyes he was right there, cast in the shit hotel room lamp, dramatic shadows over the press of orchids and violets beneath his eyes; he had a garden under the heavy set of his brow.
“So.”
“So.” Adam gave a half chuckle, “When you come over tomorrow, I want the full demo. A proper demo. Take it seriously.”
“I’m coming over, now?” Ronan asked, still staring at phantom Adam; in a sweatshirt three sizes too large he’d never be caught dead in, rumpled hair from something more rigorous than sleep, scratchy throat and white-flecked chapped knuckles to press lips to. Safe and submerged in the comforter of a hotel bed, or on the armchair nearby; laptop popped open because, god, he was a workaholic like that. And Ronan would grab his guitar, and watch him squint and hunch over his screens, the white-blue intoxicating light hypnotizing and full of ecstasy, and he’d watch and strum and pluck and coax some sort of harmony out of the easy silence where their feet tangled and ankle bones crossed and he could look without scorn.
Where Adam would look without scorn.
“I can’t trust you, obviously.” Adam answered, and Ronan sketched a smile in his projection. “Needs a second set of hands.”
God, he knew what he was doing. Ronan took a shaky breath, because pointing it out broke their mutual reverie. This wasn’t a bed of eggshells to stomp across, or the sort of glass to swing a bat upon. They both had to tiptoe, dance on the edge and avoid bringing it to attention. Too many complications, really, if they put words to it.
Which was why Ronan was trying.
He’d never been good at subtlety.
“By that logic, I should come over right away,” He said, and the Adam right there blinked disdainfully, hissed and spit and flushed poppy red along the shell of his ear, “You know. If I can’t be trusted.”
“Maybe.” Adam gave a smoker’s exhale; borrowed from yours truly. When he’d paid enough attention to borrow the action, to make it secondhand, tailored to the cadence of his exasperation and — maybe, god, please, maybe — his desire. “It’s better, sometimes, when you have to wait for it. Better final product, you know. If you temper with patience.”
“I’m not good at the whole patience, thing, Parrish.” Ronan cleared his throat, and opened his eyes because he just couldn’t look at the apparition when the real thing hung just hours away.
“I know.” Adam’s breath came even. Too even. Intentional and prerecorded to pass off as composure. “I know.”
Ronan dug a thumb into his thigh, even through his jeans he could feel the pinpricks of a healing bruise where Gansey had accidentally clipped him with the edge of his case days before. The pain of it was grounding. It was real, and here, and something to put his hands on. “Do you?” He asked.
“I’m…” A swallow. “I’m not so good at it either.”
Walls were thin, here. He could hear Gansey on the Comedy Central channel, on the phone with Blue judging from the intimate murmur and halfhearted chuckles. He could hear the honk and buzz of the highway and night crowd below. He could hear the buzz of the radio where it hadn’t yet been tuned, because he always, always needed it on — to drown the noise in his head.
He could hear Adam breathing.
“Guess you’re just better at pretending.” He said.
Adam laughed, a bitter and wretched thing. Half choked and stamped like the breadth of it was painful to expose. He was innervated, padded, nothing left to the vulnerability of open air. Closing off as soon as he’d unfurled in the slightest. “Finish the demo, Ronan. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The phone clicked.
Ronan swore, and pressed his forehead back to the balcony glass.
Every inch of skin was a patchwork of extremes, and he didn’t know how to stop it.
He could pop that damn audio file open and rework it or adjust his fucking pitch or whatever bullshit Adam was on about. Except he hadn't hydrated, his voice too strained, he was tired for once in his damn life, and there was nothing less he wanted than to rework something he'd already finished.
Sometimes, when he got like this, everything spilled out of him at once — overflowed, overlapped, saturated and spilled onto notepads and voice memos and muffled booths. It was one of the only ways he could get the jitter out. Plucking it out, shooting a direct line into the closest outlet he could reach. And it was that or the nearest bottle or the wheel of a car that didn't belong to him; and Gansey was trying to relax tonight and Adam wouldn't record if he was hungover or wasted or-
He just. Needed to make something. Not… redo what he'd already expelled.
Knocking his fist against the doorframe, a halfhearted kiss of frustration with such little heat it couldn't even shake the pane, he pushed with the other hand to stand upright. Paced across the room, tripping over thr carcass of his suitcase where it lay split open; the dredges of a tempest from when Ronan had occupied little patience for the careful folds his socks and boxers had been rolled into. (Which. Gansey's fault for trying to get him to fold in the first place. Ronan didn’t pack preemptively, and he knew that. Hell, Gansey didn't even pack preemptively. Those were standards he pressed into Ronan's lifestyle and covered up with a pseud adulthood.)
His guitar case sat at the foot of his bed — really, it was the only thing he'd placed with so much precision. Because curling his hands around the neck was a sigh of relief, and the weight of it filled a vacancy in his grip. Blue had said, offhandedly, that if he wasn’t buried with it, he'd come crawling out the grave screaming for it back.
Like your security blanket, she'd teased, before anyone could advise her otherwise. But the fight had left Ronan's body at that point — it was a partial truth. He'd be buried with it. He'd probably die with the strings under his fingertips and shreds of scarlet dripping down his wrists.
Dramatic, in a voice that sounded too familiar from every possible source.
The comfort of it dulled the heat winding up and down his sides, crawling over his skin. It didn’t matter what or how or what note he was pushing it out in, he just needed it out. Adam's low, words warm in his gut, and Gansey's muffled laughter ringing, the sound of electricity from the outlet to his left. It needed to get out.
Adam would get his demo, he thought as he began to pick at strings, it just wouldn't be the demo he expected.
Which, he knew, was half the charm. That was their foundation, their staple. They didn't need to be easy. Neither of them wanted easy. Nothing with them had been, or was going to be, easy. That had been the cornerstone of their meeting, had been the first — well, second — thing that had caught his eye about Adam Parrish.
Whether he’d admit it or not, he enjoyed the challenge.
•••
At first glance, Adam had been nothing more than some fanciful scrap of a thing. The remnant of life in a withered plant. A shriveled begonia, a peony pressed flat to desaturate between poetry books, the barren twigs of trees when winter's chill grew too cruel to support a vibrant leaf. He was sun bleached edges of a treasured photograph, the worn creases of your favourite novel, the bleed of fall into winter when everything had gone still and serene under the veneer of frosted dirt. Nothing you'd seek out; but once you caught your eye on his frame and caught where colour popped against that monochrome canvas you couldn't look away. Once you learned true North, the compass point wouldn't waver.
He'd faded into the outskirts of the room, an untouched glass of champagne hiding the dip of his upper lip, stretching his smirk to something near sinister. Eyeing the room's proceedings with a glint, eyes too pale, catching light; brightening with every scrap of information to parse together. While bodies around him snatched up appetizers and snuck into restrooms for another line, he'd greedily devoured the ammunition freefalling out loose lips. Building a manifesto, an armoury of dirt and grime to aim, fire, sink ships.
Adam hadn't looked conniving or wicked or nefarious. He wasn't some mastermind, hatching schemes to hide in plain sight. He didn’t look the role of the trickster for all he dressed and feigned the part.
He'd just looked starving. The function was an all-you-can-eat buffet of leverage, and he could barely hold the plate.
(“It was my first event.” Adam had admitted, a year in the wake of it all, half a bottle of champagne down on an empty stomach, “I didn't think they'd invite me back.”
“So your plan was to, what, blackmail them until they let you back in?”
“Persuade them.” Adam corrected, and laughed like you did when you were too drunk to be self conscious; full shoulder quake and jerky head. Ronan liked him like this, lackadaisical and nonchalant, even if it was from the blur of blood littered in sugars and a haze of artificial joy. Ronan liked him sober, too, though he hadn’t said it out loud — he kept that truth in the margins, in notebooks with frenzied chicken scratch and juvenile rhymes. He liked,also, how Adam looked painted in sheet music; computer monitors and bi-colour LED lighting him polychrome. Liked when he showed up to his apartment in sweatpants and bedhead, near enough to debauchery it seared into mortifying, nighttime memory. He liked how Adam looked when he laughed, restrained or shocked out of him — unexpected. He liked how Adam looked when he was really, truly angry and his eyes flashed to ice and his breath came quick and his tongue cut deep. Liked how Adam looked exhausted, how he looked well rested, or hungry or well-fed or–
Well, Ronan liked him in a lot of ways.)
Claws sunk into Gansey, first, and Ronan had watched Adam creep along the perimeter, set his glass of champagne on the bar, swinging Gansey’s way like he was a prize to hunt and devour. Like he’d tear talons and maw into tender flesh with little remorse, rip his neck out and suck every drop to satiate for the evening. It was near sensual, trial run in a confidence he wouldn’t develop until much later. Turning a corner and stumbling into Gansey, knocking his glass forward, spilling on both their shirts. Rehearsed apologies falling out puppet mouths, little remorse and all victory.
“I’m so sorry,” Adam had said, the hint of a southern croon and sweetened iced tea— as if he hadn’t made a beeline for Gansey’s blind spot, “Really. I was looking for the restroom. I must have drunk too much. I’m not usually this clumsy.”
Ronan, who had been watching Adam all night (he’d never admit it — a gun to his head, knife to his throat, he’d let that blood spill), knew he hadn’t indulged in a drop. That he’d been nursing the same chilled flute for so long the precipitation had to be wiped on a white handkerchief tucked in his back pocket.
“No, that’s okay.” Gansey laughed, that hoity-toity name-brand luxury-brand cavernous delight, blinked at the slow flutter of Adam’s lashes. Fly, trap, honey.
It was like a bad porno. Jesus.
“I can get you another one.” Adam offered, voice an octave too-high, breathier than he had any right to sound. When Ronan questioned this, too, a year later, Adam had admitted it was unintentional.
(“He’s just…” Adam laughed, again, rosé flush still pressed into cheeks, “He’s Gansey. I didn’t… think it’d be like that up close.” He rolled his head to the right, huffed another giggle. He’d finished off the bottle. “You get it.”
“You’re drunk.” Ronan said, and the rough translation stayed tucked beneath his words, yeah, I get it.)
“Oh, that's alright, I don't need…” Gansey was saying, dabbing his dress shirt, trying not to stare, stare. Because he was twenty and pressed side to side against a pretty boy and Ronan had never questioned Gansey's sexuality until that moment — not until Adam had taken that gamble and won the draw.
“I'm insisting.” Adam said, smiling at a waiter, tense and businesslike, and achingly familiar in a way Ronan had to hit a backlog to recollect.
It was a very Declan smile.
“Let me get you a drink.”
“It's an open bar.” Ronan bit out.
Adam glared at him. Crack in his facade. That stirred more in him than the cut of his jaw.
“An open bar you're staying well away from.” Gansey had laid a hand on Ronan's arm, a call to heel, and smiled back at Adam, “We haven't met.”
“No.” Adam's eyes danced over Ronan, caught on his scowl, found their way back to the finish line, end goal. Or, rather, starting point. “Gansey, right?”
Because of course he knew.
Gansey took his offer, because he was polite and this event was for networking and Adam was a new, profitable, gorgeous fucking face, and they sat Ronan on a barstool and ordered him a virgin cocktail and Gansey turned his back on him and he was staring at Adam over Gansey's shoulder, now stripped of its jacket. He wanted to throw something. He wanted to throw knuckles against the wall and relish in the sting. He wanted a real fucking drink-
Adam's eyes flicked his way, glacial, bouncing off a second too late to be coincidence. Like Ronan was something worth risking Gansey's attention over.
He wanted his car keys.
Gansey excused himself, because while the stain hadn't settled, all the liquid had and the restroom was precedent over Adam's quick wit.
“You're transparent.” Ronan snarled, and cupped his juice; untouched because he wasn’t a kid for all the narrative otherwise.
Adam crooked a smirk, an eyebrow, cocked his head like Ronan was a kid to glare down at, “Am I?”
“If you had tatas you'd be flashing them his way.” He continued, gripped his glass harder, “It's gross. Embarrassing.”
“If I had tatas?” Adam laughed. Barked. Forced out of him. “Seriously? Say breasts.”
“I can't.” Ronan said, “I'll break into hives.”
“Stress or allergy?” Adam hadn't taken any sips, either. Gansey was too polite to ask, Ronan desperate enough to notice.
“It's not some. Big secret.” Because by his luck this guy didn't know the worst kept industry secret that Ronan Lynch was as into dick as they came; that he'd flipped his first manager the middle finger when she told him to walk that line and tread cautiously, that the second the phrase PR RELATIONSHIP was slotted into the agenda, he'd taken to twitter in a drunken rage. That everyone knew, and it saved him the trouble of reiterating it all to every halfway decent-looking man that crossed his way.
“Oh, I'm aware.” Adam did take a sip, now, didn't break eye contact. Whether he didn't want to, or he couldn't help himself. Either option was a win.
“What's the point in asking?” Ronan managed.
“Always good to confirm.” Adam shrugged, and broke contact.
“You're using him.” He accused.
Adam raised that eyebrow again. It was overworked.
“You trying to sleep your way to the top?” He continued, “That's embarrassing. No talent, so you need to bed the biggest you can find?”
“What, you're mad someone else is pissing here?” Adam mouth crooked up, like he was watching a toddler throw a temper tantrum over candy, like Ronan's indignation was something bemusing, something to heckle over in VIP rooms and diner booths with inner circles. He'd become an anecdote, someday. Maybe in the near future.
Better anecdote than afterthought. That was a motto to stick by, borrowed as the phrase was.
“I’m mad you're using him.” He said, because if he never saw Adam Parrish after tonight, at least he could wrench every emotion from that finely-tuned composure he'd been hiding behind all night.
“Everyone in life is either being used, using, or looking to use.” Adam said, not missing a beat. This was a conversation he'd had before — maybe in the mirror. “Forgive me for getting a headstart.”
Ronan opened his mouth — to snarl at his heartlessness, to berate for playing cards with Gansey's heart, to ask him to come home with him, to shut him up or make him talk more, just something something — but Gansey was back, settling atop his stool to block half Ronan's view once more.
He drank his fucking juice.
•••
Gansey left with Adam’s number. Or Adam left with Gansey’s number. Ronan couldn’t tell who was trying to get to who at that point.
A slip of paper, pleasantries, discussions on calling for a favour, a gig, something. Everyone was the same. Leeching off Gansey’s name, suckling and thriving with greed. Why he expected better, more from Adam, he couldn’t have known. At the end of the day, that was the nature of it all. Always, always, new face, new names, new hands grasping for some scrap of of recognition. Fumes of desperation, noxious and throttling all personality. There wasn’t a shred of a real person in those crowds.
Ronan wasn’t idealistic by any means, but he kept doing this. Praying for someone with a soul to swing his way. Kept getting the rug tugged, yank from beneath; falling face first and scraping bottom of the bottle. Well, barrel, now that Gansey had a say. Entirely unfair that Gansey could power through these shitshows on enough sips of champagne to coax a flush, and Ronan was nine months into non alcoholic beers and hey, man, can you just trip and spill a bit of whiskey in that coke when he’s not looking please I’ll slip you a fifty.
Made wading through the bullshit more a testament to willpower when you swam stone cold sober. If he had to listen to one more person bat eyelashes at Gansey or slip a hundred dollars for the chance to hear a demo, he’d set himself on fire and film it for the thrill of the scandal. Blaze of glory in his downfall.
Used, using, looking to use.
Adam had been honest with it. That was more than most.
“He’s trying to get into your pants. Or your business. Your business pants.” Ronan said, car ride home, slumped against the seat, neck scraping against leather. Nostalgia, adolescent reverb had been pressed in the aged flecks of black and grey.
“You think I don’t know that?” Gansey asked, “I’m fully aware of how this game goes, Ronan. He needs an opportunity. I’m able to give him one.”
“Let me guess,” Ronan drawled, all his indifference a translucent front judging by the nudge of Gansey’s lips as they crept upwards, “Up-and-coming. Guitar. Anyway, here’s Wonderwall?” He snorted, “He’d just love for you to hear his demo?”
“Actually,” Gansey’s knuckles whitened, just a tinge, around the steering wheel; lit by oscillating streetlamps filtering through tinted windows, “He wants to hear mine.”
Ronan blinked. “What?”
“He’s a producer. You weren’t wrong about the up-and-coming. He’s got something to prove, which bodes well for us. That sort of hunger.” And there he went, poetry verbalized; babbling because it served a healthy distraction. Even now, Gansey tensed and coiled like a stray about to get kicked when switching to the highway.
“You have a producer.” Ronan said, “Unless you finally kicked Henry’s ass to the curb.” Good riddance, if that was the case. He’d been sick of Cheng before he’d even met him.
“I have a producer.” Gansey said, pausing to switch lanes, tapped fingers to the tune of his signal, “You don’t.”
Ronan froze, fingers curled in the divot of his arm rest, grasping at the crumpled straw wrappers folded and crumpled from his and Gansey’s carelessness in double time. Product of too many joint sleepless nights; takeout and fast food beverage carriers and greasy paper bags. That was a mosaic of trash they’d filled the interior with, and he grounded himself in it now, rolling the discard between fingertips.
“No.” He began, “No, no, no. Fuck no.”
“You need one.” Gansey said.
“The hell I do.” Ronan argued, “Especially not him. He’s schmoozing his way to the top. You might as well bend over and pull your pants down so he can get a good angle.”
“He’s got good ideas.” Gansey said. “Great inspirations. Fantastic ear–”
“God. Just fuck him already.” Ronan groaned, throwing his head against the rest.
“No.” Gansey admonished, “Ronan, consider, okay? He’s new. What does that mean?”
“He’s an ass kisser.”
“He’s malleable.” Gansey corrected. “But he’s not a pushover. Which, frankly, is good for you. You need someone firm with few established connections, no concrete methodology. He’s not locked into one way of doing things.”
“I don’t need some dickhead with a keyboard and some AI software–”
“You need someone, other than me, to encourage you to think. Who’ll tell you no.” Gansey said, “And I heard you two talking. I think this — he would — be good for you.”
Ronan slumped, further and further down, felt the back of his skull slide, squeak on the retreat. “I don’t want to.”
“Ronan please,” Gansey said, bringing them to a halt; paused against red light, hypnotic and erotic in the way it lit the upper bow of Gansey’s mouth. Noble slant of his nose backlit by strobes and stars. “You have just as much to gain from this as he does. You can’t keep a producer in good graces for long enough to make a full record. Do you know what that looks like?”
“It makes me look difficult.” Ronan muttered, because Declan had said the same thing, and of course Gansey would too.
“No,” Gansey continued, even as the light went go, verdurous and beckoning, “It makes you look like you don’t care that you’re difficult to work with. Diva, is that the term? Unwilling to change. Want what you want when you want it. No one wants to work with that. With you.”
“I’m not sacrificing my principles for-”
“You’re talented, Ronan. You’re… you’re so talented. But no one’s going to see that. Not if you’re burning through every producer on the West coast.” Gansey smacked his hand on the wheel, jaw locking in frustration, “You need a producer. Stop. Let me speak.” He raised his voice over Ronan’s protests, half-hearted I don’t-, “You absolutely do. A mic and a six string can only get you so far. Otherwise you’re riding your father’s coattails. And clout don’t get you anywhere for the long haul, not like this. You need to play the long game, and stop squandering everything he left you.”
Silence, as Ronan brewed that, boiled and fermented and matured until he could respond. “I’m not… riding his coattails. I’m…” He didn’t know what he was doing. Waiting for someone tell him, probably, what he should be doing. Directionless, aimless, waiting for a compass.
“I just think,” Gansey said, new stoplight, foot oppressive on the brake, “This is a very good opportunity. For all of us.”
Momentarily, guiltily, Ronan wondered if Gansey was tired of telling. Ordering. Instructing. If good opportunity meant escape. Meant leaving Ronan’s misery behind and moving to new horizons, packed bags and ambitions that couldn’t be shared when he sunk into desperation. Ronan spent too much time frantic he was holding Gansey back in all his grief and stagnancy. Hard to shine when Ronan was around to ignite embers to ravenous, destructive forest fires and massacre all his soothing glow.
“So you…” Ronan took a gut-deep breath, “You like him and that means he’s a good producer?” He rolled his eyes, felt the purr of the engine as Gansey leapt forward, rolled to meet increasing speed parameters, tracked the tick of barometers as he multiplied miles per hour, “Just because he’s good-looking or minds his p’s and q’s doesn’t mean he’s good at his job. You can’t trust that shit. He could have slept–”
“I gave him my email.” Gansey interrupted, “My work email. Asked for a portfolio. Asked him for an instrumental he would put me on, with the opportunity. What track he’d like to factor me into. Even,” He paused, turned to grin at Ronan, reckless and juvenile flash of teeth and dimpled cheek “If he had anything he’d put you on. Might as well try.” Traffic granted a few more feet, then begged them to heel. Red light, repeated. “I think that’s what convinced him, really.”
“Sure.” Ronan snorted, “Yeah, he can send whatever. Hell, if he sends one instrumental I like, I’ll work with him. For one song. Max.” Though, the thought of Adam leaping to work with him; with his scathing grin and dry laugh and sharp, clever tongue was a fire hot whiskey shot on an empty stomach. Lacing his bloodstream, warm and intoxicating.
“That’s the spirit.” Gansey beamed, this time his hands brought joyous clamour where they smacked against the dash. A yelp, when he swerved car nose to the next lane in his animated tailspin. When he’d tamed the weel once more, realigned and recomposed, he glanced to Ronan, brightlights luminous and exposing the curve of corrective lenses where they cloaked hazel shine, “Trust me, Ronan. This will work out.”
In that moment, like every moment, Ronan would have trusted him with anything. Always. Anytime. To the ends of the earth. Entire lifetimes pressed in the reassuring clasp of Gansey’s hands.
He didn’t want to. But he would. For Gansey. Not Adam.
(Besides. Gansey had been right. Adam was good.
When the email came, bounced back with the trill Ronan had been pretending not to listen for and Gansey had been refreshing for hours on end, they’d stared in silence at the files compressed and alphabetized. Organized and annotated with brief overview, instrumental list, vocal recommendations.
It wasn’t that Adam had delivered. Or that he’d made it so easily traversable. Nor that he’d had the idea at all.
It was that Gansey had asked for one track each. And Adam, overambitious and ravenous and tuned to their same obsessive frequency, had gone above and beyond. A buffet of output, igniting a thrill and fire in Gansey’s smile.
They’d asked for one track each.
His email had come with ten.)
•••
Ronan didn’t bother with knocking. Four in the morning with living room light on meant Adam had either already woken up, or he’d never really gone to sleep. Dreams had been hard to catch, lately, and when he couldn’t sleep he worked. Or cleaned. Or biked. Or whatever needed to happen for hands and minds to stay occupied. It was dance Ronan knew well. He hadn’t taught it to him, but their steps had long been synchronized.
Balancing tray, keys, and the weight of yet another sleepless night, Ronan popped the door into a welcome stance with his right toe, swung in on the left. The entry light was on, tennis shoes askew, like they’d been flung off in a haphazard rush to the next task.
Which meant Adam hadn’t slept.
Ronan didn’t understand the motivation, but he could empathize the habit. His negligence of a balance REM cycle was at his body’s whim — an innate disdain of circadian rhythm. Adam’s was one of circumstance. Numbers didn’t matter when the equation leveled the same and hours lined analogous. An argument could be built on how telling it was their timers aligned, how it was more Adam’s adaptation than coincidence and Ronan’s compliance. But that was just another thing they didn’t talk about.
He let the door shut, caught at the last second so the sound wouldn’t startle. Threw keys on the shoe rack — essentially an end table, when Adam owned all of three shoes. Metal rattled, clattered and swirled against the sole of a finely polished dress shoe; both caught equal light.
“Late.” Adam said, propped in the doorway, arms crossed, just as Ronan began fighting to wrangle boots off. Feet in their own tango.
“Coffee.” He rebuked, trying not to track the roll of a recent shower creeping along Adam’s neck; residual droplets from damp hair, muggy from whatever summer heat kept shirt fabric clinging to his arms. However long ago he’d been out, biking or jogging or whichever vice he took up outside these days, it still clung to him in a pink glow along his sternum, the knife-sharp jut of collarbone. Mottled from years of freckling in the sun — monochrome pointillism on sepia canvas.
Devastatingly distracting to carry art in the doorway; cruel and sadistic to demand undivided attention on boots of all things when something far more evocative sat on display.
“There better not be creamer in that.” Adam said, “Either of them.”
“Muffins, too.” Ronan held the bag up. He’d convinced a concierge to slip the spare of a baker’s dozen his way, just before buffet setup, a task that demanded his smoothest tongue and as much of a winning smile he could counterfeit with inherited bone structure.
He’d also bribed them. Heavily.
Maybe he wasn’t Gansey, but what he lacked in charm could be compensated in cold, hard cash.
“Sugar.” Adam said.
“Yes.” Ronan wiggled the bag, “Carbs. Brain food.”
“Carbs clog vocals. Phlegm.” Adam glared at the bag like he’d hoisted a sack of worm food. “You can have tea and a banana.”
“You’re taking my phlegm.” Ronan said, “My sexy, sexy phlegm.”
“You need all the help you can get.” Adam pushed off the doorway, closed distance, held his hands out for Ronan to pass to-go cups over. “Vocals on that voice memo were rough. Tense. You know what does that? Phlegm. Mucus. From sugar and dairy.”
“Mucus is where I keep the emotion.”
Adam glared over the lip of his cup — black, because he didn’t take creamer unless inflicting it on an empty stomach. “You smell.”
“I do not.”
“You smell like airplane.”
“Really?” Ronan bit out, “Because, actually, I swam over. What do you expect? We got in at eleven. I haven't had time to rinse off. You told me to come over. I could be sudsy and satisfied right now, all tucked in bed. My stench is on your hands.”
“You can shower, then.” Adam grabbed the bag of muffins, pretended like he wasn’t eyeing the cinnamon streusel scrawled in sharpie on the side, “I got a new herbal you can try. Food and coffee after.”
“As long as it isn’t fucking chamomile.” Ronan called, when Adam turned on heel, beeline for the kitchen. He shrugged his jacket off to shuck on the sofa, a few paces to the right. Took a second to sniff.
He didn’t smell.
Sometimes he wondered if when Adam said you smell, he meant you don’t smell like me.
•••
Adam’s showerhead was better than most hotel rooms.
Years ago, the first night he’d spent tangled in the spare blankets on Adam’s second hand chenille pullout, he hadn’t been able to put his finger on it. Why the shower was such a bewildering luxury. Half the appeal of hotels on tours were the showers. Endless hot water, little worry over running chilled after thirty minutes under stream. Hostels ran cold, most motels ran cold. Hotels, though. Always piping hot, metamorphosis of skin to scalded flush.
Adam’s shower was his favourite. By a long shot.
“Best hotel I’ve stayed in,” He’d told Adam, once, “Water pressure is insane. Great breakfast buffet.” He’d oriented himself for the primitive showing, hanging upset down on his bed. Freshly smoothed comforter, legs jammed under pillows at the head, watching Adam pick at a muffin; tearing chunks of blueberry muffin top into a neat pile along his takeout bag. He'd always leave the rest, for Ronan to polish off — they'd long split the difference on muffin type, which really meant Ronan went along with whatever Adam had been craving and pretended to fight tooth and nail to Adam's endless amusement.
“Only complaint is the staff.” He'd added, as Adam slid the rest of his breakfast to the nightstand; still honed on his computer. “Not very amicable. Hurts. I'm chatty in the morning, I'm told. Can I speak to your manager, or is he as heartless as the concierge?”
When Adam chucked a pen at his head — cheap office max plastic, because those were distributed at every office for free — Ronan took it laying down so he could catch the end of silent laughter.
“If you want attention, ask for it.” Adam had said, amusement audible despite craning away. Tapped a few more keys. “I could fix the water pressure at your house. Easy job.”
“I'll pass. I don't need you playing handyman. You'd lock me in my bedroom with a guitar and record deal.” Ronan snorted, though he wasn't against Adam in his shower as a concept. Sudsy. In a white t-shirt. Maybe trying to fix the showerhead would make a mess, and there he'd be soaking head to toe all pissy and flushed red to the chest, to the ears, to the seams. Tugging his top off, kissing along the pink glow summer sun blemishes across his torso, his shoulders. Kissing lower, to jean hem, digging his thumbs into protruding hipbones to watch dissatisfaction bleed into bliss where he pressed himself to tender skin. Unbuckling his belt. Flash of thigh and calf and–
They could revisit the handyman proposal. Someday.
“I do that anyway.” Adam had rebuked, oblivious. “And it works.”
“Yeah, you lock me in your room.” Ronan replied, “Not the same.”
“And you have a problem with that?”
Ronan's main problem was not the locking in. It was the locking in surrounded by all Adam's most intimate moments, the smell of heady, expensive cologne — amber, he was pretty sure, and something with spice he wanted to lick and sink teeth into. Adam had splurged on it in the monetary when the paychecks and record deals came rolling in and splurged on in the application only when he felt the occasion significant.
It was hard not to notice Adam’s sudden indulgence in the aroma when Ronan came by. Once he'd noticed and acknowledged the appreciation — from Ronan's lingering hands and deep breaths by his neck, when he leaned over for a closer look. A sudden preoccupation with his jackets only after they’d been worn. None of it escaped his attention — especially, how Adam had begun wearing it so often he'd needed to replenish, spritzed and doused in it if Ronan gave notice he was on the way. Impressive, considering he'd nursed the first bottle a whole two years before he'd met Ronan, had burned through several in the last few months alone. Which Ronan knew when he dug through his trash sometimes. Only when he got bored.
He liked how Adam smelled. It wasn’t a crime. And Adam noticed and didn’t care. Gave supplementary material, even. Smiled when Ronan closed his eyes and breathed in to the comforter. It wasn’t a crime. It was allowed, so long as it went unacknowledged.
Now, Ronan doused himself in it. Closed his eyes and leaned into the envelopment of heat, and spiced body wash, let muscles loosen beneath the onslaught of steam, sighed to rest himself against the tile. Familiarity beat itself into his skin in patches of pink. That, probably, was why he delighted in Adam’s shower. You could close your eyes and feel him wrapped around you. Steamed in his lungs. Inside, out, all around. Breathing him in, breathing him out.
Seared him into his skin.
He took his time, getting out. Pat down. Grabbed the shirt Adam had folded on the counter, picked his boxers off the floor because that was a boundary they had yet to cross. Padded with near-bare legs to Adam’s office – minimalist heaven, dark oak desk and dual monitors sleek, tablet-thin. Black cup with 0.5 ballpoint pens. Industrial desk lamp, the amber-tinted desk shade casting him in the comforting glow of golden hour; edges of sundown and refracted sunlight in his hair.
“You can toss your laundry in,” Adam said, not bothering to turn and check it was Ronan leaning against the door, “I didn’t start a load, in case you needed the machine.”
“Sure.” Ronan kicked the frame, “I’m ready.”
“One second.” He held a finger up, squinting at his screen. Any day now, he’d admit to needing glasses — wire frames, maybe. Or thicker lenses, rounded. Something that sat elegantly on the poorly set knob of his nose, complimented the elegant arch of cheekbones without casting too dramatic a shadow. Minimalist. Half-rim.
“Hey, I was on time.”
“This time.” Adam said, distracted. All caught in horizontal bars and dials; frowning like something had deeply, personally offended.
“You're all, well, Lynch, I don't have all the time in the day to cater to your whims, I have other artists you know. Then I show, and you put me in timeout.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And now you’re making me do laundry.” Ronan bent down to retrieve one of Adam's socks. No, wait. His sock.
“Sure.”
“You're not listening to me at all.”
“Not even a little. I was hoping you were clever enough to get the hint.” Adam said, “C'mere.”
Ronan scoffed, and crouched to his left. “Is that for me?”
“No, it's.” Adam sighed, “If I get this done, I can focus on you.”
He liked how Adam phrased that, too. Focus on you. Tacked after task like a reward. “Okay. Why the fuck weren't you already done? You remember practically bullying me into coming over, right?”
“Can you just listen to this, please?” Adam said, holding up headphones. Sleek, practical, over ear.
“That's what you get paid the big bucks for.” Ronan sneered, “You retiring? Finally? Never thought I'd see the day.”
“I just need your opinion on something. You've got a good ear for…” Adam waved the headset, “Can you put the fucking headphones on?”
“Jeez.” He snapped them from his hands, wound the cord over his knuckles, to keep from snagging, “They piss in the pot?” He said, eyeing the takeout coffees.
“Put the headphones on.”
Ronan clasped the set over his ears. He owned a pair, like this— almost as expensive, which felt ridiculous to say, now, when the Adam he'd met wouldn't have been caught dead splurging for a pair this high end. But when the money had started flowing in and Ronan had the delightful task of watching Adam soak into comfort for once in his damn life; got to see him sit and research his first big purchase like he was perusing real estate not a new pair of dress shoes for some award show. And when his secondhand headphones (hand-me-downs, he'd muttered in correction, and refused to specify whose hands they'd passed down the line of)) had finally fizzled out, he’d finally caved and snatched up a Sennheiser set. Had gone on rambling about midbass and audio warmth and mixing quality. Ronan had stopped listening, mainly in favour of memorizing how Adam’s eyes crinkled shut when he smiled, began their descent into elated slant and babbling increased in equal fervor. But the gist of it was: these headphones mattered.
Ronan handled them as delicately as could be allowed.
“I’m going to play a segment,” Adam said, “Just… give me honest feedback.”
It was a guitar riff, repeated four note descent. Plucking in his left ear, looped for six seconds; swelling into a full mix. Ronan flicked eyes up to Adam, who’d turned away to fuss with external speakers. Ducking, blatant discomfort.
“It’s good.” Ronan said, “The panning is good.”
“Does it blend into the full sound alright?” Adam asked, “I played it on speakers, but…” He swallowed, and the bob of his throat under a sheen of sweat was an intoxicating distraction. “I just needed a second opinion.” He insisted.
“Sure.” Ronan said, “It sounds. Good. It, like, blends.” He tilted his head, listening a fourth time, “That last note is too low, actually. In the sequence, just the very last one. You can hear it in the headphones and it’s. Not grating, it’s just noticable.”
Adam frowned, like that answer was some personal slight; “I’ll fix that. Is that all?”
“I can listen to the whole thing, sometime.” Ronan suggested, “But not right now. I’m hungry. And you said something about shitty, non-chamomile tea.”
“It’s a cinnamon orange herbal.” Adam said, scowling at technicolour UI. “I got it at a farmer’s market. It has a fishy under note, I think, but I need a second opinion.”
“You really know how to sell it.” Ronan said, “Any other laundry?”
“No, but you left a shirt last time. Stop doing that.”
“What am I supposed to wear when I come over?” He stood back up, turned to scoop up a stray pair of boxes, “What is this? You slipping, or you couldn’t book the housekeeper this week?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?” Adam clicked through a flat list of files, “And I have plenty of clothes, use those.”
He did. There was still a balled Goo Goo Dolls tee shoved into the mesh pouch of his guitar case. More than one sweatshirt, packed with deodorant crystals; somehow pristine despite being passed back and forth over the last three months with no wash.
Not on him. Adam refused to wash it, too.
“Hey,” Ronan grabbed the backrest of his chair; spun, even while Adam clasped along the desk until knuckles went pale, “I brought you, like, cream of the crop shit. And you’re fussing over this. I’m here. That dickwad is… where, fucking Maine?”
“Maine?” Adam laughed, “You picked Maine?”
“Seattle, then.”
“They’re in the city.” Adam said, “And I promised–”
“Fuck that.” Ronan threw himself back on the bed. Leaned forward, wrapping his hands around calves, pulled feet to lap, massaged into tender padding and white cotton. “You wanted to work this with me. While I’m here. In the same time zone, by the way. You're the one always put out by my sleep schedule.”
Adam considered him, impassive. Sunk in the silence. Audio track still looping, behind him. That damn riff, still filtering out the left ear. He refused to edit mono, even now. Refused to let the tech do it for him. Tore himself to shreds with shattered glass from all the pressure until the end result played immaculate. Tricked out speaker setups, every audiophile’s wet dream catalogue of open ears. Taught himself every basic string, memorized every keyboard layout; turned himself inside out. Whether it was passion or spite or determination, he buckled down to the intensity of an open flame. Your fault if you stepped on the lit path and found yourself burned— there was little room for much else on the road he paved for the end goal. Pressed together: cobblestone, concrete, grout.
“Start the washer.” He said, finally, “And get your damn guitar out the closet.”
•••
Adam didn’t always talk, when they recorded. Went hours without, even, when especially drained. It hadn’t taken very long to read him, his inaudible cues. Face blank when satisfied with Ronan's vocals, wrinkles between brows protruding if pitchy, eye roll when oversinging— casual toss and careless airs.
He didn't budge when Ronan ran through the first. Or the third. Fifth.
Finally, end note still rattling, Ronan drumming fingers along the mic stand, over the neck of his guitar. His first guitar, the one Declan hadn't wanted— it was the one he'd learned on, and something in the juvenile scrawl of Ronan in sharpie by the head resembled comfort. Adam licked his lips and brought thumb to mouth. Nibbling, index over bow.
“What?” Ronan checked behind him, twisting in his chair. Adam's recording booth was a cramped, intimate thing. A labour of love. A testament to a foregone state of limited resources— stubborn clinging to old ways. Sound proofing board in charcoal gray, held to the wall with double sided tape. Desk chairs rescued from a neighbour's lawn. DIY mic setup. Acoustic divider propped and folded near the door, half size for when they could afford to fly Adam out for hotel rooms and tours and any other burst of inspiration; when scheduling was a conflict and money wasn't.
Bonus of being an eclectic artist : everyone bent over backwards to give you what you wanted, for the cheapest dog bone promise of obedience dangled. So, Adam got flown out when Ronan asked. Eventually, he'd stopped needing to. Adam had developed a sixth sense for that sort of thing.
“Where,” Adam began, and Ronan sat up to listen. His voice was hoarse, and he danced fingers along the rim of Ronan's ceramic mug, disseminated curls of steam so they laced translucent rings. Eyes trained on tranquil liquid; untouched, unsipped, uncooled. “Is the song you sent me?”
“I wrote a different one.”
Another beat.
“I didn't say I didn't like it.”
“Um.” Ronan frowned, “Yes you fucking did? Worst thing I've ever sent?”
Adam waved his hand, symptom of exasperation, “Hyperbole. It was bad. I didn't hate it. If I didn't like it, I would have told you to scrap it.” Obviously, his eyebrow said as it made ascent.
“I didn’t want to rework it.” He said, “So, I'm scrapping it.”
“You’re just. You won’t even…” Adam blew another huff of air, “I just asked you to rework it.”
“Why does it have to change? What if I like it how it is?” He slumped, further, against the chair; felt more than heard it squeak in uproar. “Besides, that’s your job. Isn’t it? What, you wanna shuck it all on me now? You finally got some money, it already went to your head?”
Adam’s face pinched. Scrunched. Folded arms, tucked ankles over one another like retreating in on himself would help pack emotion under all that indifferent packaging. “I liked the song.” He said, and sucked in deep to the navel. “It’s not good. But I like it.”
“At least you can be impartial.” Ronan fiddled with tuning pegs, plucked at strings with chipped black polish; off-pitch, discordant. “You like it?”
Adam cracked a smile, “It’s bad. You’re regressing. Lyrically. Just so you know.”
“I like to stay in touch with my roots.” He shrugged, began playing with four chord progression. Poorly tuned, still. They both winced. “I know it was bad.” He admitted, “But you listened to it.” Adam would have made the time for a three am crackling voice memo— had made the time. Continued to make the time. They wouldn't talk about it.
“I can tell when something has potential.” Adam began twirling his pen, weaving ballpoint along the drill line of fingertips, “I told you I like the guitar.”
Ronan gave another strum, grinned fiendish and brazen when Adam shrunk further in disgust, “Just the guitar?”
“Stop that.” Adam reached out to yank at the neck, tugged down with a hiss, “I could charge for assault, for that shit.” Wrestled the instrument out Ronan’s hands; each of their knees a stand, tuning and craning his right ear down. Eyes fix on the strings, running his hands (calloused, harsh creases and chapped, knobby knuckles; captured adolescence in the youthful charm of them, bone and jutting thumb) over the strings, clicking metronome with his tongue. “You don’t use this thing enough.” He added, once the pitch satisfied. “Your vocals weren’t that bad. I was cranky when you sent it.”
“The weasel comment hurt my feelings.” Ronan mimed a pout, tapped one of Adam’s crossed feet with the heel of his own, “Really. Ouch. Outdid yourself.”
“You shouldn’t leave this in my closet.” He ignored the touch; did not push off, did not reciprocate. Let Ronan play one-sided footsie. “It’s going months without tuning.”
“You can tune it for me.”
Right thing to say. Earned him a twitch towards delight, the corner of his mouth lifting. “I’ll think about it. I still think you should be tuning it yourself. I don’t have the feel for it I used to. I’m better with keyboards. Pianos. Harpsichord.” He started to play, properly, eyebrow furrowed. It had been awhile— Adam preferred working with Ronan, and Ronan played every instrument he could, for himself, by himself. As little digital imitation as possible. Took a heap off his plate, left him without practice. A lack of confidence carried through the uneven plucks, hesitance between every four notes.
“They’re not that different.” Ronan pointed out, “Strings.”
“We’re not all natural born rockstars, Lynch.” He tuned, again, tested. Paused. Tuned.
“You’re fucking the strings up.”
“Hence, you coming by to tune it.” He looked up, against sly grin, dared a second of contact. Pressed his ankle to Ronan’s. “Stop by the city, every once in awhile. I’m tired of recording in your hotel room.”
“No you’re not.”
“Take your damn guitar.” Adam released the grip, to his lap, “Play the song I asked you for.”
“Only one of us gets to be the overachiever, huh?” Ronan slid the guitar, back, “I bring you enough songs to fill a record, and you complain over the one I didn’t drop. Whiny. Hey, pot, how does it feel to see kettle?”
“That’s different. I need multiple tracks, to give variety–”
“Alright” Ronan began, leaned back, hands in place. Rattled through sheet music at the back of his memory; he hadn’t written any of it down, had just coached Gansey until it felt plucked out of imagination. He wasn’t so good with the words, but he knew how to get the sound right. It was rare anyone else picked up on it, followed suit. First, Gansey. Then, against all his will, Adam. “Don’t hold back. Impartial judge, right?”
“Well,” Adam leaned back, pulled with his foot until their calves, shins, lower leg and ankle bones gave pressure. Played with his pen, twirling horizontal, index and middle and thumb working in conjunction to spin. Looked down, back up. Down. Up. Locked on, again. Stayed. Exhaustion did his eyes justice— sun-bleach acrylic and half-moon bruises creased under folds. Spiderweb veins, rings of red around the rim. Granted the last dredges of his energy to grant Ronan all his focus, clicking the cap on, off. Irregular rhythm. “I’m not entirely impartial. Just so you know.”
Ronan grinned. Matched the pressure on legs. Adam had once told him, everything is a little quieter, here. Inside.
Sometimes, he got it. The appeal of quiet. Nothing about Ronan ever felt quiet— everything in him screamed so loud, the only way he could expel it was getting it down, out, on stereos and speakers; bars, stadiums, parks. In the easy air where he fizzled and focused on Adam’s scrutinizing attention.
Steadying the guitar, situation in hand, lap, Ronan gave a tentative few strums. Reconsidered, shifted hold, and started again. Properly. Front, back, all three minutes of a midnight-clogged ballad. Sleepless night and hopeless fantasies packed into an audio file, sent to Adam's inbox and torn to shreds like they both pretended not to enjoy. He played that, not, corny lyrics and all, kept his voice even and his eyes down on the task at hand. This was one of the few ways you got Ronan Lynch to stop and listen— give him a guitar, a decent muse, and enough spite to fuel the next big leap. He played. Played, played, played.
Adam didn’t look away.
•••
Ronan took several months, after their first trial in synchrony, to bring him a song. After hours, days, weeks hissing and spitting, bickering over melodies, word choice, subject. Authenticity, lack thereof. After Adam pulling his hair out, threatening to quit, threatening to tell Gansey; desperate enough to consider bribery, for all Ronan had hit a creative deficit. Several months, until he'd strolled to Adam's apartment; twenty and moronic and drunk on sardonic rebuttals and faded band tees purchased in practicality. Intoxicated, buzzed over every bickering match and Adam's preposterous ambition fueling envy; the intensity, the frenzy in Adam's eyes for once a match carrying equal spark— the first person, Ronan thought, just as enamoured with the craft since…
Ronan was drunk, was the important part. Literally, figuratively, spiritually. Twisting the chain around his neck and buzzing the doorbell, bzzzzzt. One beat. Bzzzzzt Another. Bzzzzzzzzzt. You could record that sound, play on a loop with sensual bass lines, a build and release to the thumping and pulsating beat in your breastbone. Another note, for Adam. Let's sample your doorbell. He was insane enough, to take the challenge. Ronan thought he liked it, sometimes.
It took five or fifty minutes for Adam to answer, and Ronan was still pressing, bzzzzzt, until the lock clicked in greeting.
“Shut,” Adam said, door swinging brazen, inviting strips of moonlight and artificial ochre to paint him in complimentary hues, “The fuck. Up.”
“I finished it.” Ronan said, holding out a recorder— portable, Gansey's treat.
“It's two in the morning.”
“You weren't sleeping.”
“Doesn’t mean I want to see you—” Adam recoiled, “Sorry, smell you. You're drunk. I'm working.”
“This is work.” Ronan insisted, “Let me in.”
Adam sighed, leaned against the frame; propped by forearm. Resting temple to wrist, watching Ronan wave the recorder, like a biscuit over a dog's nose. His sweatpants were too big, cinched tight, still barely holding along his hips. If his hand wasn't palm up, accepting Ronan's offer, he'd have lost himself in the ghost of a hip protruding over bandline. He didn't go casual very often. “One listen.” Slight concession. Blinks languid, exhausted. “Then you go away. Does Gansey know you're drinking? Did you drive? Are you safe to drive?”
“I'll make myself scarce if you listen..” Ronan said, “I'll be fine. I'll sleep in my car until I sober up.”
“You can sleep on my couch.” Adam offered, “But you don't talk to me while I listen. You stay. In the corner, zipped.”
“You'll like it. I'm serious. You're going to like this one.”
“Really, now?” Adam snorted, “Sure. Hours, months even, of trying to get you motivated and writing. Nothing you've done has been remotely worth recording, but your midnight drinking binge was really the key. I bet I'll love it.”
“You will. It's about you.”
It took less time to process than Ronan expected. Or more. Seconds were blurring and signals crossing; once he'd hit the second bottle of cheap, convenience store vodka, things began to blend. Meld. All shit, jet-fuel alcohol sugars. Adam's face stilled, like the halting of facial procedures helped him compute information faster.
“And that…” Adam swallowed. “That was… inspiring for you?”
“Listen to the song and tell me how inspiring it is.” Ronan wiggled the device, again. “Come on. Most guys are flattered by this shit.”
“You wrote a song about me?”
“I write a lot of songs about you.” Ronan blinked, twice. Extra hard on the second. “This one just made it to the finale. You're easy to write about. I get… the words come out, easier.” He groaned, turned to rest against the chipped bricked hallway, dug his skin into jagged edges until it ached and bit through the haze. Early onset migraine, wringing at the base of his neck, tip of spine.
Adam pursed his lips. “They do, huh?”
“I can bring more.” Ronan offered, before he could tell himself better, stop. Restrain. “I have. A lot more. Like you and those stupid. Demos. I just keep making shit about you. It's annoying.”
Adam wet tongue along lower lip. Reached out, grasped along Ronan's wrist, pawed at the recorder, pulled hand to sit near chest, cupped knuckles, smiled closed lipped up at him, “Why don't you come inside, and I'll get you some water? Sober you up.”
“I work better drunk.”
“Sure.” Adam said, “But let's try some water anyway. You can tell me about all the shit you're making.”
“We can?”
“Obviously.” Adam said, propping his door open with a foot, wrenched Ronan's last few fingers off the device, “Then, we can figure out the real reason you're writing, all of a sudden. And how to keep it going.”
He held the door open, tipped his head. Indication, permission. Step inside. Invited, wanted, inquiry. Can you come in?
There wasn't much else for Ronan to do but say yes.
He could say it was the booze. But Ronan wasn't a liar. Never had it in him— didn't, couldn't, wouldn't lie off the bat.
Adam, though. Adam could lie.
Adam lied to himself more than anyone he knew.
•••