When Ronan returned from the Abrams' past ten to find light coming from the lower floor of his house, a house he was decidedly not inside, his steps stuttered to a clumsy halt on the pavement. He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed them for good measure, then opened them again, but his windows were still yellow, and he hadn't had enough to drink to start seeing things.

He started for the window, then thought better of it and made cautiously for the door instead. Crouching on his doorstep, he rucked up the right leg of his pants to reach inside his boot for the knife a certain someone had gifted him – insisted he took, really – only a handful of days before. Ronan had ignored most of Amir's rant about the importance of self defense in favor of staring at his lips; he scorned his own uselessness now as he found himself entirely unsure of how to proceed.

He checked the street behind him, only to confirm that there would be no witnesses should he be cut down on entry. He glowered at the short blade. Could he even use this against somebody if the need arose?

He wouldn't find out loitering on his doorstep.

Ronan charged in with his little knife bared and the makings of what surely would have been a very threatening shout to find Amir at his hearth, stirring a pot of boiling water with raised eyebrows facing Ronan over his shoulder.

Slowly, Amir let go of the wooden spoon and turned with both hands raised.

Ronan deflated with a huff, tossing the knife onto the table so he could put his hands on his hips and give Amir his most thoroughly unimpressed stare. "Breaking and entering now, are we?" he said evenly, as if he couldn't still feel his heartbeat.

Amir's smile came sheepish. "You were the one who taught me to pick a lock, weren't you?"

Ronan's mouth twitched. He hopped onto the table with his legs dangling off, replacing the knife in his boot before starting on the laces. "So you broke in."

"My original intention was the same as usual. The house went to sleep early tonight, since– well, everyone was rather tired. And I wanted to see you." Amir's voice grew louder as he approached. He swatted Ronan's hand aside to unlace his boots for him. Despite his attempt to mince his words, Ronan heard what he hadn't said. Such a lively house rarely tired early unless the day had been particularly full. It must have been a scouting day.

Ronan didn't bring this up, too endeared by Amir's attempt to guard his feelings and the disastrous state of his hair, like he had decided to come over after he'd already settled into bed for the night. Ronan smoothed it with both hands as Amir slid off his right boot, then his left, explaining, "I thought you might have fallen asleep, but when I saw your curtains were open I figured you must've gotten held up at work–"

"It's Micah's birthday."

"And– ah, well happy birthday, Micah –and it seemed a waste to turn back without seeing you, but I felt dreadfully creepy waiting outside– though in retrospect I suppose letting myself in wasn't much better–"

Ronan was laughing as he pulled Amir close, gratified by the sound that came low and pleased from his throat when their lips met. He hooked a leg behind Amir's thigh to pull him closer, heat from Amir's hands and cheeks and tongue joining the lingering warmth from Ronan's last swig of rum.

Ronan drew Amir's lip between his teeth before pulling away, leaning back on his wrists. "Break in whenever you'd like," he invited.

"Be careful what you wish for."

"I won't," said Ronan. "I kind of like it– befitting a thief. Which reminds me!" From his pocket, he procured the days-old newspaper he had swiped from Amos' table that afternoon and tapped it to Amir's chest. "Congratulations on your named debut, Mercenary."

The paper unfurled with the flick of his wrist. Bypassing the headline (A MERRY RAMPAGE: THREE BANKS ROBBED IN ONE NIGHT), Ronan read aloud, "'Rumors of a sixth member joining Diverra's most hated group of thieves were confirmed last night by eyewitness accounts of an unfamiliar name. Several guards report having fought a man the others called Mercenary'– several guards, Amir, you beast–"

"Alright, alright!" Amir griped. He pushed Ronan's wrists down so the paper no longer stood between them. "Are you . . . unhappy?"

Ronan grinned. "Are you joking? I came up with that name, remember?" He kissed Amir's forehead and hopped off the table before Amir could do much more than blink in surprise. Peering into the steaming pot, he said, "Might I ask what you have going on here?"

The smell was certainly . . . unrecognizable.

"Oh! since you were working so late, I thought I'd make a soup for when you returned, but . . ."

"But?"

"Can't say I've made many soups in my time."

"I'm sure it's fantastic." Ronan blew on a spoonful before taking a sip.

When several moments passed in silence, Amir buried his head in his hands.

"Get rid of it," he said.

"What? No, it's–"

"Dump it in a sewer. Feed it to some rats. Drop a match inside – I'll bet it burns–"

"It really isn't that bad!" Ronan giggled.

"And, dear god, you were celebrating a birthday, you probably aren't even hungry–"

He wasn't even slightly hungry. "I'm starved!"

"I am leaving and I am never coming back."

Ronan grabbed Amir's wrist before he could get far and pressed smiling lips to his pout, again and again until the stubborn thing melted away.

"We'll touch it up together, hm?"

"Save me the shame."

"You don't want to cook with me?"

Amir maintained a glare for all of four seconds before he sighed. "Fine."

They settled before the hearth. Amir handled the pot while Ronan hugged him from behind to direct him, biting down occasionally on his shoulder to hear him chuckle. The finished product was far from Ronan's best, and he was so full he thought he might burst, but the soup sat warm in his stomach nonetheless, weighing down his eyelids.

". . .–nan, love. Ronan."

He didn't remember falling asleep, but he opened his eyes to darkness. He watched as the last embers of the fire died out, slumped on the floor against Amir's side, and said, "Will you stay tonight?"

"Of course."

The next time Ronan awoke, he was in his bed, the room was black, and Amir lay awake on his back beside him. Well, nearly beside him. At some point, Ronan had huddled to one side in his sleep to escape the incessant body heat. He sought it now, tucking into Amir's side. Amir turned his head, and Ronan watched a smile sweep away the melancholy that always seemed to dust his gaze during the deepest hours of night. Ronan wished to wash it away for good, but it was back like a layer of snow, cold and persistent, every time he grew restless mid-sleep and found Amir already lying awake. And Amir was almost always already awake. No wonder he had been so difficult to rouse in the mornings; it seemed he hardly slept at night.

And yet he never failed to depart before dawn. Ronan stirred sometime later at the sound of hushed movement, indistinct words whispered next to his ear around a parting kiss, and fell back asleep with a misty smile.

The final time he woke, Ronan was on his bed – on the far side – and he was alone. Light poked through the gap between the curtains. He sat up and saw a new note on the chest.

You sounded so uncertain when you asked me to stay the night, as if to lie with you was some great chore. Do you realize how stupid that is?

Ronan huffed a short laugh as he turned the paper over. 17 August. He added it to the growing pile in the top drawer.

𓃥𓃥𓃥

"You're better at this than I am."

Ronan looked from Sadie's grimace to the crisscrossing thread she'd sewn into one knee of her brother's trousers, then to his own neat line of stitches in the other knee.

"Yes," he agreed.

She groaned and flopped backward in her seat at the dining room table, tossing the half-patched leg aside like she could bear to look at it no longer. Ronan's needle disappeared somewhere in the heap of brown fabric. He glared, not that she was looking.

"Was that necessary?"

"Curse these clumsy hands!" she held them both over her face, then threw them up in the air in exasperation. "Curse my brothers for pulling the longer straws! Curse you for being so good at–"

She jolted upright like a woman possessed.

"You're good at this," she said.

"You just mentioned."

"Much better than I am."

"You said that, too."

"I am going to request a favor."

Ronan's instinct was to tease, but the look Sadie wore was surprisingly serious. Earnest eyes fixed wide on Ronan, and he knew that, whatever the favor, he would oblige her.

But she carried on after that like she hadn't spoken, returning to her pant-leg with determination scrunching her brow. She worked her way through the pile of torn and overworn clothing on the table like it was a race to finish. Her seams were woefully messy but nonetheless secure, her patches crooked and unsightly but sturdy when she tested them. Ronan, who could never resist a race, did his best to match her pace without stooping to her quality. He had never thought sewing particularly fun, but he rose to the challenge, antsy with anticipation of this mysterious favor.

"Ow!" Sadie yelped as she pricked her finger for the umpteenth time, right as Ronan threw down his last folded shirt and proclaimed, "Finished!"

Sadie shook her abused hand once before speeding through her final repair.

Her request took them deeper into the house, past the rooms Ronan was familiar with and down a hallway he had scarcely traveled. As the only girl in the family, Sadie had the privilege of having her own bedroom, and she led him there now.

"I know I'm not the most well-mannered of men," said Ronan as he looked around plain walls and weathered furniture. "But surely Amos would be hysterical if he knew you'd invited me into your bedroom unaccompanied."

"Amos isn't here," Sadie remarked, kneeling before a wide dresser whose lowest drawer creaked formidably as she jiggled it open. Her father had closed shop early that afternoon to deliver his best cuts of meat to his pregnant sister-in-law and wouldn't return until the next morning. "And frankly, he'd be thrilled if he thought you and I had sparked a secret romance." She turned over her shoulder to wriggle her eyebrows. "He adores you."

Ronan blushed at the regard. He didn't know what he was expecting when he peered down, but it certainly wasn't shell-pink silk or sheer lace. His eyes rounded as he took in patterned muslin, floral wool, and rich blue velvet. Inside the drawer were several folded garments unlike anything he'd ever seen Sadie wear.

"Where did you get these?" He was acutely familiar with expensive fabric; these were a rich woman's pieces.

Sadie took hold of the silk and stood. It unfurled into a dressing gown with an open front and woven patterns that continued into sheer lace at the hems of wing-like sleeves.

"Pa's earned the trust of a coupl'a rich clients," she said. "Misses Raymond used to bring fine fabrics whenever her husband came by the shop, just for my ma. This is what she did with 'em."

Ronan goggled at the number of items. He started to reach for one, drawn to pale purple flowers, then halted. "May I?"

Sadie nodded, and Ronan rose to reveal a day dress with bishop sleeves and a large bow at the waist. "Your mother was very talented."

Sadie laid the silk piece across her bed with a small smile. "Incredibly so. I've never been one for clothing like this, but I think I'd wear these every day if I wouldn't ruin 'em."

"You should put one on," Ronan encouraged. He held the purple dress before her and tried to envision it. The thought of Sadie in a dress was startling and mildly amusing.

"I would, but . . ." Sadie presented a striking velvet evening gown and stretched one cuff, exposing a hole in the seam. "My mother made these years ago and wore them to death. She couldn't fix 'em after she got sick, and I don't trust myself to."

Ronan's chest swelled when he understood. "But you trust me."

She held the dress out to him. "Doubtlessly."

You don't even know who I am, Ronan thought as he took it carefully, determined to prove her right.

The sun made its exit as Ronan hovered over the kitchen table. Sadie remained unusually silent at his side, quick to light a lamp when it started to get dim. Her brothers came and went and didn't say a word about her shirking her duties once they saw the dresses on the table. The repairs were by no means extensive, but Ronan took twice the time he normally would, sensing the anxiety Sadie had downplayed before as she watched him work.

"My hero," she whispered when he was done. "I'll pay you, of course–"

"Like hell you will," Ronan cut her off. "All I request is that you let me see you in one of these."

Sadie beamed.

In her bedroom, she undressed without care. Ronan whirled around and Sadie laughed at his modesty. It was an outrageous sight – a striking young lady tossing away her clothing while a boy sat ramrod-straight and beet red on her bed – but Sadie was an outrageous girl.

He forgot to be embarrassed when she turned around. As it turned out, Sadie in a dress wasn't so unrecognizable. She looked just as much herself in a white bodice and purple skirt as she did in grass-stained trousers and second-hand tunics. She spun once, giggling as the skirt flared around her. Ronan scolded himself once for having unknowingly put her in a box, twice for the jealous seed that took root in his gut.

He felt his chest for the charming golden chain with the charming royal orchid, hidden beneath his shirt because he was not supposed to wear it.

"You're a stunner, Sadie."

She startled at his honesty.

"Ah, well– thank you, then . . ."

Sadie dragged a wooden crate in front of her dresser and settled on it, peering into the chipped mirror propped on top – a makeshift vanity. "Shall I commit to the look?"

Inside one of the drawers was a meager cosmetic collection. Ronan sat on the edge of the bed and observed Sadie smoothing colorless powder over her skin, dusting her cheeks pink, brushing her eyelashes with jelly, and felt the sprout in his belly begin to bud.

It had been months since he'd lived with Tony, but he remembered this feeling well – branches filling his chest, thorns digging into his windpipe. Envy, sinuous and elegant, blossoming from his stomach.

"I don't think your little lover would appreciate the way you're looking at me," Sadie teased.

Ronan jolted. He hadn't realized he was staring.

"It isn't like that," he said, and he'd meant to put some snark behind it, but by the time the words made it past stems and barbs and leaves, all that was left was a near whisper.

Sadie considered him in that way she did, the one that made him think she knew exactly who he was.

"I feel weird with you sitting there watching me," she said, scrunching up her nose. "I can practically feel you falling in love with me."

"Daydreaming again?"

"Find something better to do, will you?" She perked up. "You should join me! Try something on." She said it like it was normal, like she wasn't nodding her head toward a pile of woman's clothes and telling Ronan to play dress-up.

Ronan choked around a bright red flower blooming at the back of his throat. "I'm not– these weren't made for me."

"Oh, it's just good fun." She wasn't even looking at him, focused on staining her lips, but Ronan saw the glint in her eyes through the mirror as she prodded, "Afraid of a little femininity? That seems unlike you."

It was bait, and Ronan knew it, but he fell anyway. He fell willingly. Sadie's goading was an outstretched hand, and he didn't have the strength to reject it. She kept her eyes trained on her reflection as she waved dismissively, an unspoken promise of privacy.

He looked over the garments overlapping each other across the bed. His fingers roamed the fabrics, excited at each new texture, before landing on silk. Ronan had never been particularly interested in dresses, but this piece landed somewhere between dress and robe and called to him the same way the pendant around his neck had.

He checked over his shoulder that Sadie was still paying him no mind, at least outwardly, before stripping from his shirt.

The silk was soft against his skin.

"I, um . . ."

"Would you like to use the mirror?" Sadie asked without turning.

Ronan breathed, "Yes."

She stood and occupied herself with the ribbon around her waist, tweaking the bow at her back like it wasn't already perfect. Ronan sank onto the crate with bated breath that escaped him in a rush when he saw delicate pink against a pale chest, strips of lace framing the royal orchid. He tucked back overgrown hair so he could see amethyst and pearl decorating his ears and marveled at the way the sleeves fanned around his hands, how small they made his wrists appear.

He tugged at Sadie's elbow and she joined his reflection, bending at his side to push white hair from his forehead and say, "This was most certainly made for you."

"Can you . . ." he started to ask, but even now, he couldn't find the courage to speak the rest aloud.

Sadie knelt beside the crate, facing him, and felt around the dresser's surface until her fingers wrapped around powder. "I was hoping you'd ask."

Ronan looked at her and thought of the sun she loved like a friend, hot and benevolent and inexhaustible. His day only began when she entered it. He felt tired when he went too long without seeing her. She was entirely out of his reach.

"I don't want to lose you." It was a quiet outburst, spurred by the first daub of a sponge against his cheek.

Sadie's hand stuttered. "What?"

"The harvest," he urged, suddenly aware of how much time had passed. It was nearly fall. Ronan's place at the farm would be decided soon. "Do you think it'll be okay? Do you think I can . . ."

Can I stay? Can I sit beneath your sunrise a little while longer?

"I . . . don't know."

He didn't spend as many early mornings with her as he had when he'd first left the Merry Men. Now that his time here seemed so finite, he regretted it.

"But we'll still be friends, right?" she said, and her face was bashful, like she somehow didn't realize that was all Ronan wanted. Maybe he hadn't shown her. "No matter what happens?"

"If you don't mind," he said, and sunlight streamed from her smile.

He sat still as she smoothed powder over his skin and dabbed something onto his mouth. She narrated quietly as she worked – rouge to color his cheeks, petroleum jelly to thicken his eyelashes, elderberry juice to stain his lips. She offered kohl and he accepted without hesitation; she had to grab his face forcefully when he couldn't stop blinking, and it didn't help, but it did make them laugh, and Ronan was grinning when he finally looked at himself in the mirror.

"–Oh."

The change wasn't drastic. He just looked– softer. Brighter.

"It angers me, you know? How lovely you are. Your eyelashes especially piss me off."

"Sadie– thank you."

Her scowl tempered into something sweet. "Don't cry. You'll ruin my hard work."

Ronan gave a watery laugh that stopped short when she stood and wrapped him in a hug from behind, arms around his shoulders and cheek pressed to his. He returned it the best he could, wrapping both hands around her forearm and leaning back against her, and he resolved then that he wouldn't wait for a harvest to decide his fate.

𓃦𓃦𓃦

Ronan arrived home far later than usual that night. Over dinner leftovers eaten on Sadie's bed, he had insisted she try on the rest of the dresses. Ronan was not the mind-reader she was, but even he could see that it healed something within her. She grew more bold with every gown until she was twirling about her room, giggling as she took Ronan's hand and invited him into her headspace.

Leaving that space – changing back into his shirt, tucking away his necklace – had left a bitter taste in his mouth. But Sadie had snuck him through the back door with a wide-brimmed hat, one of Simon's, and instructions to keep his head down. Ronan would have left on Bandit if she had answered his call, but it had been weeks since he'd seen her. He hoped she was enjoying whatever land she had chosen to explore with her herd, though he often wished she had better timing.

Walking through the city with his face made-up was perilous, he knew that, but it was dark enough that the streets were mostly empty. He thought the risk might be worth it if it meant he could spend just one night like this.

The first thing he did when he got home was sit on his bed before the mirror and undo the top buttons of his shirt until he could see the pendant, and he felt so much like himself he humored the thought of human molting. Laughing under his breath, he imagined that people could shed their skin like snakes, and he had finally grown into his.

The relief only lasted a minute. Ronan went stiff, losing all traces of his smile, at a knock from downstairs. The color drained from his face, and he thought, no, it wasn't worth it.

Tomorrow. Phoebe's last letter had said Amir would come tomorrow.

Ronan sprung from the bed and rushed downstairs as quietly as he could, grateful for years of experience sneaking around. He entered the kitchen sweating all over and snatched a washcloth from the shelf, blinking hard in a futile attempt to dispel the premonition of Amir's face contorted in disgust.

If Amir had wanted this, he would've pursued a woman.

Ronan reached for his water pitcher. He could wash it all off, and Amir would never know.

It was empty.

Amir was waiting for the version of Ronan he knew, unaware that he blocked the only path to a water pump, trapping the undesired version inside. He knocked again, and the pitcher slipped from shaking fingers, clattering to the floor.

"Ronan?"

Ronan cursed at the sound of the doorknob jiggling. True to his word, Amir had made a habit of letting himself in. Ronan found it oddly charming on any other day, in any other situation. Now, he gripped the edge of a counter as a wave of panic left him nauseous. The door opened and he made a break for the stairs. Amir called his name, but Ronan ignored him, escaping to a bedroom without a door to– what, hide under the covers? Buy himself time?

His breath came shallower with every footfall up the stairs. The best he could do was turn his back, but soon enough, Ronan's feet were washed in lamplight. A pair of hands landed on his upper arms. "Is everything alright?"

Amir coaxed Ronan to turn, and Ronan went with his head bowed.

"It doesn't mean anything," he blurted, pressing his forehead to Amir's chest so he could hide a moment longer. "We were only messing around, you don't have to worry, I won't do it again–"

Amir lifted Ronan's chin.

"I mean it, I won't do it again," Ronan babbled even as his throat closed up, as the corners of his eyes started, mortifyingly, to sting. "Sadie just wanted to try it out, I swear it's–"

"Is it alright if I kiss you?"

His rambling died out. ". . . What?"

"It's– you look–" Amir's voice came out strangled. "I would very much like to kiss you right now. But I don't want to mess up all of Sadie's work."

Ronan longed to ask, You don't mind? Is this okay? How can this be okay? But Amir's smile was so reassuring, his eyes so reverent as they took in Ronan's appearance.

"Please," he murmured, and Amir pulled him in by the chin.

If Sadie powered Ronan's days as the sun, then Amir, ruler of his nights, had to be the moon. But, no, that wasn't right– Amir was far too warm. And Amir was here, gliding a hand up Ronan's side, kissing him gently like he was afraid to do too much damage. Close enough to touch, maybe even close enough to keep – despite his best efforts, Ronan was starting to believe it.

Amir still wanted him, even like this. And Ronan wanted to be wanted so badly he ached.

He did not, in that moment, care to be kissed gently.

He clutched the lapels of Amir's coat and tugged, drawing a choked sound that loosened into a sigh when Ronan invited him closer with lips dropped open. Ronan had a second to think, the elderberry juice absolutely will not survive this, before Amir's tongue pressed in and his brain filled with steam. Amir took his mouth like he had every authority to claim and conquer, and Ronan allowed it for as long as it took to push Amir's coat down his arms and onto the floor, because he loved this – the taste of him, the way he kissed deep and slow and purposeful. He would never tire of it.

But the warmth radiating from Amir's shoulders with only a layer of cotton guarding his skin made Ronan the slightest bit insane. Enough to drive his teeth into Amir's lip harder than he normally would, just to see what would happen, see if he could break Amir's rhythm.

Nothing could've prepared him for the noise that sprang from Amir's throat, high and breathy, cut unfortunately short by the incessant press of Ronan's mouth. Amir stuttered in his movement, grasping for purchase at Ronan's waist. Heat spiked beneath his skin, and Ronan burned right along with him, pushing closer, pulling harder, searching for another sweet-spot that might allow him to hear that sound again.

He thought he might die if he didn't. He also might die if he did. He decided he'd chance it with hands sliding down Amir's chest, shoving, just barely. Amir dropped down to the bed, caught himself on his elbows, looked up at Ronan with eyes blown wide, and Ronan practically fell onto him, sinking into a straddle over his hips and hauling him into a crude kiss.

"You said you were coming tomorrow."

"We've established that I'm impatient."

Ronan bit down again, and Amir's hands on his hips dragged them together, and then they were both gasping.

"Can I . . ." Amir hooked his pointer and middle fingers into Ronan's shirt where it was buttoned halfway down. Just that, the brush of two fingers against his abdomen, struck Ronan dizzy.

"Please," Ronan repeated, and Amir's groan went down like spiced whiskey.

Ronan didn't waste time getting the shirt off his shoulders. He fumbled with Amir's buttons, spitting something absolutely obscene when he couldn't get the last one. Amir gave a cherry-sweet laugh; Ronan devoured it with a smile. He held Amir's face in both hands as Amir slipped out of his sleeves to slide bare arms beneath Ronan's open shirt.

Ronan wrapped both arms around Amir's neck and pressed them together chest-to-chest, ground his hips and heard that whine again.

"Humiliating," Amir grumbled afterward, sounding not at all embarrassed.

Ronan kissed him until he thought his breath might run out, until it felt like Amir's fingers had branded their shape onto his back (and, god, he wished they would), until it was almost too much and he had to pull away. He only got a glimpse of swollen lips and adoring eyes before Amir latched onto his neck with lips and tongue and teeth.

Without anything in front of him, Ronan's eyeline led him to the wall behind the bed. The wall behind the bed that was mounted with a mirror. The wall behind the bed that was mounted with a mirror which put the broad expanse of Amir's back on display.

Ronan stared dumbly at lean muscles shifting beneath brown skin, steel cables that stretched when Amir dipped his hands low and squeezed. Shadows danced over the swords crossed between his shoulder blades. Ronan wanted to lick them and see if they'd cut him. He was maybe going more than slightly insane.

He pressed down on the junction between shoulder and neck and awed at the give of the skin beneath his fingers, at the contrast in the colors, at the way Amir totally eclipsed him. He watched his own hands card through lush hair, pulled and saw the way Amir drew taut just as much as he heard the sound he made, felt the puff against his skin.

Then Ronan looked up and saw himself – ruined hair, parted lips shiny and smeared with leftover color, cheeks rosy from rouge and from the relentless static everywhere their bodies touched. His breath hitched.

"Oh?"

The cut of Amir's jaw in the reflection was devastating as he grinned up at Ronan.

"No need to be shy," he muttered into the divot beneath Ronan's jaw when Ronan averted his gaze. He tapped his fingers twice to Ronan's cheek, directing it back the way it had come. "You should look. You're a sight to behold."

Ronan took in heavy-lidded eyes smudged with kohl. There was a swooping feeling in his gut, like he had stumbled upon a precipice and peered over the edge. "You did mess it up."

Amir faltered. "Oh– I'm sorry."

"Is that the best you can do?"

He lowered his gaze to Amir's and found his eyes nearly black. "What . . ." Hesitation, like he could see the drop, too. "What do you want?" Amir asked, fingers drumming restlessly along Ronan's sides.

"Anything." He seated himself deeper and felt the aborted twitch of Amir's hips. "Everything." He wanted to see that restraint vanish. And– "I want you to mess me up some more."

Amir looked for a second like he feared for his life. Then he slammed forward into another all-encompassing kiss, and Ronan was done for, because Amir had never handled him like this– kisses that left no room for breathing and a grip intended to leave a mark. Ronan's back hit the quilt as Amir threw them over, settling heavy atop him and between his legs, moving like he wanted to drive Ronan into the mattress. Ronan went happily and probably helplessly.

The noise he made when the contact suddenly disappeared was one he hoped Amir would soon forget. Ever the asshole, Amir snorted as he stood, just to make sure Ronan knew he'd heard.

"Wha . . ." Ronan warbled, definitely helplessly.

Amir leaned down to peck his lips. "Do you have–"

"In the chest."

Amir laughed again.

"The second one!" Ronan exclaimed, but it was too late; Amir had already opened the top drawer. He didn't say anything, but he did linger longer than he should have before moving on to the next, and he came back smiling.

"Sit up for me?" he prompted, climbing onto the bed before Ronan. "Now turn around."

Ronan was left facing his reflection with Amir behind him, bracketing Ronan's legs with his own.

"Eyes up, okay?"

Ronan didn't get the chance to ponder the odd request before his body strung tight, arching into an unexpected pressure where he needed it most. Amir stiffened as the movement pressed them together but moved nonetheless to the button of Ronan's trousers, right beneath the edge of the reflection, as Ronan trembled through the residual shock.

"Dirty move," was the last thing he said before Amir got his pants open and he lost all command of language.

Ronan learned very quickly that Amir's hands were good for more than just swordplay. He unraveled under doting fingers that cataloged his every reaction to use against him, to use for him. Red spread down his panting chest before his eyes; Ronan watched Amir devote his mouth to his neck and shoulders, smoldering whenever their eyes met in the reflection. He tracked the flex of Amir's arm until even looking was too much and he squeezed his eyes tight, only forcing them open again when he was dangling over the edge. He wanted to look at Amir, wanted to touch him– he twisted his head and managed an open-mouthed kiss until a hand came up at the last second, just long enough to grip his jaw and turn, and then Ronan was staring at his own gasping lips in the instant before his eyes rolled back, gripping the hair at the base of Amir's skull like a tether.

He sagged back, boneless. Arms wrapped around his middle, kisses dotted his cheeks, and somewhere through the fog he heard snippets of praise, of "beautiful" and "perfect" and "so pretty—so pretty—so pretty." Ronan had never had this, after-the-fact affection, like he was still worth touching after the deed was done, like there was any point to this other than chasing heat. He came down clinging to the feeling, clinging to Amir.

Amir shuddered at his back. Ronan remembered, "You're still–"

He was interrupted by a hand on his cheek turning him into a filthy kiss. Amir pressed forward so there could be no mistake. "Don't worry," he muttered, finally dragging the clammy shirt from Ronan's shoulders. "I'm not finished with you yet."

Ronan gasped, "I can't . . ."

Except he gripped Amir's thigh like he wanted to. And he did. Desperately.

Amir reached for the small bottle of oil that lay discarded between crumpled sheets. "You don't have to do anything," Amir spoke into his throat. "Just tell me if you want me to stop."

Ronan managed a breathless scoff. "Think I'll lie here and take it?" Twisting around, he shoved Amir down and climbed on top of him with arms crossed over his chest. He slid one leg between both of Amir's and Amir reacted beautifully; the sight of his powerful figure tensing at such a simple touch, of his abdomen clenching and long fingers curling into the quilt, was going to haunt Ronan's dreams. "Give me a few minutes. I'll make you forget your own name."

Amir's laugh was life-ruining. "I don't doubt that. Wouldn't be the first time." He traced the shape of the key inked onto Ronan's arm. Ronan touched his inner thigh and watched him squirm. He didn't have the first clue what he was doing, but he would damn well learn.

"I'm serious," said Amir, steadfast despite his breath coming in huffs. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Okay," Ronan whispered. "Yeah, okay, of course."

Amir's smile was far too soft for what they were doing. So was his kiss as he finally undressed himself, undressed Ronan, in full. And Ronan thought, oh– I could love this man. 

𓃢𓃢𓃢

Song for this chapter: Person in the Mirror by Naethan Apollo

This song is so jarring next to everything else in the playlist but i kid you not the first fifteen seconds literally inspired the entire last scene