The sky was dark and dry when Ronan arrived home.

By the time the storm had ebbed enough for him and Sadie to run for the house, dinner had long-since been served. They had sat together before the fire, warmed by the flames and the broth in their bowls and the jackets they'd been leant, but Ronan had shivered endlessly.

An urgent tug in his chest had urged him to leave, but each and every Abrams had argued hotly until the storm waned.

Ronan had run out at the first opportunity, trading James' jacket for his own to an ensemble of protests and stepping out onto the dark, soggy country road beneath the lingering drizzle.

The rain dwindled to nothing, but the wet tracks running down his cheeks remained. He raised a hand to his face as his vision blurred, stunned when his fingers came back wet.

He didn't want to cry over this.

Ronan had been cut down by the man he loved regretfully and left for dead by his only friends in the world. He had returned to a home he couldn't bear to stand inside, where acrid memories hung in the air and burned his skin, and he hadn't cried once through all of it, because he had already shed enough tears over Vito to last a lifetime. He'd shed enough for his mother to last two.

But he leaned onto his wrists on the living-room-kitchen table as his entire body trembled, darkening the wood with salty water and succumbing, wholly and pathetically, to the chill of the rain.

It only made sense that the tears would come to him like this; quiet, covert, and all at once. With the cunning of a thief - to sneak up on a thief.

Ronan cried for heartbreak and he cried for mourning. He cried for the friends he had left behind and all of the things he would never get to experience with them, for the first time or the hundreth. He cried for all of the people who had loved him, but had never loved him enough - and then he sagged onto his forearms as it occurred to him that everyone he'd ever cared for fell into that group.

The list of things Ronan wanted and the list of things he couldn't have were one and the same. The lists of people he wanted and couldn't have were nearly identical, and the thought of adding Sadie and Amos and their family to the latter might have brought him to his knees if he wasn't so used to the feeling.

As it was, love and loss had only ever come to Ronan as one, so he pushed himself upright, rubbed the fog from his eyes, and moved blearily toward the hearth. He would make some tea.

He stripped out of his sopping jacket and dragged the blanket over from the sofa, and he wrapped it around himself and sat in front of the fire and wept, questioning why he had been born with skilled hands if they would never be able to hold onto anything.

A familiar rap sounded at the door.

Ronan pressed one fist over his mouth to muffle the sob that pitched him forward. The other gripped tight to the cup in his grasp until it burned his palm.

"Ronan?"

Why now?

He rubbed frantically at his cheeks like he might somehow be caught. His chest jumped with short, feverish breaths.

Why now, of all times?

As if he'd heard, Amir said, "I know it's a bit early. I hope that's alright. The storm has darkened the sky and lured the others to bed, and I'll admit I couldn't wait."

A shudder rocked Ronan enough to dislodge the blanket around his shoulders. He splayed his hand over his face and tried for a deep inhale. It stuttered halfway down his throat. The fire was already sputtering; the room was freezing.

"I don't know if that's sad. I don't reckon I care."

The blanket fell away completely when Ronan fumbled blindly for the poker. A hoarse shout ripped from his throat as red-hot pain shot up through his hand.

"Ronan?"

The searing poker clattered to the floor as he jumped to his feet. Alongside it plummeted the cup of tea; he staggered back as it shattered, spraying boiling water.

"Ronan? What's-"

He caught himself on the table before he could go crashing, crying out again when his damaged hand slammed the surface. Gasping, he slumped against the wood.

The entire house seemed to groan in protest as the door was thrown open. The clarity of the next words, spoken across empty space, struck Ronan like a blow to the chest.

"Is everything- my God, I shouldn't have just- honestly, I thought it would be locked, forgive-"

Ronan raised his head to the sight of Amir five weeks removed, standing just beyond the door of his shameful childhood home with a parcel of food in one hand.

He looked shocked and embarrassed by his own actions, but his expression melted down to nothing when he saw Ronan's face. Ronan's first instinct was to duck, or turn, or find some other way to hide. He must have looked terrible, bloodshot and tearstained and waterlogged.

The second, stronger urge was to look a moment longer, because even with half his face hidden beneath his scarf, Amir was as striking as he'd been the night he let Ronan down. How appropriate that they should meet like this, Amir standing tall and devastating over his hunched rejection.

"You're hurt."

Ronan's hand throbbed where he cradled it against his chest. He stumbled back when Amir stepped further inside, pale at the prospect of getting any closer. He hated being seen like this. He hated being seen at all in this place.

Amir's gaze crumbled for a moment into something helpless. But he mounted his resolve, and Ronan was reminded of the stranger in the scarf who had appealed for a home with a gun pointed at his head that night they met. Amir wore the same restless determination as he reached behind himself to uncover his nose and mouth.

"I know everything between us is . . . deeply complicated."

Five weeks didn't seem long enough to forget a face. Ronan had spent much of those weeks tormented, wishing he could lose just a single detail. But now, he realized he'd had it all wrong. He wasn't sure it was possible to commit a face like Amir's to memory.

"But let's pretend, just for a short while, that there are only two truths in this world," implored Amir. "The first is that you are hurt. The last is that I can help you. Can't it be that simple?"

It seemed backward that Amir should play the beggar in this scene, but his eyes pleaded like he was the one in pain, and Ronan hurt all over.

He nodded, just barely, but that was enough. Amir crossed the space between them until they stood across the table from one another. Here, Ronan's first instinct won out; he bowed his head until sodden dark hair fell over his face.

"Can I see?"

Amir blew out through his mouth at the sight of shiny, blistering red skin along the base of Ronan's palm. He set his sack on the table and tentatively reached forward, and when Ronan didn't flinch away, he unfurled Ronan's fingers and pushed back his sleeve to see the full extent of the damage. Even as Ronan's hand emanated heat, the barely-there touch was warm against his skin. He had forgotten about that, too.

Amir didn't comment on the burn itself. Instead, "You're shaking." He held Ronan's damp sleeve between two fingers. "You'll get sick like this."

Warmth hugged Ronan's shoulders as a new, dry jacket was draped over him. Soaked with Amir's body heat, it held him like a hug. Ronan squeezed his eyes shut, biting down another sob.

"Sit down?"

While Ronan sank onto the wooden chair in the corner, Amir walked the other way. He stepped around the tea-soaked heap of Ronan's blanket to retrieve the pot on the mantel and scour the shelves. Kneeling before Ronan as if in prayer, he waited with his palm up until Ronan offered his hand.

He hissed at the press of a cool, wet washcloth. "Sorry," Amir said quietly. The hand that held Ronan's rubbed a soothing line down his knuckles. Ronan didn't think Amir even realized he was doing it, too focused on carefully bunching the rag over the worst parts of the burn.

In the minutes that stole past unseen, Amir stared at Ronan's hand and Ronan stared at Amir, at the methodical way he would dip, squeeze, and reapply the cloth. He could breathe easier like this, under Amir's clinical hypnosis. At some point, he dragged his sleeve over his face for the last time.

Another dunk, another wring. "Can you hold this for me?" Amir asked, and Ronan's hand replaced his.

He started to stand. Ronan's head shot up. A quiet "oh" passed through Amir's lips when he met startled eyes, and he was quick to say, "I won't be gone long. I'm only going to fetch some more water, okay? Not long at all."

Ronan caught a glimpse of misery before Amir turned away and wondered if it was truly so obvious that he didn't believe him.

But Amir was back on the floor in a matter of minutes. This time when he took the rag, he didn't dip it again. He lifted the scarf hanging limp around his neck and wrapped it around Ronan's palm, gentle but tight, until it wound from his knuckles to his forearm. It was smooth as silk.

When he was finished, he looked up, holding Ronan's hand in both of his. "Feel okay?"

Ronan nodded.

"Where do you keep your clothes?"

Ronan looked toward the three bags slouched beneath the table. Amir's brow creased, but he said nothing as he dug through them. He came back with a shirt and pants that he wordlessly left on Ronan's lap before roaming into the kitchen with his back turned.

When Ronan stood, he faced away, too, red in the ears like they hadn't lived in the same room for months. He sighed as he stripped off his socks. Sounds of Amir rummaging behind him filled the small space as he squirmed out of his pants and into the new pair one-handed. Pulling the wet shirt off was a pain, but getting the new one on seemed impossible; he only made his head through before the shuffling was replaced by approaching footsteps, then Amir's voice at his back. "May I?"

Through a rubbed-raw throat, Ronan said, "Alright."

He heard a quiet intake of breath behind him. A line of warmth eclipsed his back as Amir guided one arm, then the other, through his sleeves, taking care not to jostle his wrapped hand. His knuckles skimmed Ronan's sides as he pulled the shirt the rest of the way down, and Ronan couldn't blame the cold for the way he shivered.

Amir slid his jacket back over Ronan's shoulders. His hands dropped to his sides as Ronan turned around to face him. "Better?"

Ronan hummed. Amir nodded toward the sofa, and Ronan drifted obediently over. When Amir went back into the kitchen, Ronan noticed that the blanket had been hung over the stair rail to dry, and the corpse of his mug had been gathered into a pile. Amir swept the mess onto a cloth - one Ronan had gotten from him - then leaned the broom against the wall and crouched to deal with the stubborn pieces. You'll cut yourself, Ronan worried, but Amir rose unscathed, holding a bundle of shards in one hand.

With the other, he poured steaming water into Ronan's only other cup, and within the next minute he stood before the sofa with a new cup of tea. The first sip warmed Ronan to his bones.

"Try to get some sleep, alright?"

Reading a goodbye in those words, Ronan nodded with his gaze lowered to his cup. He drank again, just for something to do as Amir left.

"Your face," he said. His head darted up with the realization right as Amir reached for the door.

Amir frowned. "My-?" He touched his own face and his lips parted in surprise. "Oh."

He glanced out the window at the pitch black outside. "I'll be alright. It's dark tonight."

But his hand was still at his cheek, scratching nervously at the shadow there as he looked yet again to the window.

His hand slipped from the doorknob when Ronan rose. Dropping to his knees before the table, Ronan felt around in one bag, then another. When he stood, he held out his steel-gray bandana. The cotton felt rough compared to the scarf wrapped around his hand, but Amir took it gratefully.

𓃥𓃥𓃥

Sadie Abrams was a loud girl.

She shouted her greetings and walked like she was dancing, and she had a habit of talking without stopping for breath. She was a fast-moving train of thought, made up of wide gestures and boisterous laughter and lawless red curls that splayed out around her face on the rare day she forgot to tie it back. Today was one of those days.

As they sat shoulder-to-shoulder before the rising sun, Ronan found that even her thoughts were distractingly loud. She sat quiet next to him, but her head was noisy. He was inclined to demand she spit it out - he'd grown fond of the way she spoke without thinking - but she had never once forced him to speak.

He didn't anticipate that all she would ultimately say was, "Are you okay?"

Ronan blinked through his surprise. "Why do you ask?"

Sadie curled her fingers into the knees of her pants. "I try not to pry, you know? You appear on random mornings looking like you haven't slept a second and hardly saying a word, and I don't ask because it isn't my place, but," she met Ronan's eye, "But I do worry. And today you've shown up looking- really quite terrible, I must say-"

"Forever the flatterer." 

Sadie's smile was small, but he was glad to see it. "And you've been even quieter than normal, and you've got your hand all wrapped up, and I can only bite my tongue so long. But we're friends, right?"

Ronan wasn't used to shyness on her, but she lowered her voice and averted her eyes, leaning forward onto her thighs and letting her hands fall around her ankles. "Which means . . . Can I ask you what's the matter? Would that be alright?"

She toyed with the frayed hems of her pants. Ronan leaned his shoulder against hers and watched her smile, a bit bigger this time, as she returned the pressure. He couldn't stomach the mortification of telling her the reason he'd burned his own hand the night before. If he shoved her, she would probably shove back, and they could let the subject fall away along the laughter lines between them.

But telling her nothing felt like denying that they were friends at all. Ronan settled for a half-truth, sinking back in the grass to pick up where he'd left off in the tale of Amir.

He hadn't intended to amuse, but Sadie seemed to find this leg of the story rather funny. Her eyes shone as he recounted late-night visits and food parcels and unprompted stories, though she held her teasing as long as she could.

Her breaking point was the part in the story where Amir rushed in to tend him like some knight in shining armor. "Ronan," she said, very seriously. "This man is quite madly in love with you."

Ronan blanched.

Sadie burst into giggles. "I'm only joking! Don't look so scandalized."

A forced laugh was Ronan's only defense, and Sadie's full-face grin tapered into something curious. She peered down at him.

"Always so serious. Such a dour hero."

Ronan huffed. "We can't all run on . . . fucking sunshine, or whatever fuels your crazy." He crossed his arms behind his head, wiggling to get comfortable. "I don't know how you're so chipper all the time."

"How could I not be?" she said. "Look where we are!"

Ronan made a point of tilting his head right, then left, then fixed her with one raised brow. "Your farm?"

"No! Well, yes, but-" Sadie pressed her lips into a line as she struggled for the right words, flexing her hands around her head like she might draw them from her brain. She gave up with a huff and let them fall to her sides. Splayed fingers carded through the grass.

"I'm at my happiest in a place like this," she said, dropping her head thoughtfully onto her shoulder. "That's been true just about as long as I've been around. The Earth is alive, I'm certain of that - my brothers tell me I'm mad, but I can nearly feel her breathing." She curled her fingers in the grass. "I've always thought: if I can match my breath to hers, I'll never tire. And that was . . . simple, when I was little, and the world was beautiful no matter how I looked at it. Gettin' excited at the color of the sky was as easy as sittin' beneath it.

"But I got older and more logical, and I started to worry about human things that got nothin' to do with her, things like the farm and money and- and sickness. I would stare out at the same view, and the image hadn't changed but the colors had, and the world stopped being fascinating, and my life started to seem like something I'd lost. And isn't that crazy, to be young and healthy and mourning your own life?"

She tilted her face to the sky. Only when her eyes started to water did she close them.

"I had to take the time to look around and breathe in and marvel at everything that was mine. There's very little in my life I can control, but- the grass under my feet takes in light from the sun to grow tall, and isn't that just magic? And in turn, that grass provides food and a home to even more life, and-" She looked at Ronan, face lifted in a joyous laugh.

"I'll probably never leave this farm, but there are horses that fly - they can fly, Ronan! - and I won't ever know what they're thinking, but they could travel the world and yet they come to me. I can't afford those beautiful purple dresses in paintings, but I can walk a field of iris any time I please, and that's where purple dye comes from, isn't it? I can sit under the sky and wonder how it became so blue until the sun sets red and I'm covered by every star the night has to offer, and they're too far to touch and too plenty to count, but they're mine because I know them. The moon and the sun are my friends, and the grass knows my touch, and that's all that I have."

She fell back into the grass with her arms above her head, stretched out like a cat in a patch of sunlight. Ronan imagined the stalks curling toward her in an embrace, welcoming her home.

"Don't you ever want more?"

Sadie looked content to fall asleep just like this. Ronan didn't doubt she had many times. "There's a creek just past the treeline where flowers bloom all through spring and summer. I go every day that I can, and I lay with my eyes closed and my arms spread and I'm the richest woman alive. Why would I want more?"

The list of reasons Ronan envied her was ever-growing.

He had never intended it to become a list at all. It had started as a tightness in his chest whenever Amos praised him- "You weren't kiddin' about bein' a fast learner, son"- and had steadily grown long with late-workday dinners and in-jokes with her brothers and the shameless singularity with which she danced the fields in her brothers' old clothes. He had never thought he might one day begrudge her wealth, too.

He pondered his jealousy at dinnertime as he boiled the eggs Amos had sent home with him, and he pondered the irony when he should have been drifting to sleep. He thought in circles until it brought his mind to a lull.

One that shattered just as he moved to extinguish the lamp.

It would be another week before Amir was due for a visit, but the knocks came anyway, and Ronan was wide awake.

"I'm sorry to show up so soon; I'll be brief. I haven't any idea what's going on aside from what I can guess, and I know I've no right to speculate, but I haven't stopped thinking of you one moment today. And that's nothing new, I suppose, but I never knew I could worry so much for another person. I spent twenty-one years worrying only for myself, but I've been poorly all today.

"This is the only way I can check on you. I'm glad to know that you are safe at home, though I do wish you were sleeping. I haven't come empty-handed; if nothing else, I thought something sweet might cheer you up. But do you know what I realized today? I don't even know your favorite sweets."

The pause that followed was final. Ronan scrambled to his feet and tore open the door.

There was a shallow wicker basket draped in cloth on the top step, and on the bottom, a startled Amir. Ronan bent low to pick up the basket. On his way up, he said, "Fruit tarts."

Amir smiled. Ronan's ribs squeezed tight around his lungs. "Good," he said as he left.

Beneath the cloth, Ronan would find an assortment of expensive-looking sweets. A flaky powdered pastry and a slice of berry pie and a crumbly blueberry scone. Fluffy golden biscuits and squares of spongy cake, and, wrapped carefully in parchment, a tart topped with strawberries and blackberries.

It was far too late for dessert. Ronan lasted maybe a minute before he bit into the tart.

𓃦𓃦𓃦

Though his workday had ended hours before, Ronan found himself lingering around the farm past seven on the last day of the week. Not because of work or the weather, but because he was a victim to Sadie's whims, and she swore her spot in the woods was at its best in the hour before sunset. Ronan couldn't recall ever asking to see it, but he didn't have the energy to refuse her. And he didn't mind staying.

He followed as she skipped ahead, pushing bushes and branches out of his way and cackling when she tripped over a tree root.

She stood atop a mossy rock, spread her arms wide, and promptly toppled over.

"Sadie-!" Ronan shouted. He rushed after her to find her in no apparent harm, rolling happily down a grassy patch of wildflowers that sloped toward a slow-moving stream. She flopped onto her back with her arms and legs thrown out, laughing as Edgar copied her tumble midair and dropped onto her chest like a fuzzy starfish.

Ronan watched from the rock with an inevitable smile. This, he mused, was Sadie at her truest - spread-eagled in the dirt with twigs tangled in her braid, surrounded by summer flowers turned vibrant in the evening sun. Broad stripes of warm light cut over the stream and over Sadie; both seemed to sparkle.

"Aren't you coming?"

She peeked at him from one open eye. Ronan was loath to disrupt this scene - he didn't think he would quite fit - but he picked carefully down the hill, settling next to her with his hands clasped over his chest.

She didn't say anything else for some time, so he listened to the stream instead. Edgar fell asleep against Sadie's collar.

"My ma's ashes were scattered in this creek."

Ronan rested on his cheek. Sadie had both eyes closed and the same smile she wore whenever she heard the morning songbirds croon. Ronan knew at once that she had gotten it from her mother.

"She brought you here?" he asked.

Sadie hummed. "Since before I was born."

"It's a beautiful place to go."

She turned into the grass, radiant when she looked at him. "Isn't it? I think, if I have the choice, I'd like to die like Ophelia." She pet Edgar's tummy with one finger. He purred surprisingly loud for his size. "I don't mean in manner, of course, I just . . . find her rather captivating."

She settled back with a dreamy sigh. Ronan hoped the slow rise and fall of her chest matched the Earth's breathing. His eyes slid shut and he waited for it to settle, whatever it was that had Sadie rolling down hills and talking to birds and watching the sunrise with awe every morning without fail.

He sat up after minutes of waiting, of clearing his mind and evening his breathing and attuning his senses. He'd tried everything he could think of to appreciate something beyond the sweetness of the sun on his face and the clear, earthy forest air, but,

"I don't . . ." he trailed. He certainly didn't feel any richer.

Sadie laughed when she saw the frustrated furrow to his brow. "Well of course you don't. We aren't the same, we don't want the same. This is my everything, and it's enough for me, but you won't find yours here."

Ronan might have been pouting, just a little.

"God, you're so sweet I could kiss you."

He puckered his lips and was met with a palm to his face, sending him sprawling back to the ground.

"Yours, huh?" he laughed.

"Indeed."

"All of this is yours?"

"Mhm."

"The sun, the sky, the trees-"

"All mine," Sadie said, grinning.

The grass should've been itchy, but it felt exceptionally soft where it touched the back of his neck. From here, it was taller than him; Ronan plucked a pretty purple flower that drooped over his face and held it to the sun, and he figured this could be enough, just for right now.

𓃥𓃥𓃥

The next time Amir came by, Ronan was waiting for him.

It was his second night in a row waiting up for the familiar knock. When it came, Ronan steeled his nerves, hopped to his feet, and pulled the door open before Amir could even finish his usual greeting.

Amir took a sharp breath in. On the exhale, he sighed, "Hello."

He looked confused, and anxious, and- hopeful.

"Would you like to come inside?"

"Of course," Amir said like he'd been waiting forever. Ronan stepped aside, and he crossed the threshold with the caution and curiosity of a cat, hovering just inside the door.

Ronan had planned on this, had debated it for days, but he watched Amir look around and realized he had not at all thought this through. He didn't know where to begin.

"Oh," he said with no shortage of relief, digging through his pocket until he procured the folded, crumpled square of Amir's scarf. "This is yours."

His hand was still shiny and red where he'd been burned, and he struggled not to wince at work, but the wound was healing.

Amir hooked one finger behind the gray bandana over his mouth. It fell around his neck like an accessory. "I quite like the one I have now."

His smile was as charming as Ronan remembered. Ronan stared down at the fabric in his hand.

"Ah, sorry," Amir murmured. He started to untie the bandana. "That wasn't . . ."

Ronan put the scarf back into his pocket. Amir's smile resurfaced, this time as something nervous and unsure but resoundingly pleased.

"Do you mind if I ask - have you been sleeping down here?"

He was looking at the wrinkled blanket and dented pillow on the sofa. All at once, Ronan regretted opening the door.

"There must be a bedroom upstairs, no?"

He started toward the stairs, but Ronan called out, "Wait!" in a rush, and he halted right at the foot of the staircase. He looked from Ronan to the sofa, then up the steps. Ronan saw on his face the instant he noticed the coating of dust that started halfway up.

"I just- I haven't gotten around to cleaning that floor, but I will, soon, the second I'm less busy with work-"

"What is it you're avoiding?"

Amir looked Ronan dead-on, and Ronan was forced to accept that lying would get him nowhere.

He clenched his fist around the scarf in his pocket as his mother's sickly face surfaced in his mind. "The bed."

Amir nodded slowly. Ronan was overwhelmed with the unnerving feeling of being known. "And if the bed was gone? Stripped down to the frame?"

Ronan floundered around an answer long enough for Amir to discern one for himself. "Is it alright if I look up there? I don't expect you to follow."

With the slow widening of Ronan's eyes came a hollow protest. "I can't ask that of you."

This time when Amir smiled, it was a placating thing. "You haven't asked a thing. But I'm a selfish man, so I will ask something of you." He set his parcel on the table and undid the knot. "I never found the time to eat a proper dinner tonight. Would you make something for us to share? I do miss your cooking."

The lie was obvious, but Amir's voice was a sedative. Ronan found himself nodding along, moving as if through a fog to stand next to him. "What would you like?" he asked, so quiet he felt Amir lean closer.

Amir thought this over with pursed lips. "That chowder you make? With the pork?"

Ronan scanned the food on the table. Even with the ingredients on his shelves, he doubted he'd find everything he needed for a chowder. He sifted for anything he could use anyway.

Only once he'd moved to the countertop to dice an onion did Amir make his move toward the second floor. Ronan watched over his shoulder until Amir noticed him staring and leaned over the rail. "Careful now; you wouldn't want to hurt your other hand." Gently, he instructed, "Watch your work, Ronan."

So Ronan focused on the movements of his hands. He chopped potatoes and boiled water and rendered fat from the pork in a trance, and he never looked up, even as he heard Amir make trips up and down the stairs and out the door. Even when he felt Amir right behind him, reaching for the shelves over his head. Ronan did not look up until a creamy, steaming chowder filled his pot. Realizing he'd finished felt like blinking awake from a dreamless sleep.

The space behind him was empty. He called Amir's name and was greeted with hurried footsteps down the stairs and the faint smell of vinegar from a wet spot on his shirt.

Amir sang his praises, shoveling spoonfuls like a man starved. Ronan ate in silence.

He didn't know how to talk to Amir anymore.

"You mentioned you've been working?" Amir prompted. He clearly wasn't having the same problem. Or perhaps clearly was too simple a word; Ronan had never learned how to read him.

"I've somehow found myself a watchmaker's apprentice," he said, marveling at how he could sound so stilted saying something so mundane.

"That's perfect for you!" Amir beamed like it was easy. Like this all was easy; like nothing had changed.

"Would be if it weren't for the farmwork," Ronan muttered, offering no further context to enlighten Amir's raised eyebrows.

But then, nothing had changed, not on Amir's side of things.

Surprised eyes followed him as he abruptly stood. He didn't have the first idea what to do with all of this, the everything that was Amir. But he would never know with a closed door, or a staircase, or a table standing between them.

"You cleaned the bedroom," he said.

Amir stared. "I . . .  started to, yes."

"Well let's finish, then."

He didn't give Amir a chance to respond. He marched purposefully toward the second floor, and he didn't stop when his heart sped up on the first dusty step, or when his head broke the threshold and his stomach plummeted through his gut. He stood on unsteady legs in the bedroom of his past.

Amir waited on the top step right behind him, a solid presence at his back. A sturdy place to land if he fell, a strong pair of arms to catch him if his knees gave.

The only lamp was downstairs, so Amir had made do with a pair of years-old candles burned down to their last minutes and the moonlight creeping through the window. The light was dim, but it was enough to make out the shapes in the room. A boggy square window on one wall; a mirror mounted above a bed frame not quite large enough for two on the opposite; a lopsided chest of drawers against the third. The scarce space around and between them was taken over by their shadows.

However boldly as he'd made it this far, Ronan's bravery ran out here. He got stuck at the entrance.

As was his wont, Amir uprooted him.

A barely-there nudge to the small of his back was all it took. Ronan crossed into his room, and-

It wasn't nearly as bad as he'd expected.

"Tell me more about your work," Amir urged softly as he followed him in.

Ronan ran his fingers along the window sill. He looked into the mirror across the room; the space was too dark and the glass was too grimy to see much more than his silhouette. "It's none too interesting."

Amir's form appeared behind his in the reflection, close enough to blur together. "Tell me anyway?"

He was a clumsy yet earnest cleaner. By the time he left - with the assurance that he would be back with a replacement mattress the next day, Ronan's protests against which he would not hear - he had a few more wet spots on his shirt.

When he stood in the doorway, he bodily blocked Ronan's view of the remnants of the old bed. "I will deal with all of that, too. You'll never have to lay eyes on it."

"You don't have to do all this," he said, to which Amir only smiled.

The door had only been closed a second before he came knocking again.

A long moment passed in hesitation. "Are we okay?" he blurted, his face a medley of words left unsaid. "Or . . . do you think we will be?"

Residual anger sparked weakly in Ronan's chest. Such an unfair question that was, now that he and Amir had become so indistinct. Ronan didn't know; he thought the better question would be whether he would be okay, because he couldn't get Amir out of his system, and he was far too good at getting hurt.

But Amir in his doorway was a sight he didn't want to lose anytime soon.

He thought it might be fine to keep him just as they stood now, with nothing between them but still an arm's length apart.

"Just," he sighed, suddenly aware of how tired he was. "No more promises, alright?"

Amir wilted before his eyes. Ronan stood firm. Amir's gaze fell to his feet and he chewed his bottom lip, but he gave a shallow nod. His voice came quiet and rough as pained eyes met Ronan's unwavering ones. "Yeah. Yeah, of course."

𓃢𓃢𓃢

Song for this chapter: You're On Your Own Kid by Taylor Swift

i've been having the most severe masquerade x midnights brainrot lately. i told my beta i think this song is so so ronan and she brought to my attention that Would've, Could've, Should've is also incredibly him, particulary in regards to vito, so that's my honorable mention for this chapter

honorable mention #2: Trainwreck by James Arthur

this has been the song i associated with the first scene since like 2020 so i had to include it :')